What Does a Spy Do When She Gets Cold?
Glennon
She slipped into the back row of the contortionist’s room and waited for the show to start.
Just as it did, a man sat in the seat next to her.
“Agent Thompson,” he said by way of greeting.
She wasn’t an agent. Not anymore. The CIA didn’t acknowledge her presence, which was fine by her. She really didn’t care.
“I spoke with your boss at the CIA. Turns out, your handler was partnering with a DEA agent, also dirty, connected to the Colonel Cartel. When he was killed, she took over their operation and reported you as KIA, but kept collecting your intel under the table, which is why you were never pulled. They honestly didn’t know you were still alive.
” He shook his head. “Makes me feel so secure that they have no clue what their own people are doing.”
She said nothing. What was there to say? It didn’t matter anymore.
Together, they watched the contortionist run through her positions. After the third one, she reached into her pocket and took out a thumb drive. He took it and put it in his pocket.
“That’s everything I can remember. I wrote, and I wrote, and I wrote until everything came out of my head, and now it’s empty. There’s nothing left. Don’t come back to me for anything. Glennon Thompson doesn’t exist anymore. She’s dead.”
“I heard. Your boss said when they tried to find her, they heard she died in a small-engine plane explosion in the Andes Mountains while trying to flee the country. Her body and the wreckage are a total loss. Very tragic.”
He stood. “I’d give you my card, but I know you’ll just throw it away. I texted you a phone number. You’ll look at it, then delete it, but old habits die hard, and you’ll have memorized it. If you ever need it, use it.” He walked past her and out of the room.
Sitting in the back of the theatre, Glennon watched stone-faced as the contortionist finished her routine. Without thinking, she grabbed the end of her braid, placing the tips of her hair against her lips.
For her final position, the woman placed both hands on the blocks at her feet, and she smoothly moved into a handstand.
After holding the pose for a few seconds, her legs began a controlled descent toward her face, which was now pointed out toward the crowd.
Looking at them from between her pointed toes, she smiled seductively as she let go of one of the blocks and extended her arm straight out to the side.
Then the platform she was on began to rise until she was three feet up in the air, and then it slowly turned so everyone could see her from every angle.
She barely wobbled. There was no evidence on her face that she was in pain. That she was worried she’d lose control. She simply beamed at the audience as they applauded her skill and grace.
Glennon wondered if that’s how she looked to people in this room right now. Unshakeable. Totally in control. Happy.
They might see a woman who was all those things, but until this moment, it had been a partial facade.
Every night since leaving the hospital, she’d drifted like a ghost through the labyrinth. She went from space to space, watching the live acts. She ate food. She had a drink, maybe two. She watched the dancers in the Big Top.
In the last two months, she’d lost zero sleep over shooting Guillermo.
The assault had been no different than the years spent in Argentina, save for the role Cesar had played at the end, and even the physical aspect of that had been similar to her experiences when Guillermo had shared her with others.
In the initial days after his demise, she felt that if someone breathed in her direction, she’d shatter.
It wasn’t because they were being mean. It was because they were being kind.
In some cases, too kind. With every kindness they showed her, she felt more alone than she’d ever felt in her entire life.
Even in the hours between escaping Guillermo’s safe house in Argentina and making the phone call to Triumph, a call that ultimately saved her life, she hadn’t felt as alone as she did now.
Triumph had backed off as well, but she knew it was because he sensed her distancing herself.
If he had asked her why back then, she wouldn’t have been able to tell him.
Now, she understood that he, and they, had known that and were allowing her the time she needed to come to grips with how her life had changed.
Time to adjust to this new normal, where no one expected anything from her other than to be who she was.
To figure out what she needed. To simply be with them as their friend.
Did she have flashbacks? Yes, there had been triggering moments, but she breathed through them and reset herself.
Did she have bad dreams? Yes, but they weren’t nightmares.
Did she have setbacks? Yes, but she’d worked through them with the therapist Francesca had recommended, and talking with the former FBI agent about her own trauma had also helped.
