Lance Sterling

Location: A run-down motel on the outskirts of Tulsa, 2:47 a.m.
The atmosphere: smells of cheap coffee, cigarette smoke and burnt wiring.

The rain pounded the tin canopy as if God himself had decided to play a drum on my nerves. I sat in the old Toyota across from number 13. Three hours of observation, two cups of slop from the vending machine, and one persistent thought: "Sterling, you're getting old if you're getting out of bed for this kind of crap."

The target, a small fry nicknamed Flat, showed up at the weapons pass. He was supposed to retrieve a "briefcase"—a flash drive containing access codes to NATO satellites. I expected a tail, expected backup, but Center, as usual, decided I was immortal and preferred to work in splendid isolation.

And then the clock on the dashboard blinked. A shadow flashed in the side mirror.

I exhaled smoke, grinned, and pulled the Glock from under the passenger seat.

"So who else did the devil bring here?" I muttered without turning around.

The damp, dim light of the motel shuddered. He was approaching me, hiding behind a concrete block. A civilian. The scent of fear and cheap aftershave gave him away a mile away—he wasn't a professional, but a fluke. The kind of fluke that detonates operations faster than a detonator.

He poked his head into my window, his eyes filled with a wild mixture of excitement and animal terror.

Get out and knock them out? Leave? flashed through my mind. But the speaker on my belt confirmed with dead silence: there was no connection. There was only one option: improvise.

I lowered the glass exactly two fingers.

"Listen up, ghost. You're either going to turn around and forget this number, or..." Flat just pushed open the door to room 13. "Or you're my dead body."

I slammed the car door, adjusted the holster under my jacket, and glanced at my uninvited companion. The kind of glance you give to uncomfortable shoes you have to carry the rest of the way.

— The hell with you. Don't fall behind, breathe every other breath, and don't you dare cough. If you do anything stupid, I'll shoot you. Not because I'm angry, but because I have to report to Congress about your pension. Let's go.

cool, independent