valentine | the old guard

iii. mister copley

I can't help but smile as I follow Andy and Booker through the maze of vendors and stalls. The Moroccan market is filled with people and life - children running through the dusty paths between tents and tourists looking at cheap jewelry. It is simply beautiful.

Even though the sun is beaming down strong and bright, Booker still looks on edge. He leads the way as always, his posture guarded and alert as he slinks ahead, snapping his gaze from side to side. It's a soldier's habit; one of his few quirks that I understand. Andy does the same too, but slightly less obvious - her eyes scanning the space around her from behind those same dark shades. 

When we finally reach the meeting spot, the three of us change pace, evening out to create a horizontal line in front of Copley. He smiles up at us from his seat outside a quiet café, looking at ease in a beige suit and smart blue shirt. There's a difference between now and the last time that I saw him; he looks a little older but still carries that same unpredictable streak. 

At a reasonable distance, he stands up, extending his hand out to Booker. He takes it firmly and greets our old associate. "Mister Copley."

Copley nods, giving the immortal warriors hand an enthusiastic shake. "Mister Booker, bonjour."

With an exasperated sigh, Booker takes a seat at the table, letting Andy move forward to greet our client. I hover close behind her, giving Booker a little nudge. In reply, he turns slightly in his metal chair and shoots me a look over the rim of his sunglasses, prompting me to laugh a little. 

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Andy says, choosing to ignore the two of us. "Last time I checked, you had to be an American to be in the CIA."

I grin, using my years of deduction and research to my benefit. "He is. He was born in Boston." I watch the surprise blossom in Copley's dark brown eyes as Booker sniggers beside me. "Then, at the age of three, he moved to London."

"How did you know that?" Copley asked in reply, his amazement at my skills evident in his tone.

"I like to know who I'm letting my team deal with," I reply with a slight shrug. "In our line of work, we are very cautious about who we take jobs from."

Copley nods in understanding, sitting back down in his seat. Andy and I follow suit. 

Andy leans back in her metal chair, letting the sun warm her back. "So, if you don't mind me asking, why did you leave the agency?"

Booker and I lean in, casting the occasional glance to each other - both sizing Copley up in our heads.

"My wife got sick," he replies, his tone candid. "ALS. She died two years ago." He takes a pause to sigh. "I just guess that I haven't found my way back yet."

"Sorry for you loss," Andy offers. I nod in solidarity. 

Copley gives a small smile to the three of us. "Thank you." He turns his gaze to Booker, gesturing to the sullen figure. "You haven't changed at all, Booker."

"Trust me - I have," Booker replies, his voice at its usual growl.

I'm offered the same smile. "You haven't either, Valentine."

I return it. "Ah well, a good skincare routine will do anyone a world of good."

Copley pauses for a minute, eyes honed in on me, before looking back down at the tabletop. Slowly, he spins the newspaper in front of him to face us, pointing towards a news article plastered on the front page. "Yesterday afternoon local, a school southwest of Juba was attacked by a militia. They murdered the school's teachers then abducted seventeen students at gunpoint."

"An eight year old," I read aloud, already scanning the article. There are tears stinging at my eyes, forcing me to push my sunglasses on. "All but an infant."

Andy meets my eyes, a moment of understanding passing between us, before she turns back to Copley. I can feel Booker's hand move from the tabletop to rest on top of my knee.

"South Sudanese asked the United States for help," Copley continues, eyes flickering between the three of us. "But current administration's policy is to deny aid to any nonstrategic allies. Some of my ex-colleagues at the CIA feel differently. They reached out to me, and now I'm reaching out to you." He slides a tablet across to Andy with various satellite images and proceeds to talk about the situation.

I try to focus on the words being spoken around me, but my focus starts to slip, leaving the conversation. Children are my one soft spot. I cannot abide by harm coming to them; to souls so young an innocent with lives that are barely just beginning. The idea that mortals could purposefully hurt such fragile creatures is a thought that sickens me to the highest level. By the time that Andy begins to speak, Booker has noticed my shift in attention.

Without trying to draw Copley's focus to me, Booker hooks his foot around the leg of my chair and tugs it, jolting me closer to him. My gaze drops down to my hands as they clench and unclench in my lap. Then, in a matter of seconds, his lips are just centimeters from my ear. "Valentine, the boys are watching. They wouldn't want to see you like this; they'll worry. Snap out of it. Come on, please, mon ami."

The haze clears from my vision and I turn to Booker, nodding sharply before casting a glance back over my shoulder. I smile knowing that, somewhere in the distance, Nicky is watching over us through his scope.

"...this has to be done quickly and efficiently," Copley said, continuing the sentence that I hadn't heard, "by the best. And your team is the best I've ever known to exist. You can name any price for your services. Any at all."

With that, Andy rises from her chair. The three of us stare up at her.

"We'll invoice you when it's done," she replies curtly, her eyes glancing towards me and Booker.

Andy turns on her heel and starts to vanish back into the crowd. Clearing his throat, Booker rises from his own seat and follows her. I, however, linger beside Copley for an extra minute, fixing him under a stern gaze.  "We'll get them out. We always do."

Copley nods to me and I turn away, following after my team.