Shadow

by Nadine Nightingale

  Symptoms of PTSD include: depression, anxiety, trouble with close relationships, insomnia, and substance abuse. I quit booze a year ago. Have the golden medallion, the size of a poker chip, to prove it. Depression and anxiety? I don’t buy into that crap. Just because I have a hard time dragging my ass out of bed in the morning, or press the barrel of my loaded Beretta against my temple every now and then doesn’t mean I’m depressed. Ask anyone; they’ll tell you Markus Boulder is a fighter. He doesn’t sit in a bar, staring at his untouched whiskey, feeling sorry for himself. He picked up the pieces of his damaged existence and built himself a new one. The close relationships and insomnia part? Well, I don’t do girlfriends. I fuck chicks who need sex as an escape. Like myself. My family is dead—all except for Aunt Josie, my godmother—and…okay, yeah, I don’t sleep well. Fine, I don’t sleep at all. And when I do, I suffer from night terrors. All related to my last mission. The mission that cost me everything and more.

  But, hey, I don’t dwell on the past. Just like I don’t suffer from PTSD, or, like I prefer to call it: shit-some-shrink-made-up-to-label-fucked-up-folks.

  It’s four a.m. I just woke from another nightmare. Watching my brother die—over and over—seems to be some fucked up punishment from the universe. I won’t complain. I deserve worse than that. Instead, I pour myself a Killer Coffee—bought it on Amazon, and it arrived with a bullet flask—and get my cleaning kit. Some do crossword puzzles or Sudoku to pass time. I clean my Beretta 92S.

  Waiting for my death-defying caffeine to reach a drinkable temperature, I unload my gun—remove the magazine, check the chamber, and look through the barrel from back to front. Empty.

  The next step is to disassemble the beauty. Actuating the takedown lever with my thumb and forefinger, I remove the slide from the frame by sliding it forward. I take off the guide rod and spring. Then release the locking block and remove the barrel from the frame. Every gun is disassembled with a different technique. They’re tiny artworks, requiring a steady hand and a lot of training. With the help of Killer Coffee, I manage the task in under fifty seconds.

  I spend the next hour cleaning it with a cleaning rod and plenty of lubricant. Only when the metal sparkles do I put it together again.

  For a while, the Beretta remains on the table, sitting right next to my Killer Coffee. My eyelids grow increasingly heavy despite the caffeine shock. Having worked a double-shift at Josie’s—my godmother’s Italian restaurant located at University Village (previously known as Chicago’s Little Italy)—did quite a number on me. Who the fuck knew waiting tables was more exhausting than fighting a war or a top-secret CIA mission, right? I sure as fuck didn’t. Until now, that is.

  Anyway, going back to bed is not an option. No fucking way I’ll voluntarily drift back into hell. I’d rather be blown up by a landmine or hit by a sniper bullet.

  Bullet.

  Never did a single word sound so fucking good. Never did I crave anything so badly. Never did I think I’d ever say those words.

  I pick up the freshly cleaned beauty. She fits my hand perfectly. Always has. I was five when I fired my first shot at the shooting range. Dad took Luke and me a day before he went on his last mission. He was a SEAL and most likely the reason Luke and I enlisted. Anyway, I scored higher than most adults. “You’re a natural,” Dad said.

  I never missed, never failed. Until—

  I did.

  Got my brother and his whole squad killed, lost the lives of two hostages, and was kicked out of the CIA. Yup, that’s me—Markus Boulder, America’s worst brother and biggest failure.

  The cold metal against my flushed skin does crazy things to my heart. It breathes life into the shell I’ve occupied for over two years. Reminds me of why I signed up for the CIA in the first place—to free the world of monsters like me. ’Cause that’s what I am, what I’ve become. The man I see in the mirror is a killer. It was easy to justify murder when I did it under the flag of the country I love, the country I’d die for. When I ended a life to save one. There’s no justification for getting my brother, his squad, and two hostages killed. None whatsoever.

  Finger on the trigger, I feel like a caterpillar moments before it turns into a monarch. Freedom is just an inch away. I could stretch my wings, shed all the guilt and misery, and fly to a peaceful place. I could end it all, if only I were able to pull the fucking trigger.

