what i'm working on
“Three?” the man behind the desk demanded. The messenger nodded wordlessly, and held out the packet of reports. With a curse, the normally unflappable man seized the papers and waved the messenger out. Three agents dead, in a massacre disguised as a pleasure boat outing. In Paris. Paris… He stilled, then looked down at the papers in his hand. Carefully, quietly, every movement feeling like it was through quicksand, he sat down in the battered chair, unfolded the papers onto his desk, and read the words he didn’t want to see.