With each passing day, she sensed that those things would occur less and less often.
A little over a week ago, she finally broke free of her frozen state.
There had been no great moment of epiphany.
No catalyst to push her forward. While she was talking, her brain simply reminded her of Triumph’s promise that she didn’t have to feel this way alone.
No one expected her to wallow in grief. No one expected her to wear her silent strength like armor.
They didn’t expect anything at all but for her to cope as she needed to, and that when she was ready, they believed she would let someone help her carry it.
She let go of her braid, swishing it behind her shoulder.
Tonight, she would do that in the only way she knew how.
When the show was done, she remained where she sat, staring at the empty stage.
She thought of hands running through a mop of shaggy brown hair, a little-boy smile, and bright blue eyes.
She saw him in an Argentinian hotel room as he held her hand.
In the glow of the moon in the back of a pickup truck as he talked about Tilly.
Across a table in a Colombian room for rent, trying new food.
As they lay in bed together, loving through a rainstorm.
In a farmer's house in the Darién Gap as he surrendered a leather cuff in payment for braids.
As he’d made love to her and made her his.
And despite all the horror of that last night, and in the two months since, he’d given her what she needed, just like he promised.
He’d treated the gift of her as precious, fragile, important, and beautiful, even when she had treated it as cheap, worthless, insignificant, and ugly.
He’d given her the space to grieve when she couldn’t give it to herself.
He’d sheltered her in his arms each night when she couldn’t find a place to land.
He’d tried to help her carry the load, and when she threw it back at him, he gave her his friends in his place.
She was his.
But now? Now it was time to make him hers.
All around her, the labyrinth was silent.
The music from the arcade and the Big Top had been turned off.
The closing announcements had long since stopped.
There were murmurs here and there as employees picked up stray glasses and trash, but they gave her a wide berth.
She sat alone under the work lights of the small stage.
Something caught her eye in the doorway, and she turned to see Triumph, shoulder against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, one foot crossed over the other, with the toe propping him up next to the foot flat on the ground.
“Ready to head up?”
It was all he said. No frustration in his voice. No pleading in his eyes to open up to him. Just his soft voice and charm.
She stared at him for a moment. “What does a spy do when she gets cold?”
His eyes widened, and then one corner of his mouth lifted just slightly as he straightened from the doorway. “I don’t know. What does a spy do when she gets cold?”
She walked over to stand toe-to-toe with him. Her hands reached for the open flaps of his vest, smoothing over them even though they didn’t need smoothing. When they reached his waistline, her fingers reached out to touch his abdominal muscles, which jumped at her first touch.
“She goes undercover.”
Blue eyes sparkling, he grinned, lighting up his whole face. “That’s a terrible joke, little spy.”
“I learned from the master.”
“Did you now?”
“Mm-hmm.”
They stood, face-to-face, not speaking, but something was passing between them just the same.
“I saw your friend came to see you.”
Of course he did. He saw everything from the booth.
“He did.”
“You handed him something.”
She nodded. “I did.”
“You decided to give him all the information you had. That’s why you locked yourself away this past week.”
“Yes, I did. Glennon Thompson is officially a closed case.” She stared into his eyes. “Do you trust me, Triumph?”
His expression was wary but hopeful. “You’ve never asked me to trust you before. It’s always the other way around.”
“I know.”
“I trust you, Glennon. With every fiber of my being.”
She smiled. “Then hold out your hands.”
He held them out in front of him, the backs facing upward. Gently, she turned them over so they were palms-up, then she placed hers atop his. She didn’t thread their fingers together or even try to hold onto them. Just laid hers palm-to-palm with his.
He looked down at their hands.
She didn’t move. Just stood there, watching his reactions. Would he understand that in this single act, she gave him the only thing he wanted?
Her submission.
She gave him permission to help her. To raise her up.
To help carry the load. To be everything to him and allow him to be everything to her.
To tear down the walls she would try to put up when things got difficult.
To feel what she needed to feel, knowing he would be beside her. To be with her every step of the way.
And in return, she would do the same for him by allowing him to lead.