In 24 hours
Every night after she gets home from work, Myra goes for a run. It doesn't matter what time it is; five-thirty in the evening or one in the morning, she does a quick stretch, then runs from her apartment down Wilson to the Rosslyn metro, and back again. Three miles roundtrip, easily done in half an hour.
Every day, no matter what. And tonight's no exception. As exhausting as the mission to Djibouti was, as tiring as the trip back had been, as soon as she got home, she changed into a pair of running shorts and an old Navy t-shirt and left again. The late evening heat was subsiding, a nice breeze starting to come through. She watched the people coming and going from the metro station across the street as she stretched, scanning the scattered crowd for any sign of anything. After what had happened with Annie, she clearly needed to work on that particular job skill.
Sufficiently warmed up, she took off at a light jog down the hill, trying to focus on the sound of her feet hitting the pavement, the rhythm of her breathing. Anything to keep from reliving the last forty-eight hours. But as she waited at a light for the traffic to clear, she caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye and for a moment she could swear he made it out, he followed them back...
But then she turned her head and knew it wasn't him, not even remotely. The last car passed through the intersection, and she dashed across the street, the idea of a leisurely run forgotten. Aided by the increasingly severe downhill slope, she raced down to Rosslyn, darting in and out between pedestrians, cars, bicycles. She paused when she reached her destination, looking out toward the Key Bridge and the lights of DC across the river, contemplating running her longer weekend route, a six and a half mile loop through DC to the Memorial Bridge and back.
What the hell, she thought. It's not dark yet.
She ran across the bridge to M Street, jaunting down to one of the side streets to avoid the usual restaurant crowd. Out of Georgetown, she rejoined the arterial, following it as it turned into Pennsylvania. It's a route she knows by heart, and she follows it on auto-pilot. She's still focused on those late moments in the Old City house, the last look she shared with him.
Bashir Omar Abdi. Twenty-two years old. Allied with al-Shabaab.
That was everything Myra had been given in his file, at least as far as personal details were concerned. But even from that, she knew his story. Bought into service with American currency by Islamist Rebels, giving the cash to his family - probably his mother and sisters, maybe a grandparent - so they could eat. He wasn't political, but he'll fire a gun if it means they can survive. It's a story she'd seen before in Iraq, during her time with Intelligence. Where it changed was his collection of information, his oddly keen sense of what was and wasn't important. His escape across the border into Djibouti. And his dogged pursuit by fellow rebels.
She turned down twenty-third, her sights set on the Lincoln Memorial at the bottom of the hill. But her mind stayed with Bashir, wondering if they'd simply shot him there, or dragged him back to Mogadishu to be made an example of. Or worse, both.
He had to know the risks, she thought. So why do it?
She just couldn't shake that last look from her mind. She'd had the gun aimed at his captor, she could have easily taken him, too.
Then they would have followed us, she rationalized. I did what I had to do. He understood that. We have the intel, we didn't need him any more.
It still didn't sit right with her. She pushed on across the Memorial Bridge into Arlington, detouring from her usual path to find her father's grave. She sank to her knees in front of it, ignoring the questioning looks from the few people making their way back to the entrance.
"Is that what you would have done?" she asked aloud, slowly tracing the etched name with her index finger. She tried to imagine her father in the same situation, but knew that the loving, heroic father she'd known probably wasn't the same man the agent who died Syria had been.
Placing a kiss on the headstone, she stood. "Your knife saved the day," she said proudly, thinking back on the butterfly knife she always carried on missions. "Thanks, dad. Say hi to mom."
Then she took off again, headed back to Wilson. She was grateful for the uphill battle on the way home, as it finally took her mind off the subject. But as she turned off to her building, the guilt returned. She could have saved him, she should have saved him. But her primary focus had been on getting Annie out with minimal collateral damage. Although the two rebels laying dead on the street might disagree with the success of that particular goal.
Annie's alive, she reminded herself as she slipped her key into the door. I'm alive. That's all that matters.
She stripped her clothes off, laying them strewn across the floor as she walked into the shower. Her eyes closed under the hot water, and she started thinking about the next day. They'd gotten the intel, but as far as Myra's shadow assignment went, she'd failed pretty miserably. It wouldn't surprise her if she found herself transferred back to CI.
Or worse, a wet team, she thought with a grimace, stepping out of the shower. Once she was dressed again, her still damp hair tied quickly out of her face, she opened the door to her bedroom. Looking at the small pile of kits waiting, she chose a fairly easy snap-together model, figuring it would give her a solid hour of building.
