1
SAMUEL
Thank God the flight is almost over.
I’m cramped between a seemingly not very happy couple and my knees push against the seat in front of me, only adding to the experience.
During the last few years of my career, I caught too many bullets for this country to not fly first class, but as always, the higher-ups are too stingy. I should be thankful I didn’t have to tramp to Florida.
Is thirty too early to retire? Probably.
Apart from that, there’s no real retirement for my colleagues or me in the cards. We’ll still be crawling around in some desert when we’re old and wrinkly, with rifles attached to our walkers.
With every second that passes, I wish myself more and more on a good old military plane. At least they have more legroom. Commercial planes aren’t designed for men my size and the hissed attempts at a discussion coming from both sides of me don’t help to make this flight any more comfortable.
Three rows behind me, an infant screams like a banshee and I adjust my earplugs. The flight attendant handedthem out a while ago, together with a measly sandwich. I could also shove crumpled up toilet paper in my ears; it would be equally useless.
Sleeping is obviously not an option, so I pull out my phone to google the office building where I’m supposed to meet Mr. Barron tomorrow. The building screams mailbox company and a look into the memo confirms it is nothing more than a front company for his other businesses.
The memo is shorter than the ones we usually get, and I still struggle to understand how Captain Rockwell could give the responsibility for it to our new intern. Why the fuck we even have interns is a whole other topic, because our task force isn’t exactly the right place for inexperienced kids. And I don’t care if Charlie is legally an adult. He’s an idiot.
But Rockwell trusted him with the memo, confirming my suspicion that he views this mission as something closer to a vacation. A vacation I did not ask for.
There is a mention of a daughter in the memo, and by mention, I mean:Daughter: Ruby - Teenager?
If I have to keep track of a pouting teenage brat, I’ll go looking for a copy shop at the airport, print out my fucking resignation letter, and that’s it. They can go searching for me in the Everglades, I don’t care.
Two weeks ago, Rockwell called me into his office. I thought it would be another one of his attempts at playing psychologist. Instead, he presented me with the news that a few of his sources had informed him a certain Mr. Barron was looking for a new bodyguard. Someone skilled and reliable. Someone discreet. We had been waiting for this exact opportunity for quite a while.
Rockwell did a good job making me think that Mr. Barron was looking for a bodyguard for himself. He just kept the vital part of the job description that saida bodyguard for his daughterfrom me until I got out of his car at the airport.
I still can’t believe that he did this. Degrading me to an overqualified babysitter after everything I did for him and the task force. After all the shit I went through last year. Knowing him, he’s probably convinced that he’s doing me a favor with this job.
The rest of the flight goes by quickly, and when I’m finally out of the plane, I relish the feeling of being able to stretch out my legs again.
There’s a bag in each of my hands and a ringing in my ears as I walk through the arrival hall, searching for the driver who is supposed to pick me up. I skim through the signs they are holding, over and over, until I realize that I’m looking for the wrong name.
If this isn’t a good omen.
Now that I remember what I have to look for, I quickly spot the guy who holds up a paper-sized whiteboard with the name James Mills written on it.
Throughout the entire drive, there’s no attempt at small talk from his side. Not even half an hour later, we arrive at the hotel. His other profession must be a race car driver. He deserves the tip I give him along with his payment, but he politely declines, explaining that Mr. Barron paid for everything in advance.
I bet Mr. Barron’s employees are allowed to fly first class. That’s what I get for picking thegoodguys, fucking cattle class, and discussions with accounting whenever we don’t book the cheapest motel.
With a bit of persuasion, the guy finally agrees to take the tip. In return, he hands me his business card, in case I ever need a driver around here. Dominic says his goodbyes and I walk towards the hotel entrance.
It’s only a block away from the office building where Mr. Barron wants to hold the job interview tomorrow,and I’m impressed by the effort he makes for a potential employee. As if my bar for that isn’t in hell.
The receptionist is overly friendly and as I arrive in my room, I see that she wrote her number on a post-it on the back of the keycard she gave me. I sincerely don’t know what about me screamsapproachableorlooking for a flirt.
Must be the slightly crooked nose that had been broken more times than I could count or the bags under my eyes. Because it sure as fuck wasn’t my warm smile.
I rush straight towards the minibar. At least the thing is fully stocked. I sit down on the spacious bed with two apothecary-sized bottles of liquor, deciding that I won’t bother with changing into something more comfortable as I take off my shoes and toss them into the corner.
With a pitiful look in the mirror, I toast to myself.
Cheers to you, James Mills.
