Chapter 159
159
Ordinarily, there would have been an entire process to leave MI6.
Exit interviews, paperwork, lots of legal agreements to sign.
But when you were sleeping with your boss – and you punch him out in front of two Members of Parliament – MI6 apparently expedites the process.
Thirty minutes after I got home, a representative from the agency came knocking on my door.
I knew him. Charlie Buckminster. Former field agent, now in Joint Field Command – the same job Alistair had wanted to ‘promote’ me to.
Not a bad guy, all things considered. He’d simply lost his edge after being shot one too many times and had started fearing dying more than craving the adrenaline rush of missions.
“Is it true?” he asked when I opened the door.
“It is p>
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Fuck Alistair p>
“Not anymore,” I said drily.
He laughed, then grew somber. “They’ll never be able to replace you, Bauer p>
“They’ll find somebody else p>
“Sure, they can get somebody else to fill the job… but they can never replace you p>
I smiled sadly. “Thanks, Charlie p>
He asked for all the weapons MI6 had assigned me, and I handed them over. Two sniper rifles, five pistols, two suppressors, a shotgun, several grenades, and a boatload of ammunition.
I gave him everything MI6 had given me over the years…
But I didn’t give him everything I owned.
Not that I told Charlie that.
He carried to his car in duffel bags and opaque plastic tubs so as not to alarm the neighbors.
Once he was done, he said, “You should have two more paychecks coming, unless Alistair decides to be petty and hold them up for some bullshit reason p>
“He will. Count on it p>
“I’d like to help, but I can’t exactly fuck with the Director of Operations p>
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine p>
“Well… I’ll miss you, Bauer p>
“I’ll miss you too, Charlie p>
He started towards his car, then turned back to me. “Your last name – Bauer – that’s not your real last name, right p>
“No p>
“What’re you gonna do about it p>
“Don’t know. Hadn’t considered it.” I paused. “I’ll probably keep it. Less of a hassle p>
He nodded. “Good luck p>
Then he got in his car and drove away.
I wish I could say I was as easily quit of Alistair as I was of my old job.
He came over to my house that night and rang my doorbell.
He started off apologetic. “Darling, this has all been a misunderstanding! Please, let me in so we can talk p>
Without opening the door, I informed him it was over and that I wanted him out of my life forever.
‘Apologetic’ quickly became ‘irritated.’ “Why would you do this to me?! I’ve never been anything but good to you p>
He eventually turned downright aggressive, pounding on my door with his fist and shouting, “You’re nothing without me – do you hear me?! You fucking ungrateful BITCH p>
I told him I was calling the police to have him removed for trespassing on my property.
He said I was bluffing.
When the cops showed up, he tried to bluster his way through it. “Do you know who I am p>
That was when I came out and explained to the police that he was my ex-fiancé and ex-boss, that he was harassing me, and would they please remove him from the premises.
When they forced him to leave, he was cursing me under his breath.
After that, I began to get the unnerving feeling that he was stalking me. I never saw him, but I had that ‘hairs standing up on the back of my neck’ feeling.
I wasn’t afraid of Alistair.
Not physically, anyway. I could whip his ass with both hands tied behind my back. In fact, I could probably do it hopping on one foot.
However, he was petty, vindictive, and accustomed to using the bureaucracy of MI6 to get what he wanted.
I figured he would try to fuck me over in some way.
I just had no idea how he would do it.
So I kept my eyes open.
After I quit, I spent the first several weeks going to places I’d visited with Lars.
St. James Park… some of the restaurants we’d gone to…
Occasionally, I even went to the hotel and rented the room he always stayed in.
I usually got drunk on alcohol from the mini bar, sat on the bed, stared out the window, and cried.
I considered trying to contact him but decided it was best to let it go.
No matter what else had happened, he had still refused to tell me who he’d been working for.
And as much as I hated to admit it, I feared Alistair might be right about Lars’s entanglements. The last thing I needed to do was get involved with a spy working for China.
Not only would it lead to more heartache, but Alistair was no doubt watching me… waiting for me to slip up so he could arrest me, charge me with espionage, and have me thrown in prison…
Unless I came back to him on my hands and knees.
