The Trust

By Tom Foster



            They have a file on you too, y’know.  Everything you’ve ever done, every transaction, every keystroke you’ve ever used online.  That ambiguous “they” know absolutely every facet of life you’ve ever been willing to put on the grid.  Before the advent of technology they still knew, but their methods were far more insidious and much more busy work for those they employed. Plus, as I’ve discovered, they went through a lot more individuals in an effort to compile the information they thought they needed so badly.  If you even sneeze on your keyboard it’s likely that they know.

            Conspiracy theory is of course the term echoing through your head right now, just as it did mine when I was still young enough to believe that the shadows were just darkness shed by light.  I haven’t been that naïve in a long time.  I shed my doubts a long time ago, more out of necessity than choice really.  Once you step into the world beyond the one you’re born and taught to believe in there’s no way to go back.  Well, there is one way I suppose, but I wouldn’t recommend it.

            The internet, the dark net, the social networks and untold number of media connections that affix people to their sites like flies stuck in an unseen web, these are only a few tools that are kept and utilized to keep tabs on people. There are so many methods to date that I only know those which are in a constant state of upkeep, and those that are being used to track me.  I broke from the practice of using those tools to monitor others only a relatively short time ago.  On that day I became the hunted, but what my pursuers don’t realize is that I know those systems inside and out, and I know each and every way they can come at me.

            Some of them might realize this I suppose, but hubris is a bitch. It doesn’t allow people to admit when they’re outmatched and outclassed.  I know I’m vastly outnumbered, but outclassed I shall never be. They trained me, schooled me, gave me their secrets and taught me how to store them in the system. Hell they even walked me through the system when they found out how skilled I was.  In truth I had so much freedom that I might have been content to do what they said for the rest of my life and not say a single word against them.  But greed, like hubris, is a picky, fickle bitch that doesn’t know when to keep its goddamn head down.

            Hundreds of people know that I’m well aware of their secrets. A photographic memory that tested off the charts back in training is what kept me in their employ for so long, and what is now keeping me moving forward as I figure out each new move I’ll take against them.  They screwed up when they decided that I was a liability, a risk that was best neutralized rather than trusted as I had been for so long.  It was time to clean house I guess, and I was deemed as expendable somehow.

            Was I surprised?  Hell no, not really.  Everyone’s number comes up eventually,

especially those who won’t bend over for the powers that be or kiss ass just to stay where they

are.  Never once did I kowtow to the bastards that think they have me on the run, and never will

I. My wife, the memory is still painful, always told me to never say never, but I think I can easily make that stick this time. I’d rather eat a bullet than take shit from anyone.

            I’ll admit it would have been nice if they’d just given me a pink slip like I hear is common in the private sector, rather than attempt to eliminate me all Jason Bourne-style.  Assassins are hardly ever like you see them in the movies, nor are they are all badasses that can throw down at the drop of a hat. Everyone has specialties, tricks and methods that they call their own. I’m one of the poor bastards that got bounced from one specialty to another and pressured to within every limit my body possesses.  As a result I broke many bones, suffered many muscle tears, and my body probably won’t last much past the age of fifty, if I’m able to reach that milestone.  I’m only about a decade and a half off at this point, so if my current plan works I might just be able to pull it off. 

            Hell, if this plan works all those thirty-something year old women will actually be able to gain a bit of credibility when they say they’re 29. 

            So I guess you’d like to know the plan now, right?  Well to be quite honest a big part of my plan is simple. I’m going to break into a top secret, high security location deep within the heart of a mountain region that isn’t supposed to exist and is a safely kept secret from the majority of the world.  Easy, right?  Tack onto that the fact that this location is rigged with numerous traps and failsafe devices that can cause the memory core that runs the place to either shut down or copy itself and then go dormant before eliminating the inner chambers, and the simplicity gets a bit more difficult.  There are enough sensors, cameras, and security measures within this place to keep God out, if it came to that. That’s what I’ve heard anyway.

            So they should be able to keep little ol’ me out, right?  I mean if the interior design of the stronghold wasn’t hard enough, a character wanting to gain access has to be guided in by a trained professional, who is sworn to secrecy on pain of death, and then blindfolded for the last hundred yards or so towards the hidden entrance.  To scans and thermal imaging the stronghold simply doesn’t appear.  Shielding that could withstand a full on nuclear assault keeps the place from being located by scans or cameras of any kind.  It’s the full on, movie grade bullshit that so many conspiracy theorists have wet dreams about, but it’s very real.

