I took a deep drag on what remained of my cigarette and looked over at her blond curls as they spilled out from under the sheets.
I had forgotten her name. I guess in the passion of the moment I might have called out to another, but then she was used to that.
People in our line of work don't make attachments. They become liabilities, and I have enough love blood on my hands.
I stubbed out my cigarette, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and probed for my slippers with my feet.
Dawn was breaking through the cracks in the curtains.
Downstairs I found the remains of the pinot noir from the night before. It filled half a tumbler. I downed it in one swallow.
It was going to be a long day.
Moses Armstrong. Agent provocateur. I work alone. Some may say I'm a mercenary, but that would imply I care... I am an agent of fortune, a spy, an undercover intelligence office. My past is checkered. I had a wife named Madeilene, a son names Jonas. They were killed. I take lovers, prostitutes, women, blonds, into my bed for succor. I drink heavily, scotch whiskey, alcohol. Some would say I'm an alcoholic. They'd be right, but it's only self-medication. Some have called me Jack Bauer, 24, James Bond, but they have more scruples than me. I'm more like the Joker, Batman and his Dark Knight. I fight against both governments and criminals; against terrorists, terrorism, Muslim fanatics, pirates (Somalis, African, Kenyan, doesn't matter), enemies of justice. I have no friends, excpt the bottle and my cigarettes. I live by night, sleep by day, visit the underbelly of Paris, my current landing place. I am American, lived in London. My fees are high, because I only deal in bodies: blonds and corpses.
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