The lights in the Assistant Director’s office were dimmed. In his chair, half-concealed by the shadows, was the Assistant Director himself. A burly man that had just cracked into the fourth decade of his life, he had a sullen look to his face. Despite tonight being the day they left for leave, he was not celebrating. No, it was a night of remembrance. One of mourning.
His large steel desk was devoid of everything but a set of objects. One was a small glass. On the front was a Starfleet insignia. He’d of chosen something else.. but it was the only one he had in his office, at the moment. At least it meant something to him. A colleague, and close friend, had given it to him on his birthday. She knew damn well that he loved Star Wars, and gave it to him as a joke. He’d kept it ever since.
Slowly, his hand grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels, and tipped it towards the glass. Dark amber fluid leaped from the bottle, flowing down into the glass. It quickly filled up, and he set the bottle back down. He went to press the glass to his lips. As soon as he did, there was a knock at the door.
“Hey, old man, you in there?” The voice was strong and confident, but carried a tone of excitement to it. If there was anyone on base that looked forwards to leave the most, it was their Director, Melissa Hannigan. The Director and her right-hand man, the one sitting in the chair, were very close friends. He had been her mentor for the first couple years of her tenure with the CIA.
“Yeah, yeah.. just give me a minute. I need to put away some paperwork, I’ll be out in a moment.” A lie. He put the bottle under his desk, but was interrupted when he went to get the shot glass. The door had opened, and Melissa was standing in the doorway, arms folded across her chest. “I’d say I’m surprised.. but I found a bottle of scotch under your desk awhile back. You’re not as good at hiding your habit as you’d think, Blake.”
He only sighed, reclining back into his chair. Blake could tell that she was disappointed. Not angry, just disappointed. “I suppose th-“ Interrupted again, this time by Melissa shutting the door and grabbing a chair, pulling it up to the desk. “Stop yourself right there. Blake, I know you better than you’d like to think. You’re not the type to drink for no reason, not even on the day we’re going out on leave. Which means something’s bothering you. Tell me.”
“Melissa, you really don’t need to worr-“ His words were received with a glare, to which he exhaled heavily in response. “Right. I guess the alcohol in my system made me think that idea would work.” Putting the glass away, he sat forwards. “Hope you feel like being here for a little while longer.. the story isn’t exactly short.”
“Blake, I wouldn’t be your friend if I didn’t. Out with it.”
“Alright then. It goes back awhile. Before I joined the CIA, or met you, for that matter..”
July 1st, 1992. The Heller residence. Two miles outside of Victorville, California.
The excited giggling of a young boy filled the house as the lights in the kitchen went out. Sitting on the table was the only source of illumination, a set of candles sitting atop a freshly baked strawberry birthday cake. “Happy birthday to you.”
Outside, a set of foot-steps landed on the roof.
“Happy birthday to you.”
Slowly, and carefully, the foot-steps made its way to where the kitchen should be.
“Happy birthday to you..”
A charge was set, the sequence keyed in. Footsteps retreating back. A bowstring was drawn back, and an arrow notched.
“Haaaaapppy birthday dear Coooddddyy, Happy birthday to-“ A deafening explosion replaced the last word of the iconic song. An arrow flung through the air, piercing a skull.
Acting on instinct, the man standing in the kitchen drew a .45, and let off three rounds. An arrow pierced his hand, forcing him to drop the weapon. Retreating to cover behind the fridge, he ripped the projectile out of his hand, grunting in pain. When he looked over, horror took his face.
Lying on the floor was his angel. His love, the woman he’d sworn to be with for the rest of their lives. His wife was sprawled out on the floor, an arrow shaft sticking out of her head, lodged right between her eyes.
Fear overtook his body. Then, adrenaline. Roaring, he charged recklessly from his cover, slamming into the body of a full-grown man. His family’s attacker felt a freight train ram into his midsection, sending him to the floor. An exchange took place, with blows being parried and deflected, occasionally landing with sickening cracking noises. However, as time went on, it was evident that the assassin was winning. They were even in terms of skill, but he was too fast. In the time it took the other man to swing, the killer blocked and retaliated.
Finally, it ended. The murderer flung his opponent off of him with an inhuman strength. His head cracked against the stone counter behind him. The last thing he saw before passing out, was the murderer standing up. One thing in particular stood out. A set of four numbers, boldly emblazoned upon his breast.
Then, darkness overtook his vision, and consciousness slipped away.
Now.
“That was the last I saw of Cody. My wife was buried, and a couple months later.. I moved on. Joined the CIA. Six years after that, we met.” He laced his fingers together, looking down to the desk. There was a picture frame standing up. It was three people. A much younger Blake, in hospital scrubs, standing next to a blonde-haired woman. His wife Allison. She was laying back on a hospital bed, and there was a small bundle in her arms. A baby boy. “Today’s the 20th anniversary of that day.”
“Oh.” Melissa was actually silent. She hadn’t expected this. If anything, she expected something.. well, no, she hadn’t expected anything. The very thought of Blake drinking was mind-boggling on its own. “Wait.. that number, what did you say it was?”
Blake repeated it, and then looked up at her. “Why?”
“It’s nothing. Look, let’s get you out of here, alright? Take it from me, sitting around cooped up in an office isn’t conductive to your mental health, especially when you’re trying to handle your emotions. The booze doesn’t help much, either.”
He smiled beneath the thick moustache. “Of course. After you.”
With that, the two got up, and walked out of the room. Melissa pulled out her phone, selected a number, then typed out a quick message. Upon finishing, she hit send.
‘Paxton, we need to talk. In private. It’s about Abel.’
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