69 comments/ 26354 views/ 30 favorites Flight Instructor By: LynnesHusband All rights reserved. This Work may not be copied, published, republished or posted on any other venue or media, in whole or in part, without the author's express written permission. This is my second story of any kind and my first in the Loving Wives category. A short story with no sex. Please remember to rate and comment on my writing, characterizations and plot so I can improve. ***** John frowned at the security monitors, watching the company's oh-so-brilliant techie employees shuffling through the cafeteria line just like yesterday, picking the same foods as yesterday, sitting in the same seats, chewing their cud, rehashing yesterday's topics. 'Yep, I'm a lot better off than those poor slobs. A medically retired, gasping, dodgy-hearted member of Spooks-R-Us,' he thought sourly. On the far side of the cafeteria two men engaged in huddled conversation at a table by themselves. There was no sound pickup but John lipread their conversation and any dolt could see the concern in the younger man's face. "Whoa! That's a serious thing to say. What makes you think she's cheating?" queried the older supervisor type. "Well, that's the thing. I'm not sure. I'm just suspicious and very much afraid she is. I don't really know." Whispered words from an obviously anguished younger man. "Fair enough. Why are you suspicious?" "The last few months she's seemed like her mind is someplace else most of the time. She gets annoyed at nothing, like she's wanting to find things to criticize. When we do talk she's always questioning me about my work, like she maybe thinks I'm not here at work every day. She just seems more distant and less warm. Then, suddenly, she's all over me, all lovey-dovey, like she's trying to kill me with sex. I can't exactly explain it. Things just don't feel right." The young man shrugged his shoulders and bowed his head. The older man pondered for a few seconds then, smiling, said, "Okay, I know just the right guy to take this problem to. It may take some time to get answers. In the meantime just don't do anything stupid. Don't make things worse. Don't make any accusations you may have to eat later if it turns out the lady hasn't broken her vows. Just be cool and give us a little time to have this checked out. Can you do that?" "Yeah. I've dealt with it for months now. I guess I can go another few days without blowing a gasket. Thanks, Boss. I really appreciate it. Whatever the answer is, I've just got to know. The not knowing is killing me." "Understood. I'll get back to you on this as soon as we have an answer. Keep the faith. And be sure you finish and debug that nested subroutine, the one that checks for spoofed radar returns, before you leave tonight. I don't care how late you have to stay, the overtime's authorized. I need to get it to the review group tomorrow morning." "That one's done boss and is available on the server now," assured the young programmer. The older man rose and squeezed the youngster's shoulder as he left the table. John sighed and stood. He stepped through the connecting door from the security monitor station to his office. He knew who the supervisor, a guy named Baine, would be coming to see. As the new head of security for a specialty military software contractor, he fielded any matter that might affect the security clearance of one of their programming whiz kids. And a cheating spouse was right near the top of a long list of ways the company's programming wizards or their spouses could become vulnerable to blackmail and be pressured to disclose classified information to enemies, foreign or domestic. The kid was Ben Rush. John perused his file while awaiting the inevitable arrival of Baine. Twenty-eight years old, married five years to Bethany, with twin daughters age three. With his troubles, not really a kid any more, John realized. Better than average looking woman; cute kids. He wondered how the person assembling the dossier had decided which name to put with which girl's photo. Chuckling, it occurred to him the author could have just used one picture to save space and put both names under it, they were that perfectly identical. His secretary ushered the visitor in and closed the door. Without being invited, Baine parked himself in one of the unpadded straight-backed oak library chairs in front of the desk. John knew the chairs were uncomfortable but liked them because they discouraged chatty visitors from lingering. John gazed at the man, allowing the awkward silence to drive Baine to speak. Southerners are funny that way; they can't stand dead air in a conversation and will fill the void every time. "Got a small problem that could use your wisdom and experience, John." Troweled on a little thick. "You found a pistol taped under the tank lid of a toilet in the men's room? "Or maybe a thumb drive containing our latest project code in a beer can out in the parking lot?" He enjoyed toying with civilians. Not as satisfying as taking down a Syrian covert op, but it passed the time. Baine stared a few seconds, unsure if the security chief was serious. "No, nothing that important. Young Ben Rush is afraid his wife is stepping out on him and I told him we'd have it checked out." "Did you use my name or title?" John was careful not to let slip any hint of his lip reading skills. Keeping that to himself came in handy and had saved his life a couple of times. "No, I don't think so. I