Don't Order Dog_ 1(57)
Jeri stared silently at the photo for several minutes before a long, heavy sigh parted her lips. She stood from her barstool behind the counter and strolled slowly over to the southeast corner of the bar where the rest of the letters and photos were hung. As she pinned the photo to the wall, her eyes met those of the sunglassed man in the photo, and a quiver of excitement slid like the soft touch of a finger down the back of her spine.
22.
Tom Coleman looked up from the open folder in his hand and glanced at his watch. It was 3:32pm. He sat back in his chair and listened. The silence that filled the corridor outside his tiny office told him that the Immigration and Customs Enforcement offices were nearly deserted. Unlike Tom, his colleagues were already practicing their early escapes from the office in preparation for the upcoming holidays. No doubt most of them were busy planning parties, buying gifts, and making the endless arrangements that came with this most wonderful time of the year.
In other words, their lives were now something of a living hell.
Tom shook his head at the thought as he closed the case file and placed the thick manila folder carefully on top of the “pending” pile on his desk. He opened the top drawer of his desk and found one of the small bottles of antibacterial lotion he kept in his office. An unconscious grin appeared on his face as he squeezed a large portion of the wonderfully sterile-smelling liquid onto his hands and began slowly rubbing them together. For reasons he couldn’t explain, Tom found the act calming. He methodically rubbed the strong disinfectant into his skin, happily imagining a billion little germs being purged from his body. With his hands clean, he grabbed another file from the tall stack of new cases and absently thumbed through the dull, photocopied pages. A few pages later, his concentration abruptly faded.
Something else was weighing on his mind.
He closed the file, stacked it neatly on top of the “new” pile on his desk and once again wiped his hands with lotion. He then turned his attention to his laptop. The latest reply in a string of emails between Tom and his brother-in-law, CIA Agent Alex Murstead, was still on the screen, and Tom found himself once again reading the tersely worded response.
Tom –
I’m not having this conversation with you any longer. The rules are the rules, and you need to stop entertaining any more ridiculous ideas for getting around them. It’s time to accept the fact you’re simply not cut out to work for the CIA.
There’s nothing wrong with working for the Department of Homeland Security. It’s a good job. It suits your skills. Hell, in this day and age you should consider yourself lucky just to have a job.
I’m serious Tom– stop pushing this. I’ve got far more important things to be doing right now.
- Alex
Tom closed the message with an agitated press of his finger. Nearly two weeks had passed since being told he’d failed the psych portion of the CIA entrance exams. While the initial shock of the news had subsided, a lingering feeling of anger still burned like a hot coal in his stomach.
And now he was on his own.
Of course, the realization that he was on his own wasn’t surprising or even intimidating to Tom. Quite the contrary in fact. He’d been trained from his first day in the Marines to overcome difficult, if not impossible, hurdles. Hell, his entire career up to this point was defined by obstacles he’d taken on and conquered. Sure, not every obstacle had been conquered without sacrifice – he quickly shook the images of Afghanistan from his mind – but he’d always managed to find his way out of odds-against-him shit storms alive and kicking. And that was the point. That was how he’d find a way to become an agent in the CIA. He’d tackled bigger challenges than this and survived, because that’s what he was – a survivor.
Hoo-rah, motherfuckers.
Tom leaned back in his chair and stared stoically at the ceiling, trying to piece together another solution in his head. Unfortunately, nothing was materializing. He sat deep in thought for several more minutes before finally curling his fists in frustration. If there was anything Tom begrudgingly admitted to himself, it was the fact that he was much better at investigation than strategy. As much as he hoped otherwise, a plan to get him back in front of the CIA was not going to come easily.
Conceding to this fact, Tom reluctantly decided to call it a day. He stood and quickly carried out his usual routine, straightening the stacks of files on his desk and lining up their corners neatly before wiping down his laptop. When he was finished, he cleaned his hands once more and grabbed his coat to leave. He was halfway out of the door to his office when he reached into his coat pocket for his keys and felt the sharp edge of a folded piece of paper. Puzzled, he pulled it out and unfolded it. Scrawled across the page was his own barely legible handwriting.