It wasn't so much the bullets or the bombs, but how well you could deal with mind-numbing boredom. The tedium of waiting. Sometimes for hours, and often for nothing. It was a silent killer, the type of waiting that could make any soldier comfortable and soft. All it took was a few hours of desert wind and bleating goats and nothing else. The void would eventually fill with the need for comfort and sleep. Breathing would slow, eyelids got heavy. Ears stopped listening for Arabic.

When was the last time he fell asleep on duty? Was it Mogadishu? On the beach?

Not the safest place for a cat nap, but it happened, the grogginess coming on just after the sun dipped below a skyline of bombed-out buildings. It might have been the waves, a natural sedative, plus memories of home wafting from the open campfires beneath sizzling piles of lobster. Relief finally came in the distant glow of ships, their lantern lights bobbing in rough seas as they approached the shore. It was something to keep him awake, an opportunity to carry out his mission of observing potential pirates and their potentially deadly goods.

But the excitement didn’t last. The pirate fleet turned out to be a few humble fishing trawlers. He watched as the kids came streaming down the beach to unload the boats, each of them barefoot and coming away with a swordfish draped over their shoulder. They would have eventually tripped over Jackson had he not been sleeping under a stack of busted-up rowboats. And had he not fallen asleep, he would have noticed the adults who showed up after the kids for a cache of AK-47s. He'd find out the hard way, several days later, about the different type of prized catch that had been stored beneath the swordfish.

Still, that night's might have been the best sleep he'd ever had on the job, until a few hours later when the storm surge had come frothing into his face. Or until the D.C. cop knocked on his window.

Three hard knocks.

“Excuse me, sir. Welfare check.”

Jackson stirred awake.

“Welfare check, sir. You okay in there?” asked the cop through Jackson's half-open driver side window.

“Uh, yeah.” The words came sputtering out slowly and half-slurred as Jackson's eyes squinted into focus. “Yeah. Yes, Officer. I just fell asleep.”

“Have you consumed any drugs or alcohol tonight, sir?”

“No, I just, uh... I just fell asleep.”

“You can't sleep in your vehicle, sir.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Jackson, looking around his car to make sure he had nothing "interesting" lying about. “It wasn't like I was planning on it.”

“Planning on what, sir?”

He was smart enough not to have an open Beretta for a passenger. But a cop didn’t need much. Just him sleeping was probably enough for probable cause.

“Hey,” the officer said firmly. “What are you looking for?”

“My license and registration.”

“Well, stop. I'm not asking for it.”

“Okay,” said Jackson, leaning back in his seat. He looked out the window and saw the cop's hand at his holster. “Relax, it's all good,” he told the cop.

“I am relaxed, sir. Very relaxed. Can you just keep your hands on the wheel there?”

Jackson complied.

“Thank you, sir.”

“No problem.”

“I just wanted to remind you that non-parking activities are prohibited in the District of Columbia. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Jackson.

The officer lowered his head to the window, probably sniffing for booze or weed, or doughnuts. He then seemed to delight in asking Jackson if he'd had any car trouble, if he was having a medical emergency, if he needed directions. Dumb questions from a dumb grin. Jackson could have straightened the whole thing out in a similarly prickish fashion. If he really wanted to, he could've asked for a supervisor who'd promptly tell the traffic cop to take a hike. He could've really embarrassed the kid.

But Jackson had his own embarrassment to worry about, like falling asleep on a surveillance run. The lowest, most rookie move in the whole business. He'd rather stay anonymous about that. Stay quiet and drive away from his sleepy parking spot across from the Watergate Hotel with a "warning."

“Yeah, I'm leaving right now,” Jackson said on his call to Matthias a minute later. “Langhorne's not coming out and I've got too much shit to do.”

In actuality, Jackson had no clue where Langhorne was, or when he left, or if he even left at all. Either way, the trail was officially cold, the surveillance useless. It evaporated his plan to complete the whole day's cycle, from the senator's morning commute to his rush-hour return—including all the things in between, like an unscheduled meeting at the Watergate. And if Jackson's security contact there hadn’t been on vacation, he would’ve had closer access to whatever it was that brought Langhorne to the infamous hotel. The change in scenery might have even kept him awake. It was exhausting, the way he dwelled on missed opportunities with Langhorne, and his missteps with Mira, the latter keeping him up at night all on its own.

“So what about that follow-up with Jaheem?”

“Yeah,” said Matthias.

“Yeah? Is he staying sober out there?”

“To the best of my knowledge.”

Jackson gunned his car up a freeway ramp, heading north to his own gated community, to his suburban McMansion, and maybe going straight to bed when he got there. “So what's the story?” he asked.

“It's General Diop. He's suspicious of elements in his own government colluding with some big shots in the gold mining industry, using gold money to buy off politicians and to obtain weapons.”

“Weapons like LK-491s?”

“He didn’t say anything about that,” said Matthias. “But I mean... put two and two together and you get LK-491s landing at Kilaguni next week. Al-Shabaab is marching a group of refugees down there to collect them. And then they'll cross into Tanzania to wage a proxy war against the government, all on the behalf of the opposition party, Chadema. That's Jaheem's story, anyway.”