            Oh yeah, and to get to this place takes a chopper to even get to the start of the trip. So I won’t have a chopper, I won’t have a guide, and I won’t have any of the codes needed to get into the stronghold.  I know, I went straight up Jason Bourne to Ethan Hunt just then, huh?  Well as awesome as Cruise and Damon look doing it on film, I think both characters would find out the difficulty level of this particular challenge would push them to limits they don’t have.  Only a handful of other individuals I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting possess the same level of skill I do, and I know very well that they’re already on the non-existent trail I’ve been leaving.

            I have yet to confront any of them. My path is forward and I don’t want to waste the time

fighting when I have my goal so close at hand.  Like I said I don’t have a chopper, but that

doesn’t mean I wasn’t able to commandeer one.  I didn’t have a guide, but I didn’t need one. 

The only issue with not having the codes is that I need someone to open the door for me, and you

can well imagine that simply knocking and asking isn’t bound to get me much more than dead. 

            Even someone placed as high as I was in the ranks wasn’t given everything, if only to avoid the kind of scenario that one might see in the high-dollar films that they churn out every year.  I’ve watched a few of them and gotten a good laugh at the actors who make the plight of the working spy and servicemen seem so grandiose and yet so gritty.  Some movies get it mostly right, others are just a throwback to childhood and the belief that G.I. Joe could rid the world of cartoon evil by giving a courageous yell and pushing a button to activate whatever hi-tech, ass-kicking gadgets had just been cooked up in the lab.  Reality doesn’t work that way I’m sorry to say, otherwise my problems would already be over and I’d be sipping a Mai Tai on some tropical beach with my wife by my side and our child running and playing in the surf not too far away. 

            Ah but those dreams aren’t bound to come true anytime soon.  Did you want to know why?  Sure, why not, I’ve got a few minutes to kill until someone notices my little housewarming gift.  Let’s reminisce….

                                                *                      *                      *


            So by now you probably think I’m a crazed, conspiracy-believing, off the reservation nut job who’s looking for payback against the people who screwed me over, right? I’m no anti-hero in a fancy red skin suit looking for a maximum body count, and I’m no do-gooder in a kickass outfit looking to make the world better. No, I’m just a supposedly dead Marine sniper who’s good and pissed off at the people who employed me and is willing to do what it takes to get  them off my ass finally.  Ever since they realized I was still alive it’s been a constant sprint to a finish line I only just conceived of a few months ago.

            But that’s getting too far ahead.

            I don’t have super powers, I can’t heal within seconds, and apart from being damned skilled with nearly every weapon I’ve been handed throughout my thirty-six years, I’m your basic, run of the mill person.  I was born to a loving family, taught how to respect and honor thy mother and father, and wife of course, and blah blah blah.  My life was pretty good at one point despite the fact that my wife was getting a bit fed up with my constant deployments and wanted me to finally retire and come home. 

            While I never did come close to a kill count like the famed but tragic Chris Kyle I also wasn’t so gung-ho that I wanted to fill the shoes of a man like that.  I wanted to do my part, get in, and get out. But somewhere along the way I fell into the same trap that so many enlisted men and women find themselves. I got hooked to the job, and I wanted more.  In truth I wanted to spend more time with my family, but I also wanted that world that was just beyond my scope, I wanted to see that fleeting burst of red mist more and more.  I wanted to see the life exit the targets I was assigned.  Sick shit, huh?

            I guess it depends who you ask, but when I told my wife, yes I told her everything, she

confessed that she loved me with everything she had and no judgment.  The killing part kind of

creeped her out, which is understandable, but she believed she knew me well enough to realize

that deep down I was a good person.  Past all the bullshit and governmental programming I’m

starting to come to the realization that as misguided as her reasoning might have been, she might

have been right.  After all, my vendetta isn’t against one person in general.  I have an entire world filled with government bitches and toadies that I’m attempting to screw over.  Is that justice? Not a chance in hell.  Is it worth the effort? Depends on who you ask. Are you asking me?  Then hells to the goddamned yes.

            Anyway, back to the story. Yes I do ramble so please forgive me…or don’t, I don’t really care.

            I was coming back from one of my most recent tours, a relatively short stint in Qatar where absolutely nothing was happening, when I was called to Washington to meet with my commanding officer, a lowlife dickweed named Charles W. Mullright.  What a tool this guy was, or is, I’m not certain if I can say that he has much of a life any longer after what I did to him. But I’m getting ahead of myself like always.