just told him I knew where to get help." "I'll check it out. Go back to the boy and tell him that it's being looked into. Nothing else." John included a cold stare, hoping that would drive the instruction home. No such luck. "That's great, John. He'll be so relieved to know you're personally looking into it for him. We all have great respect for your skill and experience," Baine droned on, completely missing the point of the blunt instruction. John sighed, rose and quickly moved around the desk to Baine's side. Placing his right palm on Blabbermouth's sternum and his left hand on the top slat of the chair-back, John heaved chair and occupant back on two legs, balanced by his hands. Baine screeched and tried to sit up but could not escape with the chair tilted back and John's hand on his chest. "What the hell? Let me up!" John gave him the hard stare again and spoke quietly. "Tell the boy only that it's being looked into. Nothing more. Do not mention me, this department or this company. I will be annoyed if you deviate even slightly from my instructions. Do you understand?" "Yeah! Yeah, I got it. Jeezus H. Christ. All you had to do was say so. There's nothing wrong with my hearing. Could you please put me down now?" John gently brought the chair back upright, maintaining the stare into the other man's eyes. "One more thing, Baine, while we're talking. I've been reviewing your management practices in light of their security implications and you will make some changes in your department effective today. You've been dumping work from yourself to your subordinates, forcing them to work overtime to meet your deadlines. That stops now. Get your people out the door not later than 5:30 each afternoon, no exceptions." Baine sputtered, "You - you can't tell me how to run my department. I'll have . . ." "I just did. There's more. The weekend 'team building' trips to that fancy mountain resort are over. If you want to do a 'team building' exercise, have your people re-stripe the parking lot on a Saturday morning. Divide them up into competing teams, bring in the spouses to serve as cheerleaders and judges and have a barbeque catered. Losing team works the serving line." "Our team building weekends are crucial in . . ." "Crucial, my ass. Company trips that exclude spouses and include playing 'draw-a-room-key-out-of-the-hat' are done. So is all unnecessary travel overnight. If you have to send someone, send a single someone, not a married someone. From now on you're going to be careful to not put unnecessary strain on the marriages of your people. It's a security matter." Smirking, Baine said "I'm not Mother Teresa. Keeping their marriages healthy is their lookout, not mine." "Buck me and I'll bury you," John kept the warning simple. "My only dilemma will be deciding whether to bury you figuratively or literally," John said quietly, adding his best predatory smile. Baine stared, open-mouthed. "Did you just threaten me?" "Of course I just threatened you, nimrod. How could I have made it more clear?" Standing back, the old intelligence officer motioned Baine to the door and kept his expression serious as the man beat a hasty retreat. John's predecessor had been a useless relative of the Board chairman. The company was leaking classified information like air through a window screen and the pentagon had instructed John and the Board of Directors to plug the leaks quickly and completely. He had the resources of the DIA (Defense Intelligence Agency) and FBI behind him in the effort. The Board had given him a free hand and promised to back anything he did to clean up the mess pronto. Mid-morning of the following day John was parked in a white Corolla a block from the Rush home. The car was owned by a fifty year old man named Wally Reid. Unfortunately for Wally, he had died a half-century earlier at age 9 days in a little town in Wisconsin. That didn't keep him from being the registered owner of the Toyota John was driving. Covert ops do love their spare identities, 'legends' they call 'em. There was no paper trail to John and he'd never touched any portion of the car barehanded. The license, insurance and credit cards in John's billfold matched the car's registration. Couldn't be a member in good standing of Spooks-R-Us without a proper untraceable spookmobile. The thought brought a slight smile to his somber face. At 11:30 Bethany Rush pulled out of her driveway headed toward town, trailed by the unremarkable Toyota. She dropped the twins off at daycare. John didn't try to stay tight on the subject. With the GPS tracker stuck under her back bumper he didn't need to risk being spotted. A glance at the map on his laptop kept him current on the exact location, direction and speed of the target. John recognized the usefulness of trackers but didn't really enjoy depending on them. No tradecraft involved. Even a civilian could follow a tracker. When Mrs Rush pulled in at the Windsor Manor Apartments John found a good vantage point in the parking lot of the assisted living home across the street. He noticed she backed into her parking space. Her car tag wouldn't be readable from the street. Looking around carefully she hurried to the elevator in the breezeway, exited on the third floor and walked quickly to apartment 314 on the front of the building. When the door opened she stepped into a man's embrace and was swept inside. All bad signs. "Ah, Bethany, what've you gotten yourself into. You could at least have