The next morning, Justine took a sharp left onto Wisconsin Ave. Usually, the attentive agent would have looked twice before crossing the street. But this early on a Sunday morning, traffic was almost nonexistent this close to the river.

  After a quick five miles through picturesque Georgetown Waterfront Park, Justine was starting to hit her groove physically. More than that, these early morning workouts were necessary to clear her mind of any built-up distractions the week usually brought. And this week had provided her with ample reasons to run.

  Thirty minutes, she reminded herself, a brisk six-minute pace then she would be as right as rain. Besides, today’s run was especially necessary because of what happened last night.

  While on duty, agents are required to turn off their personal phones. And under tactical conditions, this guideline made perfect sense. But transporting a low-level prisoner didn’t exactly qualify as a highly “tactical situation.” Still, given her partner's strict adherence to the rules, Justine didn’t bother turning hers back on until the package was safely delivered.

  Though, she certainly stared at it enough. Not because of paperwork or Battlestar Galactica, but because she was supposed to be on a blind date.

  Knowing the stakes, she could have snuck a peek. After all, Foster Evers did little more than silently sit in the back. Saunders hadn’t even bothered to handcuff the guy. When she asked for a reason, all her partner said in response was, “Fitz Hume said the cuffs weren’t necessary.”

  Not that she was worried about him in the slightest. Tall and thin, the unkempt prisoner reminded her of a couple of friends from college. Guys who played way too much Xbox and only emerged from the dorm rooms long enough to go to class. The prisoner did manage a smile in her direction a couple of times though.

  She would respond to this overture by firmly asking, “Is there something you need?”

  Each time, Foster would merely shake his head politely and stare back out the window. Justine got the impression that he was just happy to be out of that place. Either that, or he was hitting on her. But a long history of not being able to sense that type of thing made such distinctions problematic.

  Once the three of them arrived back in town, Foster was unceremoniously dropped off at a run of the mill hotel by the airport. And again, things got weird. Per agency protocol, an agent was usually stationed in the room to guard their prisoner. But Foster was left alone. And Saunders didn’t blink twice at the setup.

  “Who the hell was Foster Evers?” she wondered.

  So, with the package neatly tucked away, Justine ran more than a few red lights to make it back to her apartment. Once there, she did the usual getting ready stuff. Comb the hair, apply an uncomfortable amount of makeup, slide into a sexy dress. She even picked out her most impractical heels.

  After all, her friend Peggy’s description of the guy made all the hassle seem worth it. She was almost finished getting dressed when her landline rang. Too busy to answer, she let the answering machine do its job.

  “Justine,” a slurred voice echoed from the living room, “this is Richard… hey! Listen, I know that we were supposed to meet up tonight for drinks, but something important has come up. You see my girlfriend…” Richard’s voice was being drowned out by what sounded like a drunk woman screaming, “one more Jell-O shot

  “She decided I was right. Can you believe that?”

  Justine couldn’t.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “So,” Richard continued, the noise dying down. “I’m sorry. But hey, if things don’t work out with her, I’ll call you.” A few more seconds of “WHOO HOO” and the message ended. Then, her apartment fell back into a familiar silence. She was going to kill Peggy.

  Justine stood in her closet, one shoe on and the other dangling in her hand. “Son of a bitch,” she hissed, “there goes my Saturday night.”

  With a deft move, she kicked her shoe off and sent it crashing against the back of the closet wall. With considerably more restraint, the other shoe found its way back into the rack where it belonged. Not bothering to take off her outfit, Justine made a quick stop on her way back to the living room for some Ben and Jerry. They were the only men in her life that seemed to care… and made her smile.

  “Screw him and his slutty girlfriend,” she said to herself while opening the packaging to her ice cream. “Do they know I own a gun and how many times I’ve used it?”

  Medicine in hand, Justine dived headlong onto her cheap leather sectional, making sure to protect her ice cream at all cost. Battlestar and chunky monkey, they would never choose someone else.

  Back in the present, her route took her past Grace Street, and those thoughts of despair and ice cream began to fade away until the only thing bothering her was the pace she was keeping. Justine had been able to push through her sore ribs for the last five miles, but there was a cost.

  What should have taken a half hour was slowly creeping up to forty-five minutes.

  At Congress Court, she slowed to a brisk walk. The Starbucks she always parked at was two blocks ahead. Waiting for her was a large hot chocolate and a cinnamon coffee cake. Both would help dull the pain in her side. But her sluggish pace on the run meant having to face the morning rush.

  “Dammit,” she cursed at the thought of having to wait for her morning sustenance.

  Though as she got closer, hope returned because the parking lot was still pretty much empty. And when Justine opened the door, she was greeted by the welcome sight of only one caffeine-hungry octogenarian, a few hungover college students, and a couple in their early thirties discussing preschool options for their daughter.

  In other words, this was just another typical Sunday morning at Starbucks.

  Justine was two people away from her order when a black Escalade with diplomatic tags pull into the parking lot. After a truncated stop in an unused handicapped space, a stout man with a crew cut hopped out of the passenger seat and opened one of the rear doors. Instantly, she spotted the telltale bulge in the bodyguard’s jacket and ankle. To her, he looked like all the other ex-marines that went into private security.

  Then, a middle-aged white guy wearing a high-end tracksuit slid out of the back seat. Then, he lingered by the door for his wife to follow. Together, they waited impatiently as their bodyguard eyeballed the parking lot for anything unusual.

  As she watched, Justine guessed the couple must be from Europe given their expensively bad taste in high fashion. Seconds later, the ex-marine finished his security sweep and ushered the couple toward the building. When the entrance door finally opened, she wasn’t surprised at all to hear the couple conversing in French.

  “English,” the wife angrily prodded her husband. “Nobody here wants to hear you jabbering in French.”

  “Sorry my darling,” the husband quickly relented to his wife’s demands. Well trained over the years, he stood dutifully by as their bodyguard silently escorted them to the back of the line. A surprising move since your typical foreign official wouldn’t wait in line for anything. If her time in Washington had taught her anything, it was that diplomatic plates meant some people didn’t have to wait.

  Justine turned her gaze back to the counter when an errant straw lying on the tile floor caught her attention. In the middle of wondering who dropped it, she noticed her right shoe was untied. She bent over to correct it. At the same time, the customer in front of her finished paying for her coffee and moved off.

  Without waiting for her to finish tying her shoe, the barista regurgitated the chain’s customary greeting, “Welcome to Starbucks, what can we get started for you today?”

  With the knot cinched tight on her pink Nikes, Justine stood up and began to tell the young woman exactly what she wanted. The barista smiled. Another worker began to form the contents of her order when she caught sight of herself in the polished aluminum backsplash. The images reflected within it were distorted, elongated, and looked almost alien.

  Justine thought to herself, “Man, I look out of shape.”

  But there was something else in those images, something out of place that her brain couldn’t make sense of right away. Justine squinted, trying to bring whatever it was into focus. Her mind needed a second to work it out. Once it did, she let out an audible gasp.

  An old lady with a shotgun just stumbled out of the bathroom.