  I’m not half as brave as my mother though. Which is why I put the gun back in the black box and switch on the TV. That’s another take-my-mind-off-shit hobby of mine, watching Netflix. Once I finish the last two episodes of Sons of Anarchy, I’ll have to find a new show. Kinda hard, considering I’ve seen them all. Twice. Some more often than that.

  • • •

  The fake blonde at table four downs her fourth grappa and waves me over. She ordered each separately. Some waiters—like Diana, the Swedish exchange student Aunt Josie hired—get annoyed with customers like her. What they don’t understand is she doesn’t do it to piss me off or make my life harder. Fake Blonde has a very different reason. It dangles between my legs and likes to be called Machine.

  I flash her a brilliant smile. “Another one?”

  She pulls her hair back, exposing her slender neck. “Actually,” she says, sheepishly. “I needed them to work up some courage.” Of course, I already knew that. I was trained to read people the way others read books—movement by movement, action by action.

  I bend over the table, picking up her empty glass. “Is that so?” I whisper, lingering a little longer than necessary.

  She bites her lip. “My friend,” she tilts her chin at her equally pretty companion, “thinks you’re single.”

  “Your friend,” I wink at the curvy brunette with the beautiful blue eyes, “is right. Why make one woman happy if you can please them all?” Okay, I’m pretty sure there’s not a single woman out there who would put up with all my fucked-up glory. Fake Blonde doesn’t need to know that. What is it my mentor at the CIA always said? It’s all about the facts you choose to present.

  Fireworks spark in her eyes. “So how about we get dessert after your shift?”

  I drink her in—black stiletto pumps, tight jeans accentuating her round ass, dimples, and perfectly applied makeup. Eating her sounds way more fun than tossing and turning in bed by myself. “My shift—”

  “Markus!” Aunt Josie is pissed.

  “Be right back,” I promise Fake Blonde.

  She’s a tiny bit disappointed, but nods nevertheless.

  Aunt Josie leans against the kitchen door. She’s five foot two, but no one in his right mind should fuck with her. All that Italian temper can be lethal. Just ask our cook, Raphael. He’ll tell you all about sauce pans and concussions.

  I brace myself for Italian wrath. “What’s up?”

  She wiggles her brows. “Table four.”

  “What about table four?” I play dumb.

  “You think I’m blind, Markus?” Thumb, index, and middle finger pressed together, she makes her famous Italian hand gesture. “How many times do I have to tell you no sleeping with customers?”

  I cross my arms, still showing off my best boyish smile. “I cleared the table, Aunt Josie. I didn’t fuck her on it.”

  “Mamma mia,” she barks. “What is it with you and foul language?” She grows serious. “Your mama taught you better than that, didn’t she?”

  Sucker punch.

  Aunt Josie and my mom had been best friends since kindergarten. They grew up on the same street and married the same year. Then, due to fate being a bitch, they both lost their husbands to the military. Only difference? Mom punched out. Aunt Josie didn’t. Now, whenever she wants to fuck with my head, she brings up Mom and makes me feel like I disappointed her.

  “Look.” Her voice softens. “I’ve been watching you go through girls like underwear. A new one each day. I just think…” She trails off.

  I put my hands on each of her shoulders. “You think I should find a nice girl and settle down. I get it
, Aunt Josie. I do. And believe it or not, I do appreciate your concern.”

  She cocks a brow. “But you’d rather continue your manwhore lifestyle?”

  “I’m a bastard.” I sigh heavily. “Not a fucking asshole. I won’t ask a girl to sleep next to me aware my screams will wake her. I just won’t.”

  It’s Aunt Josie’s turn to sigh. “Markus, you—”

  “A little help?” Diana barks, pointing to four new customers. Men in black suits, wearing sunglasses at night, inside a restaurant.

  Aunt Josie squints. “What’s wrong?”

  Remember how I said I was trained to read people? “I smell trouble.” The government kind.

  “Want me to kick them out?” she asks, rolling up the sleeves of her blouse.

  I smirk. “Nope. I don’t make enough here to post your bail for assaulting an agent.” But I’d pay good money to see their arrogant asses kicked by a fragile Italian with temper issues. “Be right back.”

