“What’s your day job?” asked Trent. “You know, when you’re not on mission.” Trent was in his late twenties and kept a clean face and a crew cut, telltale signs of man fresh out of the service. He was new to the team and had been making small talk all night. His broad shoulders flexed as he ran lengths of climbing rope through his hands, checking the line.
Rebecca loaded the last rounds into a magazine, slamming it into her pistol with a satisfying metal thwack. “I’m a stay at home mom.”
Trent raised an eyebrow, “You mean making sandwiches and taking kids to school?”
“And doing laundry, cleaning the house, paying the bills…” Rebecca pulled back the slide on her pistol, chambering a round. “There’s actually a never-ending list of crap you need to do. And you?” She slid the pistol into a holster strapped to her thigh.
“Did time in Iraq and Afghanistan, still living off the blood money. This is my first commercial job.” Trent tied the rope off on a metal anchor he had bolted to the floor. “Did you serve?”
Rebecca checked over her repeal harness and ran one end of the rope through the carabiner that hung from the webbing. “Serve?”
“Yeah, spec ops, intel community, SWAT?”
“Oh, no. I married my college sweetheart, had two kids, and have been following him around ever since.” She paused and gave a little chuckle. “I guess you could say I’ve been serving.”
Trent nodded as if he understood. Rebecca sighed, looking over herself one more time. Her black tactical suit always seemed to fit too snug since her second child. With a deep breath, she steadied her mind, visualizing jumping out the window.
“I’m ready,” she said.
Trent flipped the switch on his headset, “Test. Can you hear me?”
Rebecca clicked the whisper mic that wrapped around her neck, “I hear you.”
“So what got you in the business?” continued Trent.
“I dunno, extra money, get out of the house, that sort of thing.” Rebecca checked the time on her tactical watch. The target was finishing up a meeting five floors down. “Its go time.”
With a click of a remote, Trent detonated the shaped charges that outlined the bay window. The pressure changed in the room as bits of glass showered into the city night. Rebecca yawned, popping her ears, and leaped out the window.
The night’s air was cool and her stomach tingled as she descended. It was these moments, the intense few seconds before the fight started that she enjoyed the most. She didn’t have to worry about planning the week’s meals or helping her kids with their homework. She just needed to focus on the task at hand.
The rope pulled tight, turning her in the air. She drew her pistols and fired two shots, cracking the glass. Feet first, she smashed through, releasing the rope from her harness and landing on the floor in front of a group of startled men.
Before they could react, Rebecca opened fire, dropping the two closest to her. The target, an arms dealer from Bolivia, ran screaming into the adjacent bedroom.
“Room cleared, engaging the target now.”
“Roger,” acknowledge Trent. “I’m packing up.”
Rebecca reloaded and kicked open the bedroom door. The target was a heavy set man with a balding head, a greasy comb over, and several days growth that caste a shadow across his face. A damp spot, running from his crotch down his inner thigh, robbed him of his machismo.
“Please, I’ll pay you double,” begged the man. “Whatever you want, I’ll give you.”
“Sorry, I’m a professional,” replied Rebecca. “We would need to get contracts in place, lawyers would have to review it. It’s a time consuming process.”
She pulled the trigger, pumping three rounds into his chest. The target twitched as he gasped for breath, then slumped against the wall, eyes gazing into the afterlife, blood pooled on the carpet alongside his body.
“Target’s down, heading to the rally point,” called Rebecca.
“Roger, meet you there,” answered Trent.
Rebecca exited the room and ran down the hallway toward the stairwell, taking her ten minutes to reach the ground floor. Bent over and winded, she made a mental note to do more cardio. She shouldered through the door and followed an exit out the back of the hotel toward the parking garage where Trent waited in a white van, motor running. She jumped in and motioned with her hand to go. Trent pressed the pedal and the tires squealed as the van picked up speed toward the exit.
“Slow down, this isn’t a movie!” snapped Rebecca. “We don’t want to accidentally hit someone.”
Trent recoiled like a scolded teenager and eased off the gas. They pulled into the street, blue and red lights played off the building facades as emergency responders entered the hotel lobby. For twenty minutes the two sat quietly, driving to the drop off point. It was Trent that broke the silence.
“How many jobs have you done?”
Rebecca smiled, “A gentleman never asks, and a lady never tells.” There was an awkward silence and she could tell by the confused look on her younger partner’s face, he didn’t get the joke.
Trent pulled the van into a deserted parking lot. There Rebecca’s gray Volkswagen, dinged by time and seats discolored from kid vomit, sat.
“Good work tonight,” said Rebecca.
“Thanks, you coming into the office Monday for the debrief?” asked Trent.
“No, can’t make it. I’ve got a parent teacher conference.”
Trent shook his head in disbelief. Rebecca smiled politely, jumped out, and waved goodbye as Trent pulled away. She stripped down, placing her tactical suit and weapons in an old blue gym bag she had since college, dressed in her comfortable blue jeans and faded sweatshirt, and drove home.
It was 1 am when she pulled up to her suburban house. The family dog barely stirred as she let herself in, accustomed to its owner’s late night work. Snores echoed off the walls from upstairs. She tiptoed into the hallway, opening the cleaning closet, popped open a hidden panel tucked away behind toilet paper and cleaning supplies, and slid her kit bag inside.
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