had the smarts to park on the back side," John muttered absentmindedly. He despised cheaters and Miss Bethany looked to be a prime specimen. Since all of the upper floor apartments faced outward onto railed walkways, it appeared the building probably had started as a motel and was later converted to efficiency apartments. The old Spook pulled out his camera and settled in for a wait as he had in more hell holes around the world than he cared to remember. At 2:10 pm John raised his camera as the apartment door slowly opened. The telephoto lens put him right there looking over Bethany's shoulder at a tall man. They seemed to be suffering from lip-lock and had trouble separating. Being groped by her lover looked pretty damning too. Click. Click. Snapping pictures was a reflex action John wasn't even aware of. Click-click-click-click. Mrs. Rush pushed away, touched her lover's cheek and hurried to the elevator, down to her car and out into traffic. Click-click-click-click. Gone. John made no move to follow. "Well, damn. I hate it when that happens. Mrs Rush, how could you do this? How could you possibly believe this is okay? Your husband loves you, your little girls love you. Your country needs the uncompromised benefit of your husband's programming genius. How in the world could you love them and be a sneaking, cheating, lying, unfaithful slut? It doesn't make any sense. Just no sense." John wondered if lover-boy knew she was married. He brought up the shot of her touching his cheek on the Canon's review screen and zoomed in until her engagement/wedding ring set was clearly visible. He knew. John redesignated lover-boy in his surveillance notes as 'Peckerwood'. He was screwing a married woman and just didn't care. From a purely security perspective John knew the standard next step was to turn the info and pictures over to the FBI with instructions to add them to their ongoing investigation of leaks at the company but he knew that would take halfway to forever and eventually result in the whole family being picked apart by the news vultures. Or he could just pull the poor cuckolded husband's security clearance which would result in Ben's instant, and permanent, unemployment in his career field. The woman surely deserved the bad fallout but the little girls and their daddy didn't. Not by a long shot. "What to do," he mused. "Do I follow procedure and leave those little girls and their dad to cope with the fallout? Or do I do what needs doing? This situation is just going to fester. It needs to be lanced, and not by paper pushers." As he stewed over the remedy to be applied, he absentmindedly placed his finger to the carotid artery in his neck and felt the wide gaps in his erratic heartbeat. 'Ventricular tachycardia' they called it. The doctors talked optimistically after each cardiac test they inflicted on him but he knew things were getting worse. "Screw it. I'm feeling proactive today. Foolhardy and proactive." He knew he didn't have unlimited time left. Consequences meant less to him now than before his medical situation had gone into the crapper. A careful sweep of the front and side of the building as well as the breezeway and parking lot with his telephoto lens revealed no security cameras. It appeared the residents valued privacy over security. "Perfect," John pronounced after also surveilling the near end of the grocery store parking lot adjacent to the apartment building. "Showtime. Let's see if we can adjust Peckerwood's attitude about bedding other men's wives." The Corolla merged with traffic and turned into the grocery lot, parking at the end closest to the apartments, near a group of other cars and pickups. The driver, wearing a fedora pulled down to cast his sunglasses and face in shadow, strolled casually across the rear parking lot to the apartment breezeway and into the elevator. Ding. John stepped out and sauntered to apartment 314. There was no response to his first knock. On his second rap-rap-rap the door was jerked open by a scowling man in his early thirties, tall and athletic. Surly and arrogant. Peckerwood himself. "I don't know you. Knock on my door again and I'll cram whatever you're sellin' down your throat old man." As he started to slam the door in John's face, the spook firmly planted his foot in the path of the swinging door preventing closure. "I'm not a salesman. I've come to save you from your sins. Actually, just one particular sin. Think of me as your guardian angel," John said, adding an engaging smile for effect. The younger man stepped back and opened the door wide, clearing the way for dealing with the old fart. He wasn't going to take any preaching from what he mistakenly assumed to be a holy roller. "I'm not interested in being 'saved' by you or anybody else. What is this sin I'm supposed to have committed?" "Adultery. You're having sex with a married woman. A woman who has a husband and two sweet little girls who love and trust her. You're doing your damnedest to wreck their family. I'm here to save you from the consequences." "Consequences? Look old man, the only 'consequence' is I get to tap a seriously fine piece of ass whenever I like. It's not my fault if her husband can't keep his woman satisfied. She's a lady in need of some serious lovin' from a real stud." "She is a self-absorbed, over-indulged, selfish narcissist who is addicted to the thrill and adventure of spreading her legs for strangers without any regard for her marriage vows or her