Saved by the Bell

301.

Bess and I go directly to my room. On the elevator we exchange quick and coded sign language to share the possibility that we might be both the hunters and the hunted - Do not reveal true identity, there are eyes everywhere. Once inside my suite, it having twice been swept for bugs, I turn on the TV just in case and find a local station covering a soccer match from Puerto Rico with an appropriate level of background crowd noise. Bess turns to Saunders, takes a deep breath and sits on the edge of the California King.

"I think we've been made," she emotionally reveals upon exhale.

I can see that she is nervous, stressed and conflicted, all wrapped in the cosplay's dangerous disguise. I go to the mini-bar and grab a sparkling water, pour it to a small tumbler, wrap a napkin around its base and slowly walk it to her.  

I take a seat beside her, sensing her concern. She is a heart-beat from physically shaking. This, I consider, is one of the most courageous, experienced and dependable agents I have ever encountered. The accumulated trauma from this assignment, after spending almost as long as I have in therapy and rehab from our gun shot wounds, appears to be taking a tremendous toll on her.

"You OK?" I ask sincerely while looking directly into her dark eyes for a second, non-verbal opinion.

"Yeah, just a little on edge, this double-cover assignment is a grind," she says sipping from the tumbler.

"We're almost home," I try to console, "but if you think you need to come out, just say the word and we'll make it happen."
 
There is a pause in our exchange as she considers the current situation, its prelude and the direction her future may hold as a result of the decision she is about to make. She knows that quitting is not an option. She weighs the paradox of duty versus the catastrophic possibility of pushing limits well past critical mass. Nobody wants to toss the towel, especially with the game on the line. This is what makes us special. We, simply put, do not give up. I allow her the time to process the enormity of the circumstance, knowing that she will make the right decision. And, importantly, that I will respect whichever way she needs to go.

"I'll be OK. I think Goldson knows who we are," she repeats as if I missed it the first time.

"What makes you think so? We haven't seen anything to indicate it."

"Little things, perhaps innuendo, a feeling I get when he talks with Davis, call it a hunch, but it feels like he gloats when looking at me knowing he was responsible for having a pair of nine mils put in my back. When it happens my shoulder actually starts to ache, like sympathetic harmony, you know? Fucking scary."

"Alright I'm pulling you out, we'll invent a story about you being needed at home to visit your hospitalized mother or something."

"No, absolutely not, I'm fine, I just needed a break."

I try to see past the bravery in her eyes and take the temperature of her soul. She knows the game and reiterates her commitment to the assignment in superlatives. I pause to consider.

The house phone rings.

I look at her and she at me. We almost sing it as a duet.

"Saved by the bell."