  I approach the table with notepad and pen. They don’t need to know I saw right through them. “What can I get you, gentlemen?”

  The oldest—he’s about fifty, colors his hair black, and doesn’t know how to use his shaver correctly (yup, a cut above the lip speaks volumes)—takes off his glasses. “Markus Boulder?” he asks, looking me straight in the eye.

  “Who wants to know?”

  He slams a brown file on the table. I spot the Secret Service crest first. “We need to talk.” The dude invented the stern look.

  “Sorry.” I flash him a smile. “I’m working. So, if you don’t want to order, I have other customers waiting.”

  His face is like a stone sculpture. No expression whatsoever. “We have a proposition for you,” he mutters, slightly annoyed. “You should hear us out.” His gaze drifts through Josie’s. “Might change your life.”

  “Nah, thanks.” I secure the pen behind my ear. “I’m not a big fan of change.” Change comes with loss. Loss comes with death. Had enough of both.

  He narrows his eyes to two thin slits. “I don’t think you understand. This isn’t a request. It’s an order.”

  “An order?” Aunt Josie’s voice is smoke and fire. “In here, there’s only one person giving orders.” She points to the name on the menu. “Josie. That would be me. And I’m ordering you punks to haul your suit-wearing butts out of my restaurant.”

  The Secret Service agent opens his mouth.

  Aunt Josie is quicker. “Now!”

  Reluctantly, and with major frowns on their faces, they walk out of Josie’s. “Thanks,” I mutter once they’re gone.

  She shrugs. “You know I don’t like the government.” How could I forget? Ever since her husband died, she’s a full-blown conspiracy theorist. “What did they want, anyway?”

  “No idea.” It’s all I can think of for the rest of the night though. I even forget about my blonde dessert. By the time I walk up to her table, she’s already gone.

  Bummer.

  “Shadow is the stuff nightmares are made of. He’s the Boogeyman, the Hookman, the Candyman—a ghost story CIA operatives tell around the campfire. And…he’s my brother’s killer.”

  Markus

  Waking up at four a.m. sucks. Being woken up at four a.m. by dudes in black suits and sunglasses who broke into my apartment to drag my sorry ass onto a plane destination unknown? Icing on top of the sucker cake. But, hey, that’s the government we’re talking about. They give orders, you follow them. It’s as simple as that.

  Or it was.

  Back when I still worked for them. First, as a SEAL. Later, as a CIA operative. I’ve been deployed countless times. It teaches you a thing or two about obedience. The main lesson I took away from my time in the military? Obedience keeps you alive. When someone screams dodge, you fucking dodge. When they order you to jump, you don’t ask how high. You push yourself off the ground, kissing the sky.

  I’m neither a SEAL nor a CIA operative anymore. My life no longer depends on compliance. Some habits, though, die harder than others.

  I didn’t put up a fight when the I-wear-my-sunglasses-at-night dudes hauled me out of my apartment. I already figured they wouldn’t give up that easily. Aunt Josie might be scary, but so are their superiors. I didn’t bother to ask what I’m doing in the nine-story low-rise building at 930 H Street NW in Washington D.C.—better known as the USSS (United States Secret Service) headquarters—either. It’s not like they would have told me shit anyway.

  Late August sun streams through the massive window front of the deputy director’s office. The room is as exquisite as the man’s job description. A mix of ebony and glass—modern, yet old.

  Abstract paintings grace the walls. I recognize the one in the middle. It’s a print of Francis Bacon’s Figure with Meat. Some guy in a purple suit sits in front of a pig sliced in half. The original painting resides in the Art Institute of Chicago. My mom took us there when we were kids. I remember asking her why someone would paint such creepy things. She got down on one knee, looked me in the eye, and said, “Art is an imitation of life, Markus. And life isn’t always pretty. It’s dark and terrifying.” She clearly spoke from experience. Having lost her husband, my father, just a couple of months before changed her. She rarely got out of bed. When she did, she never smiled.

  Pulling my gaze off the Bacon, I focus on the expensive Italian marble floor. This office is made for kings. The only thing that doesn’t fit in here, and looks out of place, is me. I still wear the jeans from last night, the ones I didn’t bother to take off when I dropped dead on my sleeper sofa. My scruff is rough, my dark hair out of place, and my white shirt stained with tomato sauce. I also smell like fettucine Alfredo.