It was a believable story. All the bases covered. All the main figures and motives were connected and independently corroborated. “But why did Diop drop out of contact with me?” asked Jackson.

“I don't know. Fear?”

“There's got to be more to it than that. East African generals don't scare very easily.”

“Jaheem's trying to meet with him,” said Matthias. “So I'll keep you updated.”

“Very good. Now, another thing...” Jackson's scrubbed his speed by twenty miles per hour at the first beeps of his proprietary radar detector. Sometimes having ridiculous sums of money to invest in R&D came in handy. No need for a second police encounter in the same afternoon. “Remember what I said about watching Mira?” he asked while merging into the slow lane. “Well, you're on. Start on it tonight and for the foreseeable future. You've got her trackers, apartment password, everything you need. And look out for a black Honda Civic while you're at it.”

“Roger that,” Matthias replied, and then disconnected.

* * *

Road-weary and spent, Jackson pulled into his driveway just after nightfall. He expected to feel relieved, but the foreboding darkness of his house was cause for worry. Why weren’t the lights on? He'd set up automatic timers to give the impression of an occupied house for when he stayed in D.C. And he had an array of motion-sensor lights that could be tripped on by a single wind-blown leaf. But nothing seemed to be working, including a garage door that failed to respond to his in-car remote.

He cut the engine and drew his Beretta from a torso holster beneath his suit jacket. Its black barrel glinted from the light of the car's instrument panel as Jackson clicked off the safety, his fingers disengaging the switch without hesitation or thought, an act of sheer muscle memory. It was all routine, the gun having become an automatic extension of his body many years ago. Jackson held its cool textured grip with the same sureness as a civilian working a TV remote. He cocked the weapon as if flipping channels. And then he stepped out of his car.

Jackson spent as little time as possible out in the open, hunched over a drawn gun and hustling low towards a row of trees. He waited for a moment behind a large oak, long enough to check for any sounds or movements from the house. It was a tactic he used when approaching and infiltrating an enemy compound. Building-clearing. Close quarters combat. He never expected to use it on his own house in the sleepy suburban paradise of Montgomery Mills. But alas, there he was, sneaking quickly to the side of his garage, unlocking the door and entering with a flashlight fixed to his gun. He should start carrying night vision goggles in his car.

Two corners. Clear.

Spaces between cars. Clear.

Rafters. Clear.

Four corners. Clear.

Car interiors. Clear.

Hiding spots under workbench, drafting table, pile of road bikes and surfboards—all clear.

Breaker box interior... A tripped fuse.

Jackson flipped the main power breaker from the middle to the off position with a loud clunking sound. Then he clunked it over to the on position. And on came the lights.

And then his cell rang.

“Hey, Annica,” he said, entering his now-lit home from the garage. His security system had still been engaged and so he tossed his car keys into a bowl of loose bullets and then headed towards the kitchen. A stiff drink was in order.

“So when am I getting a piece of your girl?” she asked.

Jackson was wondering the same thing, thinking back to the parking garage, the site of the world's saddest case of blue balls. “You could've had an interview today,” he said as he creaked open the door to his liquor cabinet. “She was available to the press from ten to eleven.”

“I was busy.”

“That's too bad. What if she's busy for the rest of the week? Or what if something happens to her and she can't talk?”

“What?”

“Yeah. You're blowing your biggest story.” Jackson unscrewed a twelve year old whiskey bottle and poured its caramel contents over ice in a rocks glass.

“What's your deal, Jack?”

“No deal. Just looking out for your story.” He stopped pouring after four fingers, setting the bottle down loudly on a white marble counter.

“You sound extra bitchy today,” Annica said as he raised the glass to his lips. “So you wanted me to interview her about this in front of everyone? And at the fucking senate building?”

“You could have had a one-on-one, off site.”

“Can I have one this week?”

He took another sip.

“You want me to beg for it?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I do.”

There was a pause from Annica. Jackson moved to another room, to a leather sofa, crawling onto it and stretching out.

“What are you doing right now?” she asked, no longer sounding like a Washington Post reporter.

“Just sitting here.”

“Sitting where?”

“My house.”

“Where in your house?”

Jackson stared into his drink, jiggling the ice around. “Remember that black leather sofa? I moved it downstairs.”

“I remember it,” she said.

Jackson said nothing. He took a long sip, thinking of old times, considering.

“You still want me to beg for it?” she asked.

Jackson was starting to feel the warmth of the alcohol take over. The pleasant, sedating heaviness gathering at the back of his mind. He sat up and put his drink down on a coffee table full of 'men's magazines' that he'd never read. “No,” he said, his hand cradling his forehead. What the fuck was he doing?

“No? So you want me to just ask for an interview like a normal, professional journalist?”

He felt himself backing away from the precipice, his thoughts growing more dull and tired with each passing second. He switched off the table lamp next to him and the room went dark. “Can you do Tuesday afternoon?”

“So what's going on with you?” she asked.

“Nothing. What do you mean?”

“Do you like her?”

“No.”

“I don't believe you.”

“You know I can't I don't get involved like that, messing around with my associates.”

“Really?” She laughed quietly. “So I was the only one?”

He reached for his drink. “Yeah.”

“The special one, huh?”

He drank until the bare ice rattled and smacked against his lips.