husband's feelings. And you're forgetting about the pain this will cause her little girls if word of her betrayal gets out, and word will get out." "I don't care about her little girls. Not my lookout. Her cuck hubby can look after her little girls while I satisfy their mother. Seems fair to me." His smirk was enough to stir the Pope to violence. "Ah. I can see I misspoke. My bad. I'm not going to be your guardian angel, after all." "Damn right. What you're gonna be is 'gone' or 'dead'. Your choice old man." "Peckerwood, I'm going to be your flight instructor." "Peckerwood? You old fool, you're gonna be both dead and gone if you don't get out of here right now," Peckerwood said spraying spittle. John continued as if the enraged man hadn't spoken. "To be a good student pilot you first need brains, which are sorely and irreparably lacking in your case. And humility. Now, I can't fix stupid but you're still in luck. I can load you up with humility. Buckets of humility. "By the time we're through with your first flight lesson I guarantee you will be downright humble. It'll be a big improvement, you'll see. You'll no longer be nearly as irritating as your father and mother taught you to be. "Given what you think is acceptable behavior with a married woman I imagine your mother is either a whore or a slut. When you were a child was she selling it or just giving it away?" Wild eyed and bellowing, Peckerwood charged, intending to drive his tormentor back against or maybe over the railing. John didn't react as the bigger man expected, didn't cringe or turn to run. He grabbed a double handful of the charging fool's shirtfront and pulled him forward, accelerating the big man's charge. John collapsed backward while planting his foot in his attacker's gut, using the momentum of the charge together with his leg strength to propel Peckerwood into a screaming, flailing somersault over the third floor railing. John lay gasping for a few seconds before rolling over and levering himself to his hands and knees. With his heart hammering erratically he pulled himself up the door frame. Glancing over the railing at his handiwork he saw Peckerwood draped across a parking block like a shadow, a halo of crimson spreading from his head onto the asphalt. "Ill-mannered git. I hope he never reproduced." Glancing around, John saw nobody close by. He casually rode the elevator down, strolled back to his car and left the area. Half way back to the office he pulled over and dialed Bethany Rush's cell number using a burner phone with a small electronic voice changer rubber-banded over the microphone input. "Hello," Bethany answered the incoming call on her car's bluetooth system as she parked at the daycare center. "I know what you've been doing. Would you like for me to share that information with Ben?" The voice was deep, male, irritated. Her mind struggled for an answer as she hyperventilated. "I don't know what you're talking about. You have a wrong number." "So, you think I accidentally called the wrong slut whose husband also is coincidentally named Ben? Seriously?" "Well! You have some nerve whoever you are. I'm certainly not a slut. Goodbye." As she reached for the button his voice froze her. "If you hang up my next call will be to your husband. I'm quite sure he'll listen to my description of how you spent your afternoon in room 314." John waited; he knew she needed a moment to process what he'd said before she could speak. Flight Instructor "Who are you? What do you want?" She had begun to fear she was dealing with a blackmailer. "Think of me as your dickhead lover's flight instructor. That's all you need to know for now. Be sure to watch the local news tonight. You wouldn't want to miss your lover's 15 seconds of fame. There'll be a quiz tomorrow." Click. Bethany stared open-mouthed at the phone controls. Her heart pounded. She felt lightheaded. Her so, so satisfying life had just turned dangerous. Who was this guy? What right did he have to call her a slut and her boyfriend 'Dickhead'? What did he know? God, what did he want? Questions with no answers. A thought occurred to her and she ripped the phone out of her purse. 'Caller ID, that'll tell me who the bastard is.' But it didn't, not even a number. Blocked. "Damn!" She retrieved the twins with hardly a word to the daycare ladies and made a dash for home. She needed a stiff drink and time to think. She settled the twins in front of the TV with apple slices and crackers and slumped into a kitchen chair with a stiff screwdriver and thought frantically. 'Okay, what do I know? Hmpf. . . I know that the guy on the phone knows, or at least claims to know. Also, I know - squat. I don't know anything else. Oh! He knows my husband's name. Not much help.' 