Sweat, Part 2

SWEAT
A Redemption Story
Part 2

 

    “It’s a good one this time,” Mr. Morris panted when he sat down at the conference table in Aida’s apartment. He tossed his overcoat over the back of the chair, sprinkling the carpet with droplets that shone like crystalline shards of amber, reflecting the streetlights five stories below. “We’re flying you off to Spain tonight. That’s a new one for you, right?”

    Aida nodded and sat across from him. It always seemed weird that Mr. Morris sat in the cushioned office chair behind the desk. This left her to sit on either of the two hard-backed chairs facing the floor-to-ceiling windows, like she was a student and he the principal in the school that was her home. She crossed her legs carefully. Even though her pantsuit was super itchy, she would try to do Mrs. Strickland right and look the part of a professional agent.

    “Basic gala event,” Mr. Morris continued, opening his briefcase and passing over a manila envelope with a slim stack of materials inside. As Aida flipped it open and pulled out a passport, a gilded invitation, and a building schematic, he continued, “An opening for a new museum exhibit. It’s a particularly insensitive one about the Spanish monarchy, so the Basque people there are a little upset. Your job is security - infiltration and surveillance, hopefully. Our client heard that there might be some separatists planning on busting up the party, as they say. Do you speak Spanish, Ms. Rosenbaum?”

    “Not well, but that shouldn’t be a problem,” Aida replied, now reading her cover sheet. “You have me as a delegate from Liberia. I’ll need to speak English.”

    “Oh, right right right,” Mr. Morris said, wiping his handkerchief along his receding hairline. “Well, you may want to brush up on your Basque history, but other than that it’s pretty straightforward. 48 hour turnaround, I think. Your plane will be ready in an hour. It’s a long flight, so pack what you need.”

    He stood up. Aida hurriedly flipped the folder closed and rose to complete the obligatory handshake that signaled the end of the meeting.

    “Good mission!” Mr. Morris grinned.

    Eighteen windswept hours later found Aida assembling the last of her ensemble for the evening: A particularly gorgeous gown of cobalt silk, matching blue stilettos, and her favorite semiautomatic pistol tucked inside an eggshell-white clutch. She put her hair in a complicated up-do, adjusted her special clip-on diamond earrings, and finished everything off with a faux-fur coat. Aida demanded the agency to only supply her with the finest and animal-friendliest of materials for her missions, and they had certainly held up their end for this. She would enjoy the short strolls from the towncar to the museum and back, even if the evening was far from cold. She could handle a little sweat.

    Of course, once she checked her coat and declined to leave her purse, Aida’s fun appeared to be over. All the muckety-mucks at the gala were inclined to admiring the museum pieces and chatting through their noses in rapid Spanish, dripping with class. The old gold and gemstone pieces were remarkable, as was the museum building modeled after a medieval castle, but also only worth about two seconds of her attention.

    She knew she wasn’t doing any justice for her cover by sipping sparkling cider from a champagne glass by the bar, slumped over slightly, head in her hands and a blank expression on her face, but there were no separatists in sight, and she was getting tired of white-haired old men commenting on how tall she was, how long her legs were, how finely toned her muscles and features. She had known the stilettos would make her stand out, but she wanted to treat herself. Now she’d give anything to go back in time and kick past-Aida in the shins.

    “You look as bored as I feel.”

    Startled, Aida’s instinct drove her hand to the patient pistol - but a second instinct kept her from dumping the magazine into the man’s stomach. She did her usual visual scan of this new element, and then did a double take. This was not a white-haired Spanish politician; this was a young man with a golden-brown mane, a shade of stubble on his chin, and rough dimples wrapped in military formal. He even had a few medals pinned to his chest. No firearm, though. Not a threat. Just ruggedly handsome.

    Quickly rifling through the memorized file in her head, Aida sat up straight and gave him what she knew was a shy, winning grin. Her accent well in place, she said, “Well, I really have no personal interest in Spanish history, but I rather hope I’m not disrespecting your hospitality, Captain. Your people have put on quite a show.”

    He rolled cottony gray eyes. “You mean they are showing off. Don’t be afraid to speak your mind, querida. I am not blind to my government’s ploys.”

    “Good, because except to those old men who lived through it, all this history is a snore. As they say.”

    Aida rather enjoyed the genuine quality of his laugh. He smiled at her and extended his hand. “Captain Armando Aguilar, of the Spanish Navy.”

    Armando’s hand was rougher and yet far more pleasant in hers than Mr. Morris’ could ever be. “Ariana Adams, delegation from Liberia.”

    His thick, masculine eyebrows arched and curled with his amusement. “Ah, I see. I am avid to make your acquaintance, Miss Adams.”

