“You can’t trust me because I can’t trust you!” FBI Agent Casey Mitchell shouted at a nonplussed rookie agent. The enemy, known by the name Simba for their lion emblem, had infiltrated a high-security operation, and the mole had yet to be identified. The rookie placed under her did not understand the seriousness of the situation, but rather helped spread the top secret information that somebody had decided he “needed to know.” You couldn’t assume anything in this line of work, yet the rookie was easily assured of people’s trustworthiness. “I swear with each new class of recruits they get more and more brainless,” Casey muttered. She then explained as pleasantly as she could muster:
“You have no idea who the enemy is and I have no idea if you are one of them,” to which the rookie countered with: “Then why are we still going forward with the operation?”
Casey smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand and bit her tongue, wishing she had the guts to ask her own boss the same exact question. It placed everyone on her team in danger to perform the mission under present circumstances—especially her. Casey had had past skirmishes—personal ones—with the Simba, and her involvement in this case was dangerous even without the security breach. As a teen, she’d almost been a victim of their homicide, so this mission was as much for revenge as it was to ensure citizen safety in the city. Refusing to answer such a question that she herself desired to pose, she turned to her partner, Agent Will Mitchell—her husband—pleading with her eyes for his third-party opinion. As always, Will was calm; his supply of patience was never depleted—even when it came to morons.
After a lengthy explanation of security and protocol, Casey had to respectively cut him short and steer the conversation back to their previous discussion (the actually important one). With the knowledge of the residence of the Simba’s psychotic leader, the operation revolved around his capture. The target’s name sent shivers down Casey’s spine every time she heard it, remembering the close encounter she’d had with death. Clark Thompson was an experienced assassin, and he’d been the one to sneak into her house that dreadful night ten years ago. The FBI was done sitting on the sidelines while he continued in his murderous ways. They were going to be proactive and end the Simba’s crimes before they took place. And one of the many complications was the possibility of the news getting to Clark Thompson about their planned arrival at his doorstep. So they had a backup plan for if they were met by the Simba and engaged in an arms fight, hence Casey’s team. They would be off-site close by in order to intervene if needed. Will would be on-site, but had gained clearance to Casey’s plan; she needed someone to keep her in check or else she’d probably end up plotting to capture Clark Thompson all on her own. There was little concern for a breach in her own group, but she took as many precautions as she could, maintaining their objective’s secrecy from the rest of the participating bureau. It would have served her rookie right for one of their members to be the mole; he’d learn an unforgettable lesson about keeping his trap shut. But this was an outcome that Casey did not wish to ruminate on, no matter how satisfying.
* * *
The thought of her daughter’s safety was the only reassuring one amongst the others racing through Casey’s mind. The rest were buzzing thoughts like “I’m going to die” and “This entire mission will fail” and “Clark’s going to get away.” If she had Will by her side, he’d have told her she was anxious for no reason just to make her feel better, though he wouldn’t believe it himself. He hardly ever lied, unless it was to protect her. Tonight, Casey had four agents as protection—just not Will—and she wasn’t sure if she should put her faith in her teammates due to the mole yet to be revealed. So she pleaded with God for her own safety, and that of her husband’s.
Meanwhile, Will was approaching Clark Thompson’s house at the promising sight of the pacing figure through the window, whispering the same prayer. At the back door, his partner slammed his fist on the oak, shouting “FBI! Open up!” expecting Clark to flee out the front door where the second and third teams would detain him. But he came to the back door instead and he opened it, and he—whoever he was—greeted Will and his fellow agents with a malicious grin.
“Can I help you?” the stranger asked. The tattooed Simba emblem on his neck indicated that he was one himself, but not Clark Thompson.
“Where is he?” Will demanded.
The man’s smile widened. “Where do you think?”
“Don’t play games with me! Tell me where he is!” Will threatened, fingers around the Simba’s neck, pinning him to the doorframe.
“He’s where Casey is. Isn’t that obvious? Our source informed him that she would be on stand-by, waiting to help apprehend him if needed”—the Simba licked his chapped lips in relish of the suspense—“but he’s been waiting for her all along.”
* * *
Casey received the warnings. She heard the panic rising in the voices over the radio and she ignored them all. This was her day to get justice, and nothing was going to stop her. Crouched on the forest floor, she heard, “Clark Thompson is at your position. He was there before you,” and she suddenly went numb, gazing around and wondering where he could be without realizing that she was suddenly alone. The hair on her arms rose. Her ears were pricked for the slightest sounds—then she heard it: the rustling of leaves and footsteps in the grass behind her. Casey turned sharply, catching her assailant by surprise, the bullet penetrating his heart.
Clark Thompson said three words—just three words as he looked her in the eye seconds before succumbing to death: “You win again.”