            Going to Washington D.C. was no big deal at that point, I’d been operating under the auspices that I was still a Marine sniper and nothing else for around five years at that point.  At this point I knew secrets unlike any other, and some that even the good ol’ president himself likely didn’t know.  Anywho I made the trip after calling my wife to say that I would be taking a slight detour from my months-overdue pleasure ride awaiting me at home in the sack.  She wasn’t too pleased obviously, but couldn’t help but tease me with what would be waiting when I got back.  At that point it was kind of hard to even remember we had two wonderful little children who I could hear screeching with delight in the background. 

            Upon reaching D.C. I reported directly to Mullright.  Now keep in mind this guy is no general, no captain, not even a goddamned military man if all is to be revealed. No, this guy was important because of his business contacts, his dealings with the most unsavory characters that could and would help him turn a profit, and unfortunately because he was in a way my boss.  Despite his many shortcomings, hint hint, he was still an influential and irritatingly powerful person with a massive superiority complex and a knack for pissing off people who would just as soon clip his tenders and fry them for breakfast.  Believe me, gross as it sounds I’ve managed to chuckle at the mental image.

            We didn’t meet at the Pentagon, we didn’t even meet a government building. We met at a goddamned Starbucks, where I paid roughly six bucks for a cup of coffee that almost came with a bitch slap to the pimple-faced little kid behind the counter.  What kind of country do we live in where our coffee costs the same as an entrée?  Oh I love my country, at least the idea of it anyway, but Jesus please us, can’t we keep anything simple any longer?

            So Mullright and I sit down to talk, and what he says is something I’d hoped to never have to hear again.  I was being ordered back to the Trust.  It sounds like a bank doesn’t it? Like you’d expect to walk into the place and see several large signs pointing you to HOME LOANS, or CAR LOANS, with a wall off to the left or right where the tellers would wait with a smile on their lips and a “fuck off” in their eyes.  Oh let me assure you, this place is much worse.

            At least the tellers don’t always carry fully-loaded automatic pistols and a variety of pain-

inducing devices.  Walking into the Trust one can almost feel their butthole pucker in

anticipation of an electric shock, a beat down, or just a happy slappy free for all.  It’s a

goddamned fortress, and for a good reason.

            If you know what the Trust is then you immediately understand why it’s the most secretive and sensitive area you’ve ever conceived of. When I tell you that it is a place where every secret is kept I’m not exaggerating.  Every last bit of dirt, every bit of joy, and every last little keystroke have entered the system that dominates the subterranean chambers of this place. There is a city of machines that are hooked into the worlds servers, churning day and night to discover the secrets that people think are so well kept and filing them away for later use if needed.  If you’re on the grid, then in the words of Pink Floyd, “Welcome to the machine”.

            So this secret place that only a few people know exists is like a repository of largely useless and potentially dangerous information, and we were supposed to guard it like it was the crown fucking jewels or something.  I do understand the reason behind it, but not the sense. The overkill laid into the place with the traps and insane number of sensors should have easily precluded the need for a human presence, but then that’s why I’m labor and not management, my mind actually seeks to make sense of things.

            You ever notice how screwed up that seems?

            Anyway, back to the story.  I did as I was ordered, with an ear-blistering lecture from the missus on why it was important to keep commitments and why didn’t the Corps just go and select another poor sap to go and perform their babysitting duties. She didn’t know about the Trust, but as you’ll soon learn that didn’t matter to the people that put a serious monkey wrench into my life. She was collateral damage in their eyes, something else to be swept up under the rug of hush along with so many others that had been of no consequence.  At this point in my life it’s just another reason why these raging hemorrhoids need to be excised and eliminated.  Too colorful? Meh, deal with it, I do.

            So I went to the Trust, blindfolded on the trip, as usual, at least until we landed on some desolate air strip in the middle of a mountain range I recognized but didn’t bother telling anyone.  Imagine me opening my mouth and shouting “Hey, I know where I am!” and then imagine the dull report of a pistol only seconds after, and the blood and brain matter that come spurting out of my distorted skull almost freezing into a grotesque, 3D sculpture that might be featured in some Indie art gallery in New York for around a few grand.  Yeah I ramble, but you get the point.

            From that point I had a guide to take me to the entrance, and all was going fine when I walked in. To be honest everything was going fine until I heard the alarm that would unknowingly signal the end of my life as I knew it.  The routine check I’d been sent to perform had in fact been a setup that I feel stupid for never seeing.  Of course Mullright had been smart enough in his own chimp-like way to at least tell me that our shifts at the Trust would be changing in accordance to losses in personnel. In other words, some guy got offed and the rest of us were making up for the lost man hours. I still should have suspected something. I mean after all this is a part of who I am, a questioner and a doubter.