    A quick smile slipped from her painted lips. “As am I, my alliterating ally.”

    Their charmed laughter rose together and echoed into the corners of the arched ceiling above them. Aida didn’t get to chastise herself for the temporary lull in her surveillance in which Armando surprised her. Her interest in the evening’s activities restored, she didn’t even notice the other naval officer across the room who took a surreptitious glance around the ballroom before slipping behind the velvet rope, pulling a revolver from his belt as he went.

TO BE CONTINUED! 

Break, Part 2

BREAK
A Spitfire Story
Part 2

           Two worn sneakers pounded the sidewalk. The palm trees craned their necks into the pale sky, their shaggy-haired heads washed out in the powerful sunlight. The heat and the glare had no impact on Maggie’s stride as she blazed a path to the park where she planned her escape.

           On a corner, she jogged in place and watched the cars sliding through the intersection like dark snakes, their tinted windows sealed tight against the outside world. She prayed that her park would be empty despite the good weather, which often tempted those hermits who poked out their heads when the air turned any shade lower than 85. The stoplight changed with a faint click. Maggie’s soles bounced off the corner as she made the familiar turn.

           Finding her prayers answered, she smiled her relief. The circular park wasn’t remarkable and didn’t buzz with activity on even the best of days, and that was how Maggie liked it. Twelve palms stood sentinel around the circle of concrete, forming an enormous sun dial with an empty fountain rising from the center point. The pool was not adorned with baroque curls and frills, nor did it boast a statue of some long-forgotten soldier in the neverending war of good versus other. Instead, it featured a single column of white marble. It was simple. Clean. It was there for its own purpose and for no other reason.

           Maggie slowed to a walk. She put her things inside the fireproof pouch and dropped it on the bench beside the entrance before moving toward the three o’clock tree. She positioned her toes, relaxed her shoulders, and closed her eyes. One slow breath, then another.

           And then she moved.

           Her right foot slid out, her hands rose and fell. She pivoted on the balls of her feet, the bubbling wells, and turned, envisioning the ball of energy between her palms. She moved her weight between her feet, bent her knees, and extended her palms, pushing and pulling at empty air. Her steady, easy breathing matched each movement and she focused every thought on this ancient and carefully structured sequence.

           As she moved through each step, Master Xifeng’s words echoed through her mind. Move like water, fluid, ever-changing. Transfer your weight between your feet. Balance. The short, black-haired tai chi teacher from Maggie’s after school program was the most inspirational woman she knew, but - whether coincidentally or otherwise - she was also the most unyielding teacher she’d ever had.

           Maggie’s early years in the program had been marred by detentions, remedial programs, and stacks of homework problems. By the time she was in fifth grade, she and all her teachers knew she was doomed to mediocrity and failure. But the moment Xifeng laid eyes on the fiery little Latina, when she was squirming in the back row of the gym where they had their first introductory tai chi class, she saw something special that no other teacher had. “Please stand up straight,” Xifeng said, passing Maggie by on the way to the front of the room.

           At that time, Maggie was already an inch from passing the tai chi master in height. “No thank you,” Maggie had said sardonically, and then popped her gum.

           In a moment as lightning quick as a hummingbird’s wings, Xifeng had the ten-year-old leaning over a garbage can with her arm twisted behind her back. “No gum in my class.”

           Maggie struggled and grunted, trying to break her grip. It was useless, and, as she would later learn, nearly impossible. She reluctantly let the gum fall into the rancid depths of the canister.

           Xifeng released her.

           She and the head teacher resumed their stroll to the front rows of students as if nothing unusual had happened. As Maggie returned to her spot, rubbing her now aching shoulder, she overheard Xifeng telling Mr. Macintosh, “I like her. She’s got fire in her belly. She’ll be a great student if she can sit still long enough for me to teach her.”

           That was all it took to get Maggie hooked on martial arts. She took all of Master Xifeng’s classes in the after school program, and when she turned fourteen she started working a paper route to pay for advanced lessons. The intensely visceral art of practicing physical perfection allowed her to center herself emotionally and intellectually. As long as Maggie was able to work out her energy on the mat, she found she was able to focus on school and life issues with clarity and relative grace.

           Taken too far away from herself while reminiscing, Maggie froze mid-step, realizing she had forgotten a stage in the sequence. She groaned and rolled her eyes. The perfectionism she had to work through with everything else in life extended into this arena as well, and, realizing she would have to start over, she decided to vent her frustration and make a clean break: She swung one foot around and threw a series of punches in the air, erasing the tai chi sequence with some basic kickboxing.

From each strike burst a plume of fire, burning up the dry air with flames from no source. Maggie practiced tai chi in another attempt to control her pyrokinesis, but sometimes a girl just has to let loose with a little firepower. That was why she had hoped to find the park empty - so that she could practice with fire if she needed to.