For tonight, at least, she'd have control over that much in her life.
Every day, no matter what. And tonight's no exception. As exhausting as the mission to Djibouti was, as tiring as the trip back had been, as soon as she got home, she changed into a pair of running shorts and an old Navy t-shirt and left again. The late evening heat was subsiding, a nice breeze starting to come through. She watched the people coming and going from the metro station across the street as she stretched, scanning the scattered crowd for any sign of anything. After what had happened with Annie, she clearly needed to work on that particular job skill.
Sufficiently warmed up, she took off at a light jog down the hill, trying to focus on the sound of her feet hitting the pavement, the rhythm of her breathing. Anything to keep from reliving the last forty-eight hours. But as she waited at a light for the traffic to clear, she caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye and for a moment she could swear he made it out, he followed them back...
But then she turned her head and knew it wasn't him, not even remotely. The last car passed through the intersection, and she dashed across the street, the idea of a leisurely run forgotten. Aided by the increasingly severe downhill slope, she raced down to Rosslyn, darting in and out between pedestrians, cars, bicycles. She paused when she reached her destination, looking out toward the Key Bridge and the lights of DC across the river, contemplating running her longer weekend route, a six and a half mile loop through DC to the Memorial Bridge and back.
What the hell, she thought. It's not dark yet.
She ran across the bridge to M Street, jaunting down to one of the side streets to avoid the usual restaurant crowd. Out of Georgetown, she rejoined the arterial, following it as it turned into Pennsylvania. It's a route she knows by heart, and she follows it on auto-pilot. She's still focused on those late moments in the Old City house, the last look she shared with him.
Bashir Omar Abdi. Twenty-two years old. Allied with al-Shabaab.
That was everything Myra had been given in his file, at least as far as personal details were concerned. But even from that, she knew his story. Bought into service with American currency by Islamist Rebels, giving the cash to his family - probably his mother and sisters, maybe a grandparent - so they could eat. He wasn't political, but he'll fire a gun if it means they can survive. It's a story she'd seen before in Iraq, during her time with Intelligence. Where it changed was his collection of information, his oddly keen sense of what was and wasn't important. His escape across the border into Djibouti. And his dogged pursuit by fellow rebels.
She turned down twenty-third, her sights set on the Lincoln Memorial at the bottom of the hill. But her mind stayed with Bashir, wondering if they'd simply shot him there, or dragged him back to Mogadishu to be made an example of. Or worse, both.
He had to know the risks, she thought. So why do it?
She just couldn't shake that last look from her mind. She'd had the gun aimed at his captor, she could have easily taken him, too.
Then they would have followed us, she rationalized. I did what I had to do. He understood that. We have the intel, we didn't need him any more.
It still didn't sit right with her. She pushed on across the Memorial Bridge into Arlington, detouring from her usual path to find her father's grave. She sank to her knees in front of it, ignoring the questioning looks from the few people making their way back to the entrance.
"Is that what you would have done?" she asked aloud, slowly tracing the etched name with her index finger. She tried to imagine her father in the same situation, but knew that the loving, heroic father she'd known probably wasn't the same man the agent who died Syria had been.
Placing a kiss on the headstone, she stood. "Your knife saved the day," she said proudly, thinking back on the butterfly knife she always carried on missions. "Thanks, dad. Say hi to mom."
Then she took off again, headed back to Wilson. She was grateful for the uphill battle on the way home, as it finally took her mind off the subject. But as she turned off to her building, the guilt returned. She could have saved him, she should have saved him. But her primary focus had been on getting Annie out with minimal collateral damage. Although the two rebels laying dead on the street might disagree with the success of that particular goal.
Annie's alive, she reminded herself as she slipped her key into the door. I'm alive. That's all that matters.
She stripped her clothes off, laying them strewn across the floor as she walked into the shower. Her eyes closed under the hot water, and she started thinking about the next day. They'd gotten the intel, but as far as Myra's shadow assignment went, she'd failed pretty miserably. It wouldn't surprise her if she found herself transferred back to CI.
Or worse, a wet team, she thought with a grimace, stepping out of the shower. Once she was dressed again, her still damp hair tied quickly out of her face, she opened the door to her bedroom. Looking at the small pile of kits waiting, she chose a fairly easy snap-together model, figuring it would give her a solid hour of building.
For tonight, at least, she'd have control over that much in her life.