            I was about to enter a wide chamber filled from wall to wall with servers nearly as tall as

I was and twice as wide labeled NORTH AMERICA when the sound of the first klaxon slammed

into me like a damned physical force.  They keep the alarms nice and loud so there’s no confusion as to whether something is off or not, but if you stuck your ear next to one you might actually feel your brain turn to jelly.

            Once that alarm hit I knew I was screwed.  Not once during my visits to do as I was told had those alarms ever sounded.  The Trust was a well-oiled machine that did not normally break down and was only once in a blue moon forced to undergo drills to keep their people sharp.  And sharp they were and sharp they used.  Huh? Oh yeah, you don’t have the slightest clue what I’m talking about in some cases. I’ll explain.

            The Trust is guarded by some of the deadliest human beings known to this world.  You know those washouts you hear about that don’t quite make the cut in the armed forces? Something about personality problems, being borderline psycho, antisocial tendencies, that type of thing? Well, a lot of those individuals end up at the Trust, becoming guards and system analysts that are kept on so long as they don’t mind being kept under untold tons of rock, all but erased from the world in a little box all their own where they do as the world governments tell them.  It’s like a camp for whackos, kind of.

            Well those whackos are under strict orders to not discharge their firearms, pistols mostly, anywhere within the Trust. The entire structure is solid and durable, but remember those sensors I mentioned earlier that all but cover the place from head to toe?  Any one missed shot could ricochet and take out anywhere between ten and twenty high-end sensors that can cost as much as my former mortgage payment.  Oh, and since those sensors are so touchy and are in essence the triggers for several of the wonderfully dangerous traps hidden throughout the Trust, once they start getting tripped its easy to forget just where to stand and how much pressure one should put in one certain spot or another.  In other words once the sensors get tripped just bend over and kiss your ass goodbye.

            That day the guns weren’t drawn and I was forced to defend myself from not one, not two, not even three, but six different individuals who were all close to as skilled as I am and well aware of my capabilities.  Taking a guy one on one is easy enough, you can either psych him out or just kick his ass if he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Two is only marginally more difficult, as the odds of the second man running begin to increase.  With three you’re looking at the beginning of a pack, as well as clearly defined roles.  That only strengthens when you take on four and five individuals, as there will always be an alpha, a dominant personality who will direct the others and attempt show their strength.  Those types are so much fun.

            But six, now that’s a fight and a half, not to mention that in confined quarters and with nowhere to run I was kind of trapped.  The roles were assumed quickly as the alpha, a real prick named Darin Jemson, a failed Marine who had always let me know just how lucky I was, rushed at me first. Darin was a skilled combatant and pretty damned good with a knife, but he was also too straightforward with his attacks, he never hid anything or even made an attempt at subterfuge. When he fought it often looked like an ailing water buffalo trying to perform ballet. 

            I say was because he didn’t survive the initial charge. When he reached me I hadn’t freed

my knife yet, but instead of bothering to take the second or two I managed to first evade his rush

and then step forward, after snaking my right arm around his head. I could actually feel the asshole trying to bite me as I yanked back on his neck, turning it around in the crook of my elbow as I applied my left hand to the task of breaking his neck with a loud, resounding crunch.  He fell to the ground like a dead puppet after that, and so I picked up his knife.

            After that I don’t remember much except getting pummeled and stabbed a few times.  I didn’t get stabbed to death, nor was my head crushed in. That would have been a fairly painless, not to mention easy.  The sadistic assholes that were so often employed by the those who ran the Trust didn’t want me to just die. They wanted me to suffer.

            I took down a few of them, but the others got me. A mob will always win, even if it’s a small one.  I felt the few stabs that got through my guard and I felt when my left knee was dislocated.  Throughout my time with the Marines and afterward I had gotten used to pain, but nothing like this had ever entered my experience.  I felt the hurt acutely and wasn’t able to cope after a time. My body just shut down and the last sensation out the door turned the lights out before leaving me in the dark. 

            What I recall after that was waking up to cold, freezing winds and snow that all but obliterated any sign of my presence upon the mountain where the Trust is located.  I’d been left for dead, and there are still times when I can’t really come to grips with whether or I survived or if I’m dead and I’m in hell.  If not for the coup de grace that was delivered to me before the lights went out I might have gone with the latter.