  Leaning back against the comfy black leather couch, I rest my eyes. The door swings open along with my eyes. A woman barley older than me—my guess, she’s about thirty—walks in. Her well-toned body is wrapped in a tight, mid-length business dress. She reeks of authority and power.

  I stand straighter than a candle. Once a soldier, always a soldier.

  She drops a stack of files on the ebony desk. “Markus Boulder.” She slowly turns to face me, her dark brown eyes scanning me head to toe. “Glad you could make it.”

  “Ma’am.” I nod, spine like iron. “Do you mind telling me why I’m here?” I should have asked that question when they hauled my butt on a private jet, I suppose. But, hey, better late than never. Besides, they already mentioned some life-altering proposition when they showed up at Josie’s. Somehow, I didn’t feel like getting into details. Mostly because I was afraid I might accept whatever they had to offer.

  Completely at ease, she leans against the desk, ankles crossed. Her gaze focuses on me, assessing me as if I’m some science project. “I’m Deputy Director Jean London.” Okay, so the office is as exquisite as the woman’s job description. My bad for assuming she’s a dude.

  “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  She flashes me a smile. “Likewise, Mr. Boulder. Now,” she sits on the desk, “to answer your question as to why you’re here, we have a job for you.” Whoa, she could have at least warned me before she dropped a bomb like that. Maybe I would have been able to keep the laughter crawling up my throat under control.

  It’s too late. I’m laughing my ass off.

  “I’m sorry.” She cocks a brow. “Do I amuse you, Mr. Boulder?”

  Get a fucking grip. “No, ma’am.”

  She crosses her arms, closing herself off. “Then why are you laughing?” London sounds slightly pissed. She probably thinks I’m laughing at her. I’m not. I just think it’s hilarious that the deputy director of the Secret Service wants to hire me. The guy who fucked up so bad he got two innocent hostages and a whole SEAL squad killed.

  Offending the deputy director of the USSS isn’t on top of my bucket list. The woman can make my life a living hell if she pleases. “Sorry, ma’am.” I draw a deep breath. “It’s just hard to believe the Secret Service dragged me to Washington for a job offer. You know considering I
’m just a waiter from Chicago.” A sucky waiter, I might add. The stain on my shirt is proof of that.

  Mischief creeps into her gaze. “Just a waiter, huh?” She opens one of the files on the desk. “Let’s see…” She skims the pages. “Youngest SEAL commander in the history of the United States?”

  I shrug.

  “Expert marksman with more kills than anyone I’ve ever seen?”

  I say nothing.

  “Three tours in Afghanistan, one tour in Iraq?” she goes on, clearly knowing more about me than most people in my life. “And that’s just your time in the navy. Shall I continue with your CIA deployments? Or would you like me to talk about your license to kill?”

  First things first. The license to kill is a real thing. Contrary to widespread beliefs, it has nothing to do with James Bond, but everything to do with 9/11 and countless innocent deaths. You see, after the world watched the Twin Towers fall, President Bush changed the rules, making the killing of terrorists—American or foreign—legal. When I joined the CIA in 2013, I received the license to kill, just like London said. That didn’t mean I could shoot whoever the hell I pleased. Only the president is in the position to order a hit. His intentions were to kill al Qaeda members across the world. And I did. Yemen, Afghanistan, Pakistan—hell, even on American soil, I offed some high-ranking members. The goal, preventing another attack, always outweighed the means. The CIA is no fool, though. They’re aware every kill makes us about forty new enemies, which is why we often tried to capture them alive. Unfortunately, extremists would rather die than find themselves behind iron bars of enemy combatants. So, yeah, I killed more than I incarcerated, and I’m not proud of it. Would I do it again? Would I kill to save a life? The answer is a straight and simple yes.

  “Mr. Boulder,” London says. “Shall I continue?”

  I hold up my palm, stopping her before she dives into the darkest spectrum of my past. “I’m ex-military and ex-CIA, I get it. But I’m also the guy who got kicked out of the Central Intelligence Agency two years ago.”