Fuck that.
So I contented myself with getting drunk, reliving the past in a lonely hotel room…
And crying a lot.
As predicted, MI6 held my final paychecks for bullshit reasons – ‘pending the Legal Department’s review of the assault of the Director of Operations p>
Alistair was going to make me suffer as much as he could.
I had some savings, though not a tremendous amount. I was alright for a while.
However, it became clear after a month that I needed to start making money again. My mortgage wasn’t going to pay itself.
I made some discreet calls – inquiries about what position a former secret agent could aspire to –
Which is how I found out that Alistair had burned me.
As in, ‘torched my reputation p>
He’d put out the word that I was emotionally unstable, potentially mentally ill, violent, and ‘difficult p>
Fucking asshole.
It made me want to go track him down for Round Two and soundly beat him to a pulp. If I was going to be tarred and feathered, I might as well get the satisfaction of what I was being accused of.
But I decided to let that go, too, and find something else that suited me.
I just had no idea what it might be.
Since I had some free time on my hands, I went to see John Morris, my old Krav Maga instructor – the man who had changed the course of my life when he saved me as a teenager.
He was getting up there in years. He still owned the studio, but his son had taken over teaching the classes.
John and I hugged and laughed. He asked me what I had been doing the last ten years. I told him.
“Holy shit,” he said, clearly impressed.
I told him all about my inglorious exit from MI6 and how I was struggling to find work.
“Well, I’d love you to teach some classes here at the dojo – a former MI6 agent would be a hell of a draw – but I know we can’t pay you the kind of money you deserve p>
I thanked him but confirmed I needed something a lot more lucrative.
He scratched his chin. “Well… when in doubt… do what you’re good at p>
Shit.
That was rough advice when what you’re good at is killing people.
Which led me back to Sean, my old research guy in Operations.
I couldn’t very well call MI6 to ask to talk to him – they would listen in on the call – but I knew the pub where Sean hung out. He used to tell me about it all the time.
So I went there around quitting time and waited.
It took an hour, but he finally showed up.
As soon as he saw me, he groaned. “Oh no p>
“Nice to see you, too,” I said tartly.
“Just associating with you is going to be the death of me p>
“Then let me buy you a drink. Send you off to the afterlife in style p>
A couple of pints later, Sean’s tongue was finally loosened.
“You could be a mercenary,” he suggested. “There’s tons of outfits looking for mercenaries p>
“I don’t want to go into warzones with a bunch of meatheads who just want to fuck shit up p>
“You want to go into warzones by yourself and fuck shit up?” Sean asked.
“No p>
“No to which part? The warzones, by yourself, or fucking shit up p>
“I’m not partial to warzones or fucking shit up p>
“But you’d work solo,” he clarified.
“Yes. But I don’t want to do anything illegal p>
Sean raised one eyebrow.
I tried again. “I don’t want to do anything immoral p>
Now he raised both eyebrows.
“I don’t want to do anything horrible,” I hissed.
Sean burped. “Depends on your definition of ‘horrible,’ doesn’t it p>
“What’s your definition of horrible p>
“Murdering good people for money p>
“Jesus,” I said, horrified.
“But killing bad people for money… that’s completely different. I mean, that’s basically what you did for the last eight years, right p>
“What the fuck, dude?” I whispered, looking around us to see if anybody was listening.
“They don’t care,” he said with a dismissive wave.
He was right about that. Nobody was close enough to our booth to listen in, and they were only interested in their pints of beer, anyways.
Sean continued. “Answer the question: that’s basically what you used to do, right? Kill bad people for money p>
“I took out targets – ”
“In extra-judicial renditions of blah blah blah bullshit,” he said, slamming down his pint glass and staring me in the eye. “At least fucking admit to it p>
“I didn’t do it for the money p>
“No, you did it for Queen and Country – but you still got a paycheck, right p>
“Yes, but – ”
“Therefore, you got paid to kill bad people. Same fuckin’ thing p>
I smiled sarcastically. “And there’s SO many jobs out there to kill bad people for money p>
“More’n you’d think p>
“…what?” I asked, stunned.
