1
I used to be a spy.
The kind that snuck around, learning secrets, stealing documents, getting close to assets, reporting back to handlers and the CIA.
I was damn good at it too.
Unfortunately, the constant traveling and sneaking around got old. I put in six years with the CIA, four years in the Marines before that, before I retired. I had joined the service right out of school, went to boot camp the day after I graduated high school and never looked back. Truth be told, there wasn’t much for me to look back on anyway.
I was given up for adoption by my birth mother, bounced around from one group home to the next my whole life. I think that’s why I chose the military. I knew I wasn’t going anywhere fast and there wasn’t anything or anyone keeping me in Bumfuck, Kansas.
I needed the routine and structure that the Marines brought to my life. They kept me straight, gave me a purpose, and taught me skills that became invaluable. I think I would still be in if the CIA hadn’t started scouting me.
I joined them after my second enlistment ended and went to The Farm, their version of bootcamp, before they set me loose. My first assignment was in Tripoli, then Columbia, Brazil, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Bahrain. I bounced around the globe for a few years handing out bribes, bid rigging, industrial espionage, and keeping tabs on some low-level wannabe dictators and drug dealers.
The constant change of scenery was exciting for a bit but then the travel caught up with me. A lot of people probably think that being a spy is exciting and dangerous. While it can be dangerous, large portions of the time you’re just sitting around waiting. If you had ever done surveillance in a car with no air conditioning in Ecuador, then you would know what I mean.
Things did pick up the last five years and I got more and more assignments that required me to get close to assets, steal documents, the typical James Bond shit. Even that got old though. When my contract was up, I opted not to resign and retired instead. I needed a break from always looking over my shoulder, from being told what to do by Congressmen and Senators who had no real idea what I was doing and who didn’t give a shit if I lived or died.
After I retired, I moved to Miami. I had always liked the city when I had visited it before and it had enough people that I felt like I could get lost in the crowd. I bought a little house not far from the beach. It was in a nice neighborhood with a little pool and a nice garden. It was cozy. That’s what the neighbors said anyway. I wonder if they would still say that if they knew how many secret compartments with guns and other documents I had put into the walls and lights.
I thought I would spend my days playing golf and relaxing by the pool and my nights hitting on tourists at the beach or bars. I did do that… for about a week.
Who knew that golf and bars were just as boring as surveillance? I was approached by an old friend, one who had gotten out of the CIA a few years prior and had set up his own security firm. He was in Miami too and he had asked for help with a job. I had agreed out of boredom but it turns out that I actually like it. Helping the underdog and all that.
Ever since, I’ve helped him out whenever he asked and picked up some of my own clients on the side. Most of it is small stuff. Track down this person, or find out who took that. It doesn’t take much brain power but it keeps me busy and puts some extra cash in my pocket.
I pull my car over to the side of the road, sighing when I see the police cars are still in the drive. I was called an hour ago by a new client. He said that he had been robbed, diamonds and some cash, and asked how soon I could get here.
It’s late, close to midnight and I park my car between two street lights, preferring to stick to the shadows. I climb out of my old Charger, noticing how out of place it looks in this neighborhood with all of the Ranger Rovers and Mercedes parked in every driveway, as I skirt around the flashing blue and red lights and make my way along the hedges and up to the front door. I keep my head down, tucking my face into the hood of my sweater as I sneak past the cops still milling about.
I catch the eye of an older man in a suit and his eyes flare briefly before he nods at me slightly. I point up the stairs and he tips his chin to the side, silently telling me to go down the hallway instead.
I stay close to the wall as I dodge cops and crime scene investigators as they hurry down the hall in the opposite direction. They don’t pay me any attention as I move quickly past them and into an office at the end of the hallway.
The house is over the top. Most houses, or sorry, mansions, in this area are. Everything is white or gold and I want to roll my eyes at the priceless pieces of art that hang on the wall, art that I’m sure the owner has no appreciation or understanding of.
The office is huge and looks like it’s never been used. Inside are three big guys all wearing loose fitting suit coats, to hide the guns I’m sure are strapped across their backs. They all eye me and I assess them in return. They’re obviously ex-law enforcement and one ex-Army. They look tough but I can see the extra weight they’re all carrying around their middles and the fact that they missed someone breaking in and stealing means that they’re also rusty on their tactical awareness as well.
A wall of windows lines the back wall, overlooking the ocean and a glass desk sits in the center of the windows. It’s clear of papers or documents with just a pen sitting on one of the corners. A white rug lays in front of a white couch and chair. It’s so minimalist and bland that I wonder briefly if my client hates colors for some reason.
The walls in the whole house appear to be white as well and the floors are white marble with flecks of gold interspersed throughout. More abstract art hangs in the office, all done in black and white of course.
I pretend to look around at the art as I move into the far corner. I always try to stand and sit with my back to the wall. That way no one can sneak up behind me. I stand close to the door in the wall of windows so that I have an escape route if I for some reason need one. The three bodyguards are all in the other corner and standing closer to the desk. They eye me but it doesn’t seem like any of them realize what I’m doing, or if they do, they don’t care.
The older man from out front walks in, his mouth set in a firm line and I turn my body to face him. He’s tan, probably from spending hours laying outside instead of working in this office. He’s wearing a black suit with a white shirt and I smirk at that. I’m sure it’s all custom for him and top of the line. A gold Rolex winks at his wrist and some thick gold chain peeks out from his shirt.
He walks closer to me, extending his hand to shake mine and I take it, gripping it firmly in mine. He tries to squeeze harder, but I’m stronger and I tighten my grip in warning. These real estate developers are all the same. He wants to be the big man, but really, he’s probably never worked a real day in his life, living off of his daddy’s money instead.
“Mr. Thomas. I’m Randy Boker. Thanks for getting here so quickly. You come highly recommended and I need the best for this.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” I say as he takes a seat behind his desk.
“I was robbed.”
He says it with such disgust, his mouth turning down into a frown as he shoots a glare at his bodyguards. They all shift uneasily and I note which one’s eyes dart to the door.
“What did they take? Do you know when it happened?”