Demon Read Free Page B

yet.
    Around the corner outside the market, the first yells of excitement and surprise caught up to him. He waited until he was a mile up the road to dump the tactical vest, Oakleys, and binos in a trash heap. Then he pulled off the black shirt, revealing a gray shirt underneath, soaked through with sweat.
    Mike hailed a cab and took it to his hotel: the new Sheraton in Basra proper. It was a ten-minute trip.
    Inside the hotel room, the air conditioner hummed. Chilly, like an icebox left open. It felt good. Next to the bed sat his half-full bottle of whiskey. Mike stared at it for a long moment before turning away.
    In the bathroom, he washed his face and hands. The water was tepid. He tasted salt washing off his forehead and cheeks as the water passed over his lips. Then he straightened up, his back aching. His eyes lingered on his reflection as he dried his face.
    â€œIt’s killing and it’s what you’re good at.”
    Mike looked away. He pulled his knife out to wash the blade when he noticed his right hand shaking.
    Anwar’s face flashed in his head.
    Get it together, he thought and set the knife down. His eyes closed; he slowed his breathing.
    Anwar’s face flashed again, this time with his throat slit and blood pouring out.
    Mike clenched his hand into a fist and squeezed until his nails dug into his palm. When the pain crept into his wrist, he let go. Opening his eyes, Mike peeked at his hand again.
    It still shook.
    Fuck it.
    Mike walked out of the bathroom and sat on the bed. He poured a glass of whiskey and downed it. Poured and downed another.
    He looked at his hand. The shaking had died down to a tremor. Mike drank one more glass.
    The shaking stopped.
    Mike set the glass down and buried his face in his hands.
    â€œIt’s killing and it’s what you’re good at.” The words rang in his head again and again. They were the same ones Glenn had said when he’d first proposed the job. They were the ones he said every time Mike started to show signs of regret for taking his current assignment.
    â€œI want you to be the right hand of God,” Glenn had said in his office in Langley, Virginia, three months before.
    â€œAnd who’s God?” Mike had said.
    â€œI am as far as you’re concerned.”
    Mike had chuckled, but Glenn only fixed him with dark brown eyes that appeared almost black. The dead eyes, as they were known around the agency.
    â€œWell, what the hell does that mean, Glenn?”
    â€œIt’s a violent world, and I hate bureaucracy. Station chiefs are necessary, but a lot of them are looking out for themselves politically. You know, they want to climb the ladder, get a job like mine. But I’m looking for results. So, I want an operator who reports to me and me only. One who performs special tasks as necessary. You up for it?”
    â€œYou mean real case work?” Mike had been a company man for over fourteen years and in the field for thirteen. Most of that time, he’d done muscle work. Never had he worked a case or real contact on his own. He’d never been a spy. “Stuff I can run to ground, cut out the red tape?”
    Now Glenn chuckled. “No, Mike, you’re a cleaner. And there are a lot of messes out there that need a good dose of bleach and disinfectant.”
    Mike focused on his shoes.
    â€œYou’re a killer, Mike.” Glenn held up a thick file. “Years of it. A specialist. That’s what I need right now, and that’s what you’re good at. Take it or I’ll put you behind a desk the rest of your career.”
    â€œYou want me to be your hit man.”
    Glenn had responded with a smile. Mike didn’t say any more and accepted because he knew he was good at it. And he’d forgotten how to do anything else lives ago.
    He went into deep covert mode soon after. Off-the-reservation mode. The only one in the CIA who knew he was in Iraq was Glenn. Making sure he kept his identity