I turned around, smoothly, weapon still ready but pointed low. He was a suit. Mid twenties, about five ten, dark hair cut short, straight and expensive, the five-o’clock shadow curse of the swarthy on his face and chin. He looked like Agency to me. You know, OGA, the Other Government Agency that everyone likes to talk about in those breathless hushed tones, like they think it’s so cool, like they’re in love with its very existence, they don't even actually use the acronym. C. I. A. I realized it was his cologne I’d smelled, not the dead shooter’s, though that had helped me anyway. “Hello, suit,” I said. “What the f– …what do you want?” I’d promised God to try to curb my vulgarities after all the jams He got me out of, and I was a man that tried to keep his promises. I took a breath. “Why are you in my house, and why did you just make me kill a man?” I hung on to the tension between us, because I could feel the post-kill nausea trying to make itself known, and if I started on that I’d get the shakes and I’d want a drink and I really needed to stay away from that dark hole.
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