            When I was beaten and couldn’t go any further, but before I was placed on the defunct list, they showed me footage, live footage they claimed, of my family being slaughtered.  One man held my almost unconscious body up while another held a laptop where I could see it, with the volume raised to the max and the resolution absolutely perfect.  I watched as several men took turns with my wife, and beat my children to death only moments before tearing my wife apart.

            I watched, and I raged, but my body wouldn’t allow anything other than a shudder that ran from fingers to toes. After a solid knock to the skull it wouldn’t even do that. 

            So I woke up cold and wet, shivering and shuddering and certain that I would be dead within a few minutes. I’d been stripped down to a t-shirt and pants, sans my boots and socks.  Hypothermia should have set in long before I was able to find a way to stay warm, which on the side of a goddamn mountain without any gear is virtually impossible.

            But as I’ve already pointed out, I was trained in ways that make guys like Rambo, Ethan Hunt, and Jason Bourne look like soft little pussies. There are ways to stay warm in the snow, but often they involve multiple layers, supplies for a fire, and of course food of some sort.  Those are the easiest ways to survive, but without any of that I fell back upon one of the skills that any wise mountaineering individual would do in the cold of winter. I made myself a snow cave.

            It was rough going considering the fact that I had to use my hands, had no pine boughs to

use to line the floor, and especially didn’t have any other way but to huddle my ass in the middle

of the finished cave and hope like hell that just piling the snow behind me in front of the opening

would be enough to keep the heat in.  My hands were aching as I laid there, hoping like hell that

if I went to sleep that I would wake up eventually. 

            Well, obviously I woke up, but how I woke up is a different story.  I thought I’d been abandoned far, far away from the Trust, but either something got screwed up in the directions or the guys that dumped me were just being lazy and counting on the environment to kill me.  Whatever the case, I call it providence.

            The Trust is located underground, as I said, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any other bipedal forms walking around.  I was found by a guide and almost killed by the agent he was escorting.  By that time I was almost gone, my hands were crooked into claws and my body was cramping so hard it hurt to unfold myself. But at least that part was taken care of for me.

            The agent knew very well who I was, we’d trained in the Trust together more often than not, but never grown friendly.  It makes me wonder why he thought I was such an easy mark to dispatch.  Crooked fingers or not I managed to headbutt him in the forehead and then grab for his weapon. Granted I didn’t get it, but I managed to latch onto his throat with my teeth and rip his goddamned carotid open.  The warmth of his blood actually invigorated me for just a moment, long enough to allow me to lash out with my left foot and block the gunfire that might have gutted me if left unchecked.  Unfortunately for the guide the angle I kicked the gun in stitched him from groin to heart, killing him instantly.

            It took me a little while to really understand what had just happened, but given that my shelter had been handily destroyed and I was in danger of freezing to death in a few minutes I made the best of my situation. With as much pain as I’d already been through you would think that I wouldn’t even have blinked at stripping both men and using their clothing to my best advantage. One thing you can say about the Trust and those who work with them, they have top of the line gear, and in almost no time my body heat was working just fine and aside from the cramps in my knees and thighs I was feeling almost human again.

            As far as weaponry it’s always advised on trips into the mountains to pack light. One primary, one secondary, and plenty of ammo. Some people don’t adhere to this and get bogged down or run the risk of having their weapons jam if left out in the cold for too long.  The scouts never went armed, and this time was no exception, but the agent, I won’t bother with his name, was armed to the teeth.  I followed the old rule and only took a primary and a secondary, as well as an M21 grenade I found clipped to the dead asshole’s belt.  Grenades are never a good idea in the mountains as far as I’m concerned, but I knew that I could put it to good use eventually.  The only thing I didn’t find in either of their packs were rations, which was damned peculiar, and a crying shame.

            It was hard to judge how from the Trust I was at that point, but obviously I wasn’t too far away as here I am after what feels like only a half hour or more.  I’m still nice and warm, like I said the gear is top notch, and I’m not too far outside of the perimeter, but just far enough so that the sensors I know are hidden in the snow that covers the hillside won’t detect me.  I know the ins and outs of this bitch and trust me, I’ll find a weak spot.

                                                *                      *                      *


            Night falls quickly in the mountains, and so far no one’s bothered to wander out or even raise an eyebrow, metaphorically speaking, about the missing agent.  I know better than to think they’ve just written the guy off, after all this place runs like clockwork, and he’ll be required to check in after so long.  What I’m wondering at the moment is whether or not they suspect that I’m out here.  It might be paranoia, but keep in mind that’s been the stock and trade of this place for a long, long time.   

