The name's Jack. You won't get a surname, I never use the same one twice.
I work for an agency with an interest in intelligence. Sensitive information, if you know what I mean.
They adopted me when I was little, and trained me to be a perfect agent. Stealth, impersonation, improvisation, athletics and martial arts. Everything you need to have a chance at survival in this line of work. I've busted billionaire drug kingpins, spent six months undercover in a cult, apprehended the boss of a human-smuggling ring while disguised as a Taiwanese prostitute (a job that required a temporary facelift and some very convincing prosthetics. The less said about it the better.)
I've narrowly escaped death more times than I'd like to count, and now at 32 years old I'm ready for an early retirement. But you can't just walk out of an organization like this. Not when you've seen and learned as much as I have. Only the most trusted agents are allowed to retire to life as a civilian.
That's why I was so surprised when I received the call:
One last mission.
They didn't give me any details, but the handlers had seen my request for resignation, and they were willing to give it to me if I took on one last job. Only an agent of my caliber can be trusted for this mission. At least that's what they told me.
"There has to be a catch." I thought. "There's always a catch."
Even that thought wouldn't prepare me for what the agency had in mind. Or how it would all spiral out of control and leave me in a real predicament.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start at the beginning, the day after I got the call.