Airport love: Mission interrupted

My boss

The phone buzzes on my desk, an unwelcome noise cutting through the silence of my small, dimly-lit apartment. I glance at the call display: it's Snow. I take a breath, push aside the heavy weight of my past, and swipe to answer.

"David Wrecker," I say, my voice rough. I still haven't gotten used to the sound of it since I left the Navy.

"Wrecker," Snow replies, his voice smooth but laced with urgency. "We've got a situation. We need to talk—now."

I sit up straighter, the adrenaline prickling at the back of my neck. Snow never calls unless there's trouble. "What's going on?"

"An assassin is loose," he says, and I can almost hear the tension radiating from the other end. "He's been leaving a trail of bodies, and fast. The authorities are in chaos, but that's not our concern. We're not called in for a janitorial job; we don't clean up messes. We eliminate problems."

I nod, even though he can't see me. "Where is he now?"

"He's in Denver. Last location was a nightclub on the 16th Street Mall. Surveillance shows he's been there twice in the last week. He's brilliant at his craft, Wrecker. A ghost. But we both know what happens to ghosts when they're hunted."

A silent beat hangs between us. I can feel the heartbeat drumming in my ears, a reminder of time slipping away. "How much time do I have?"

"Officially? Not much. I mean before you dead I want him of the face  of this earth. So you'll need to act quickly. For your own good of living the rest of your life  how you want without more killing. But watch yourself. He knows we're coming, and he's not going to go down without a fight."

"Why does that matter? I'm not scared of die-hard maniacs."

Snow chuckles, a weary sound that tells me he understands the weight behind my bravado. "It's not about being scared, Wrecker. It's about being smart. You're not the only one with an expiry date here. Use your head, and you might survive this."

I can't shake the thought of it. Swallowed in darkness, I know there's anger brewing deep inside me about being tangled in this mess—this assignment. A year left to live; that's what they say. But the truth is, life hasn't felt like living for too long now.

"What do you want me to do?" I ask, my voice steady.

"Setup an asset and watch him. Figure out his next move. We'll find a way to trap him, but I need you to be the bait."

A beat of silence stretches out as that sinks in. "Bait?"

"You have the skills for this. You'll anticipate his every move. Get inside his head. It's the only way to find him before he strikes again."

A flash of anger shoots through me, but I swallow it down. I'm done burying things; it's time to sort through this metal storm in my chest. "And what if he finds me first?"

"Then you better make sure you take him out before he gets the chance."

I don't answer. My thoughts spiral as I stare blankly at the peeling paint on my wall. Bait. It's one thing to be the hunter, another entirely to become the hunted.

"Wrecker?" Snow's voice cuts through the haze.

"I'm here," I say, shaking myself back to focus. "I'll do it."

"Good," he replies, a note of relief evident. "Get your gear. I'll have a lead on him by the end of the day. Stay sharp."

"I'll be on it in no time"

"That's how we talk"

The line clicks dead, and I'm left staring at my empty desk and my steaming cup of coffee. Time is a cruel mistress, and tonight, it feels especially unforgiving. I run a hand over my stubbled jaw, the weight of the phone heavy in my hand.

In a year—or even less than that—I could be a ghost myself, floating through the dark. One minute you're alive, and the next, you're just a name on a list of forgotten soldiers.

But tonight, I have a job to do. I pull on my old tactical jacket, the scent of gun oil and leather familiar and comforting in a world gone mad. If my past has taught me anything, it's that I have to chase the darkness before it swallows me whole.