            After a while even the warm clothing is no longer helping. I’m slowly freezing without any reprieve and I know if they decide to wait me out I’ll need to find another option.  At this point I’m wracking my brain trying to think of any way that could possibly….wait.

            Wait just a second. I know how I can get in. 

            The Trust is a closed system insofar as it doesn’t allow it secrets out unless one is authorized and the transfer is of an electronic nature. But in regards to its onsite personnel it has to deliver goods every so often. Even those kept in isolation such as this need to eat.  There’s a shaft underground that lets out somewhere back near the village where the initial trip is begun. That means hiking all that damned way back without food, without rest, and…..dammit.  It was a good thought while it lasted but not all that feasible considering that my stomach is already beginning to cramp up.  I can go without food for at least a few days, but that’s generally when I’m in good health and haven’t had the shit kicked out of me and been left to die in the cold.  In this condition I might go a day, tops, before I’m unable to function at all.

            There’s another idea I might have, but it’s one I kind of tried to avoid up until now.  I’m going to have to try and knock out a sensor and see if they come running.  Well, honestly I AM going knock out a sensor, but whether or not they come running is still up in the air. There’s so many sensors up and down these mountains that it’s a little surprising they haven’t come out to get me yet.  But maybe if one of them nearer the Trust goes down, they might take notice.

            It’s not hard to find really, they don’t hide them all that well since there’s no need.  The one I pick is ballsy even for me to take out, considering that it’s right over the front entrance. At this point and time the only lights on near the front door are those that are used to identify the entrance from the rest of the mountain.  I still have to wonder why no one’s coming out to even look for a sign of the missing agent. Did he call in his find before he woke me? Or was he convinced he could take me on his own and not even bother?  I get the feeling it’s the latter.

            Smashing the sensor is easy enough, it’s designed to handle the weather, not blunt force trauma, and it smashes apart on the third hit.  Now all I can do is stare into the night and see if it works.

                                                            *                      *                      *


            Believe it or not, they sent a tech.  No guard, no armed escort, just a lowly tech that

couldn’t hit a target if it was two feet from the barrel of their gun.  It’s not an attitude, trust me, I

tried to train a few of them and found it easier to explain the dynamics of target shooting. If I

was paranoid I would think they were all badasses in disguise and might rip me a new one if I

underestimated them. But sneaking up on this guy is so simple you’d think he had cotton stuffed

in his ears and blinders the size of textbooks over his peripherals.

            In the movies it might be feasible, mostly for effect, to say something or get the guy’s attention before snuffing him.  In real life it’s something a dipshit does. Breaking out one of the knives I pilfered from my other recent kills I stab the guy repeatedly in the back of the neck, reaching my desired goal after the first two stabs. The third through tenth stabs were just out of sheer frustration that it had taken me so long to think of this plan.  As the tech goes slack in my arms I cast him to the side. Even if someone else does come along the wind is already blowing and the blood pooling by his body is so little that any driving snow might not allow much of a visual. Plus, it’s night out, and, well….shit. 

            So I’m not always in high gear, okay? I cover him in enough snow to make his body look like a part of the landscape and then head in, having swiped his keycard and his walkie-talkie just in case control decides to ignore the rules about radio silence.  I’m telling you, the Trust doesn’t screw around with these types of things, especially when it comes to using four words where one will do.  Right now I’ve got two words in mind for them that I don’t think they’ll appreciate.

            I’m back.

            Wait, that’s like three words originally. But at this point who’s counting?

            Getting in with a keycard is a thing of ease, and being dressed for cold weather makes it even easier as I manage to get to the first guard, first of many, without a hitch. It’s when he looks at the ID in my hand and my face and form that he decides to get all uppity about my appearance.  The asshole doesn’t even have a chance to raise the alarm before I’m on him, burying my already bloodied knife in his armpit, puncturing a lung before wrenching his head to one side and then the other with my left.  He’s done and gone before he hits the floor, and I’m on to the next checkpoint, well aware of the hell I’m already raising. That’s okay, I know how to bypass the Trust and all its security.  After all, I used to run this bitch for all intents and purposes, so as far as secrets go, there’re none that I can’t get around.

            Only one thought runs through my mind as I make my way deeper into the trove of secrets I once protected, and it’s one that makes me smile.

            I’m back bitches.

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