“Well, I mean, there’s a lot more jobs to kill anybody for money, no questions asked… but there’s still plenty of jobs to take out bad guys p>
I couldn’t help but ask. I was too fascinated by the whole topic to let it go.
“What kind of bad guys p>
“Murderers who got off on technicalities… pedophiles… kiddie pornographers… rapists who got away with a slap on the wrist – ”
“And people pay for this p>
“Well, I mean… the people who do the killing don’t do it for free p>
“Yeah, but the payment’s probably something absurd like 500 pounds, right p>
“Nah. I see shit all the time where it would be a service to humanity to take the fucker out, and they’re offering 20,000 pounds p>
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” I whispered.
“Nope. The political jobs are even more lucrative, but those are kinda sketchy p>
“What do you mean, ‘political jobs p>
“What – you don’t think MI6 gives everything to agents like you, do you p>
“I’d heard rumors p>
“They’re not just rumors. We farm out all sorts of shit to independent contractors. Stuff MI6 doesn’t want to be connected to in case it goes wrong. Other countries do it, too – especially countries that used to be in the Soviet Union. Hungary… Romania… Ukraine’ll pay a lot of money for certain Russian targets, and vice versa for the Russians p>
“How do you know about all this p>
“I’m a researcher,” he said, like Duuuuuh. “I research terrorists, and they ain’t exactly on Facebook. You have to go onto the Dark Web and, like, root around p>
The Dark Web was the term for a vast ocean of websites you couldn’t access with an ordinary internet browser. To enter a Dark Web site, you had to have the exact numerical address – a long string of numbers – and the password to get in. It was like an endless hallway of identical, blank, locked doors – and the only way to find the door you wanted was to be told by someone else who was in the know.
The Dark Web was built for secrecy, and behind many of those locked doors was illegal activity – some of it absolutely horrendous. There used to be a site on the Dark Web called the Silk Road where you could buy anything: drugs, rocket launchers… human beings…
I didn’t deal with the Dark Web for my job. I just went to foreign countries and took out whomever MI6 told me to.
But Sean dealt with it a lot.
And it apparently took its toll.
Sean stared out into nothingness. “I see a lot of really bad shit out on the Dark Web… but I also see some shit where I’m like, ‘Huh… I kinda hope they do hire somebody to kill that asshole cuz he deserves to get whacked p>
“So there are jobs where you can get hired to kill murderers and rapists and child pornographers p>
“OH yeah p>
“You’d have to research them, though,” I pointed out. “To make sure you weren’t getting hired by some psychopath to kill his wife so he could avoid paying her off in a divorce p>
“Well, yeah, obviously,” Sean said and burped. “But that’s what I do. I research shit p>
“Are there jobs in the UK p>
“There’re jobs all over. I’d advise you not to do any in the UK, though. Don’t shit where you eat p>
“‘Advise me not to do any in the UK’ – that’s funny. I don’t even know how to access any of this stuff p>
“It’s easy. I can teach you p>
“Or… you could just pass along jobs you think are legitimate p>
Sean scowled. “NO p>
“…for a finder’s fee p>
Sean paused… then asked, “Hypothetically speaking… what kind of a finder’s fee p>
I shrugged. “Ten percent p>
“TEN PERCENT? Ten percent to go swimming in mental sewage every day, having to deal with the absolute dregs of humanity – ”
“You have to do it anyway p>
“Yeah, but I don’t have to do it for you. And if our bosses – sorry, MY bosses, since you fuckin’ quit – if MY bosses ever found out I was hustling jobs out to you on the side – ”
“So what do you want?” I interrupted.
“…twenty percent,” he said, unsure of himself.
“Fine p>
“Shit, I knew I should’ve asked for 25%,” he grumbled.
“Twenty percent is pretty good for not having to kill anybody. ”
“Yeah… alright, fine p>
I offered him a hand. “Partners p>
He shook my hand grumpily. “Partners. Now buy me another round to celebrate p>