The blaring alarm wakes me up instantaneously. I got to pick the track, not the volume, which means that Never Gonna Give You Up is ripping into my eardrums right now. “Casey! Are you awake?” comes a crackly voice from the phone.
I press the big green ‘REPLY’ button. “I’m not sure that was ever a question,” I say with my best sarcasm voice, and I can imagine his thin smile as he responds.
“You know full well I didn’t have a say in that matter. You, on the other hand, had a perfectly good chance to pick 4′33″ and wasted it.”
It takes a few seconds for that thought to percolate through my brain. “Damnit, Mick, why couldn’t you have told me then?”
“I’ve been keeping that particular zero-day up my sleeve in case I ever found someone promising to recruit.”
“And now I learn I wasn’t even ‘promising’? I’m hurt, Mick. Just for that, I think I’m going to tell legal.”
Mick chuckles. “You hardly needed convincing, back then, and I don’t believe you’d tell anyone. And don’t forget your glasses!” Mick says over the phone, I think. It’s so hard to hear him over Rick Astley’s deafening voice.
“Do you think I’d be able to do anything without glasses?” is my chosen reply, and with one last guttural scream I propel myself out of the door. If I had a cloak it would’ve been billowing dramatically behind me as I powerwalk towards HQ; unfortunately, Legal has stated in no uncertain terms that cloaks are “suspicious” and “create an identifying mark that could endanger our as-of-yet legal operations,” despite my best efforts to the contrary.
It’s about a ten minute walk to the ambiguously eerie HQ, inviting as ever. “Suit up, Casey. You’re going at oh-six-forty,” Mick says—that gives me about five minutes to grab the gear I’ll need. Seconds after go time, I’m on my motorcycle (nondescript and matte black, just like everything else) and revving towards the westbound highway.
Ninety mile-an-hour-winds tear at my helmet. The world fades away and suddenly it’s just me and the motorcycle and the road, relying on nothing but instinct to avoid smashing into other highway vehicles at terrifying closing speeds. One misjudged corner sends me on the wrong line, reducing my margins on the next car-avoidance maneuver to nil.
I’m closing in on my target: an unmarked SUV, breaking the speed limit by just enough to blend in with all the other traffic. Ten feet away from the car, I glance at the driver’s mirror. He meets my gaze.
My objective is the same as it always has been: tail until target stops, force an engagement with target, win engagement.
Suddenly there’s a commotion up ahead. Traffic grinds to a standstill, and I brake as hard as I can. Not hard enough. Distantly, I notice him weaving through the chaos, and getting away with only a few dents.
I’m not as lucky. The last thing I know is a mild (relatively) faceplant into the car ahead of me. Survivable, but barely.
Survivable if you’re lucky.