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I knew it wouldn't be easy turning thirty.
But I never once thought I'd celebrate entering the third decade of life crouched in a muddy ditch, armed with two revolvers, plenty of ammo, two hunting knives, stun gun, hand grenades, and a bunch of high-tech gizmos (small microphones and cameras undetectable even with the most advanced machines and cool stuff you've only ever dreamed of possessing). Waiting, watching through my special x-ray/night vision goggles with bated breath and a stiff neck for the last two hours. The guard pacing the north side of the building is called on his walkie-talkie, replies, then leaves his post. I'd have saved tons of time if I'd just sniped him off from his tower at the get-go, but I need to be completely incognito. This assignment is supposed to be a quick in-and-out recon mission, and being that I'm flying solo, I want to avoid alerting the two dozen men in and out of the biochemical compound of my presence.
I take a quick look around, grab my ammo and dart towards the north side entrance. My quick movements remind me that I should also be armed with a full-support bra, always ready for these spur-of-the-moment situations, both for comfort and aerodynamics. Who knew when an invisible sensor could go off with the slightest flinch to make you blow an entire mission. Any professional female spy knows you should always be ready for action, no matter where or when, or why or who. Because criminals have a knack of always planning their schemes at the most inconvenient times...
Oh yeah, so I'm a spy. Well, the term "secret agent" comes to mind, but it makes me feel like I'm an extra in a James Bond flick. And no, being a spy is most certainly not as glorified as in the movies (a major disappointment, I know). Whatever you want to call my job, I'm employed by the Agency (NOT the first one that comes to mind... we're the secret, secret sister Agency no one knows about). I do a variety of "work" for them for the sake of my country. The laundry list on any given week can include, but is not limited to: an hour's notice to catch an international flight, landing in a foreign country to be briefed by other operatives, all-night stakeouts of known bad guys' locations, and making a stealthy (in the best of cases), or turbulent exit (when things go awry), after acquiring the information I've been sent to retrieve.
Sounds exciting? My life hasn't always been this fun-filled with daily brink-of-death moments, but being a spy sure beats working as a desk jockey... and even doing research as a chemist, which was my career, before they switched me over to the dark side. Yes, I'm admittedly a big nerd, but don't let that little fact cloud your perception of my coolness. Especially because I'm now considered a lethal weapon. I'll bet you're wondering how I made the transition, right? It all started with Dan. But of course, that's not his real name.
Chapter 1: Dan's the Man
I met Dan at the deli across the street from the University, where I worked as a chemistry lecturer and researcher. By the takeout counter, he saw me eyeing his huge dill pickle, and bought me one too. Over smoked meat sandwiches on rye, we established several basic yet crucial facts. We were both single, busy, successful and attractive (mirrors don't lie, okay?). This information led us to the conclusion that, as two available and enticing mates, we should see each other again. He invited me to continue our compelling discourse the next night over drinks and dinner, and for the next twenty-four hours, all I could think about was having that salacious appetizer.
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