A gasp from behind her told her that she was not as alone as she’d thought.

Turning, Maggie saw a young boy standing near the entrance of the park, staring at her with an expression that clearly said, “I just saw you make fire with your fists.” They locked eyes for a moment, and as Maggie realized what would follow, she silently tensed her muscles in preparation.

            He took off with all the speed of a frightened fawn. She followed with the well-trained stride of a wolf.

Sweat, Part 1

SWEAT
A Redemption Story
Part 1

Aida’s life was, if anything, comfortable.

She enjoyed more freedom than anyone she knew - although to be honest, she didn’t know that many people. Mrs. Strickland, her handler, worked most of the day taking care of her and so many other people in the company. But she didn’t have much of an outside life, and Aida was pretty sure (or at least she hoped) she didn’t have children. Mrs. “Strict-land” enjoyed her nickname way too much.

Dr. Valiant was reasonably happy, too, but Aida thought there was something wrong with her. Something that made her worry so much. Something that adorned her hazel eyes with a crown of crow’s feet and shot the green-and-gold irises through with pain. Aida liked her visits with Dr. Valiant. She was the most compassionate of her “family,” and Aida loved to hear her talk about her kids. Danny and Rachel, ages 2 and 4, a young boy and his older sister. Aida sometimes wondered if the something that worried Dr. Valiant was her children, but as much as she prodded she could never get any substantial information from her. Aida was happy with their friendship, which she sometimes imagined was more like having a close cousin than a longtime doctor, but she wished they were closer.

Mr. Morris was likable. Whenever he presented Aida with missions briefings, he was overly enthusiastic, to the point that his round, bald head would shine with the sweat of excitement. He would wipe it with the same kerchief he kept in his pocket and say, “Aida, do we have a rad assignment for you!” But he was always quick to get to work and quick to leave with a brief, strong shake of the hand. He was all business, and then he was all gone.

In fact, the business was the only part of her life that Aida wasn’t overly fond of. There could be fun parts, sure. Flying to new locations and kicking bad guy butt was always a thrill. But she supposed everyone had to work for their share of life - and that was just how she did hers. She just wished she didn’t have such short notice for life interruptions.

That was why she wasn’t surprised when Mrs. Strickland called her loft late Saturday night in the middle of a Friends marathon to warn her of an incoming mission.

“But I can’t leave now! How am I supposed to work not knowing what happens with Ross and Rachel?” Aida whined into the phone.

“They get together, they break up, they get together again, blah blah blah,” Mrs. Strickland snipped. “There are more important things than television, Ms. Rosenbaum.”

Aida whimpered. “But . . . but . . . Please, Mrs. Strickland?” She pounded the hand still holding the remote down into the lush, golden folds of her down comforter. Her widescreen television, which filled the wall opposite the queen sized bed, flickered with a billion silent colors; she had put it on mute when the phone rang.

She heard a prolonged, aggravated sigh on the other end of the line. She bit her lip hopefully. “All right,” Mrs. Strickland answered. “I’ll get someone to record it for you. You’ll be able to watch it all when you get back from your mission.”

A huge, self-satisfied grin spread across Aida’s face. She leapt to her feet and did a little jig on the bed. “Thanks, Mrs. Strickland! I owe you one!”

“You owe me more than that, young lady,” she replied, but Aida could hear a small grin and eye roll through the growl. “Now stop jumping around and smarten yourself up. Mr. Morris is on his way now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Aida replied. She dropped the remote, stepped down onto the blue and white fur rug, and looked over her shoulder at the little black ball of plastic in the corner where the camera was mounted, not even bothering to hide itself in the vaulted ceiling.

“Oh, and keep it modest this time,” Mrs. Strickland added as Aida crossed the spacious studio apartment. “We are professional businesswoman, Ms. Rosenbaum, not washed up pageant girls begging for work.”

Aida rolled her eyes and ran her free hand along the rows of clothes hung in the walk-in closet, feeling the swish and shimmer of materials under her fingers. “Right. So more The Proposal Sandra Bullock and less Miss Congeniality?” There was a short silence on the line. Aida guessed Mrs. Strickland was deciding whether to look up those references or just go with it.

“Yes,” she said curtly. She hung up abruptly.

Aida laughed. “Too easy,” she said. She shook her head, put the cordless phone down on the enormous shoe rack in the back of the closet, and turned back to the racks of clothes in all colors, textures, and styles. She put her hands on her hips, looked around carefully, and then sprung into action like a pageant girl with a great job earned by raw talent and well-honed skill. 

Time to work for her money. 

 TO BE CONTINUED!