I sat there, crimson liquid pouring from my ass and thighs. I laughed to myself a couple of times; I think I cried too. It felt like half an hour had passed, but it all occurred within the space of a minute. I sat there, hoping to bleed out, which, now that I think of it, would make a pretty pathetic way to go. I fell into this deep pit of anxiety. As every minute passed, I sobered up more and more, anxiousness rising in parallel to the speed at which my senses came back. I knew what I had to do.

I slowly rose to my feet, pulling out the larger pieces of glass that were stuck in my legs. I grabbed a towel to soak in the blood and pulled on the first pair of jeans I could see lying around. I grabbed the single t-shirt that wasn’t soaked in sweat and made my way out of the apartment.

It was blazingly hot in the streets, which were filled with the smells of grilled pieces of lamb, fried falafel, and gasoline due to the peak hours of the day. I looked around and felt the walls of this anxious pit I was in closing in. I needed to find her and started to think in which direction she had gone.

There was no option that she had booked the place here; she couldn’t know what to expect once she saw me. I acknowledged that if she could, she would have stayed with me. The only rational direction to go was the airport. She would never be able to catch a taxi from here; the closest one would be the taxi corner located 500 meters from my apartment. I turned left and rushed toward it.

It wasn’t hard to spot her long golden hair in the crowd. She was without her scarf now. I saw her in the middle of the road towards the point I rightfully assumed she’d head to. The anxiety left, but only because it was replaced with the rush of adrenaline that was now circulating in my body. My physiology was right in urging me to follow because once I caught up to her, I saw two guys trailing her closely, Jenny blissfully unaware of the danger she was in.

She worked for the Agency but received no clandestine training. The only thing differentiating her from an office assistant was that she had the second-highest security clearance. What the hell was she doing here, I asked myself, knowing damn well that it’s all my fault. I impulsively reached behind my back to where the gun was. Only it wasn’t there. I’d left it in such a rush that I forgot it was still lying under the sofa, on the carpet where I sat a moment ago, did the lines, and drank my consciousness away. Doesn’t matter. I knew how to fight and I could easily deal with two of them.

I was closing in on Jenny and the two buffs when everything went black. The hood was thrown over my head, and I felt two men holding me by my arms. I fought them off, head-butting one of them and kicking another in the balls. The first guy punched me in the spleen, which only indicated that he knew his biology, because it immediately made me fold in two and shut down any further defense mechanism for the time required to throw me inside a van.

I counted the turns and the time it took to arrive at the place where they pulled me out of the truck. I knew that the two men trailing Jenny were a ruse. They were after me all along, and she led them to me unknowingly. I was calm now. She was safe. They had no business with her, only me.

I was thrown onto a chair, and my hood was put up. The lamp across from me blinded my eyes, and I couldn’t see the person sitting across from me, but I could smell the awful scent of Private Blend Düfte Oud Wood by Tom Ford that Ben used to wear. Ford once said that he experimented with combining the smell of vodka and tobacco and that it was a huge failure that he decided not to pursue. I can't imagine why he wouldn't after releasing this mix of rotten rosewood and cardamom.

“You’re burned here. They tracked the call,” he referred to the time I broke the rule of no communication when I first found out about Sara’s disease. I was still in Russia back then. I needed to get her out of Baghdad and into Europe. Ben treated Sara as his own granddaughter, and she loved him too. But he was clear-minded enough to understand the potential implications of this call. He was now telling me that he was right.

“Do I look like I give a fuck?” I burked, my head killing me. “Couldn’t you just knock?” I didn’t get the whole point of the show initially. He gave me a look, and I knew what he'd say. I wasn't in the shape to operate in the field. It was his test, and I failed.

“You’ll get on a plane with me. You’ll go to rehab. We’ll talk once you sober up.” There was nothing else in this world that I hated more than being patronized. I wanted to hurt him, and I knew just the thing to say.

“I’m not your son, Ben. You should’ve said the same thing to him when you had the chance.” He was my age when he died in a car accident. A heavy drinker and addicted to meth.

I know which buttons to push to make people go away. I didn’t burn my bridges. I blew them up. Ben gave me the most sorrowful look and stood up. He processed the grief and his past mistakes. That’s why I still had all my teeth, and my eyes weren’t gouged out, and my tongue was still in place to spit poison. But there was no more poison to spit. I regretted what I said.

“The plane takes off in two hours," he reached into the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt and handed me the ticket. "You can choose to come or not, but you must leave this place.” I realized in that moment that no matter how many explosives I plant under that bridge, it will never crumble. This little feeling of appreciation I had was the single clear-minded thing I felt then.

He got up, his guys following. They weren’t from the Agency. No, he could never risk anyone from there knowing about me. They were mercenaries. Black Water, perhaps. I sat there for a moment, contemplating. Not the ticket that lay in front of me. But those four guys. Their occupation, to be more precise. I was tired of the espionage business and wanted a more straightforward line of work. I couldn’t keep up like this any longer. I was too young to die from an overdose. There was still a time for that.

I couldn’t go back home. It wasn’t safe for me to be in the city, especially now after Ben admitted that I’m in the crosshairs. I made my way to the local opium den. The “Cafe” as locals referred to it, was run by a local smuggler, information broker, and human trafficker.

“Salam, Abbas,” I said, entering the smoke-filled warehouse where the den was operating from. The air smelled earthy, sweet yet bitter.

“Wa Alaikum Salam,” the middle-aged man, resembling the last Shah of Iran, leaned over respectfully and navigated through the labyrinth of cots seating unconscious men, shisha-like pipes dangling from their relaxed hands. His step was light as if he floated through the spicy air.

The only conscious people inside the warehouse were seven men, floating around the beds, holding bowls filled with cold water and towels around their shoulders. They monitored the blissful crowd and were there to soothe their feverish states with wet and cool cloths. It was an all-inclusive establishment, and there was nothing more I wanted than to just lie there for a moment and forget.

“I need the current contact info for that guy from Cape Town,” I said, paying no attention to whether we had been eavesdropped on or not.

“He operates from Manila now.”

“But he’s from Cape Town.”

“Yes.”

“So I need the current contact info for that guy from Cape Town, who operates from Manila now.” I met Abbas in that holy state of mind after the smoke circulating in the air entered and soothed my brain.

“He’s in Rio now. Underground.” I didn’t mind how confusing this conversation had gotten. All I wanted was to dissolve in the air, lie in bed, and get a fix. But I knew I couldn’t.

“He’s dead?”

“No, he just hides in Rio now. But it might as well be anywhere in South America.”

“I don’t care where he is, Abbas,” I said exhaling and trying to come to my senses. “All I need is the contact for either him or some of his mercenaries operating in Africa.”

“Come to my office. I’ll…” He paused and looked deep into my eyes, but his eyes were empty, and I felt as if mine were too. “What?”

“What?” I was getting higher and higher, and I wanted to lie down.

“You’ll need the passage too?” He was right. I needed the passage out of Baghdad that wouldn't be put on any records. I nodded.

“There’s the guy in Somalia I can hook you up with,” he said, his head light but his eyes sharper all of a sudden. “Do you want to lie down for a bit?”

“No,” I said, fighting every ounce of myself, feeling extremely proud of my assertiveness.

“My ship leaves in seven hours. You should get some rest, sadiqi.”

“Okay,” I fought, and I lost. My ship leaves in seven hours, after all. And I needed to sleep. I will never come back to this place in my life. I will go, and I will forget about everything that has happened here.