'What could he want? Money? Sex? Information? After all, Ben has a highly classified job. Crap, he could want just about anything. Why did I get into this in the first place? Oh, yeah, I remember. Sex and excitement. The thrill. I got the sex right enough. Now I've got more excitement than I bargained for.' When Ben arrived just after 6:00 the homemade mac'n'cheese was warming in the oven, the twins were playing with their baby dolls in the living room and Bethany was ensconced on the couch, drink in hand, watching the evening local news. She kept her eyes glued to the screen as she gave him a quick kiss and told him to fix himself a drink, they'd have dinner as soon as she finished the news. She wanted to see the announcement of the charity auction next weekend. Ben had just settled next to her on the sofa and put his arm around her shoulders when Bethany gasped, sitting bolt upright. Onscreen a reporter was standing in the parking lot of an apartment building. Behind her could be seen police and medical personnel, an ambulance and a body covered in a bloody sheet. "At the Windsor Manor Apartments this afternoon Karim Fannon mysteriously fell to his death from the third floor where he has lived for several months in apartment 314. Medical Examiner Nan Houser pronounced the 32 year old man dead at the scene. An autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow to determine the cause of death, but it seems clear the three-story fall was a major factor," the reporter turned and gestured at the body which had an impressive pool of blood around it's head. "Homicide detectives are investigating but it's too early to expect answers. Police did find some 'female garments', their words, in the unmarried man's apartment. The manager was overheard telling a police officer that the apartment 'smelled like a brothel' when he went to investigate the open apartment door. The investigation will continue and we will bring you further reports as developments warrant. From the Windsor Manor Apartments, this is Bess Nessman reporting." Bethany moaned through her hands as she rocked on the edge of the sofa. When the body in the pool of blood filled the screen she lurched to her feet whispering "Oh, God. Oh, God," as she ran from the room and up the stairs. Her husband put his drink on the coffee table and followed his wife upstairs, trying to puzzle out her reaction to the story. He thought she had run to their bedroom but, not so. He heard her sobs and sniffling through the closed bathroom door. "Honey, what's the matter? Did you know that man?" Bethany inhaled sharply, choked and wretched into the toilet as her stomach muscles heaved. She had to get a grip before Ben figured everything out. She realized, belatedly, how her reaction must look to her husband. She wiped her face with a damp hand towel, took a deep breath and came out, blowing her nose into a tissue. "No, I never heard of him before. It's just the damn TV station showing such graphic scenes. When they showed all that blood in 'high definition' my stomach rebelled and I nearly lost my lunch. Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you. I'm alright now. Why don't you get the girls washed up for supper and I'll put it on the table. It's mac'n'cheese night!" Ben's wife was not a great cook. Even stray cats in the neighborhood turned up their noses at her fried chicken. But the girls loved mac'n'cheese so Bethany had learned to make it just the way they liked it. The supper conversation was carried by the twins, talking around mouthfuls of their favorite food. Both parents were responsive to the children but had little to say to each other. After cleaning up and getting the girls off to bed, Bethany pleaded a headache and went to bed early, her intention of giving her husband duty sex completely forgotten in the shock of her lover's violent death. The following morning at breakfast Bethany was bubbly and playful with the twins, hoping her husband had forgotten about her behavior the previous evening. Didn't seem to be working. Ben was polite but quiet, still thinking through the implications of her hysterical reaction to Fannon's death and the other details of the news report. He just wasn't convinced by her explanation, although it was certainly plausible. Fannon's exit from this life had been bloody and violent enough to turn anyone's stomach. Of course, Ben realized, if Bethany had known the guy and had been unfaithful with him then Fannon's crash landing was a happy event. Karma, complements of a sympathetic universe, maybe. After her husband's subdued departure for work, Bethany got the children absorbed in a children's TV show and returned to the kitchen for anther cup of coffee. She needed to make sense of everything but just couldn't get a grip on her thoughts. Bethany knew she needed to carefully think through how to get it all back on track. No more mistakes. It appeared almost certain this 'Flight Instructor' guy, whoever he was, had killed Karim or at least knew about it early. Her lover certainly didn't fall accidentally. Why was Karim killed? Sex, or something else entirely? Was she next? Did this 'Flight Instructor' character know any of her other secrets? So damn many questions and no answers. 'What I need is some good, old fashioned retail therapy to calm my nerves so I can think,' she told herself. She got the girls dressed, dropped them off at daycare and made a beeline for the mall. She never noticed the white Corolla. John followed her into the mall at a discreet distance and got out ahead of her while she browsed through a lingerie shop. He had always marveled at how oblivious people were to being surveilled when the tracker was out in front instead of behind the subject. As Bethany approached the food court John took a seat in the far corner with his back to her, watching her reflection in a store display window. After plugging an unobtrusive earpiece/mic into the voice changer rubber banded to the disposable phone he dialed her number. "Hello?" Bethany sounded considerably more subdued than when last he had spoken with her. "Good morning. This is your late lover's Flight Instructor. Did you enjoy the evening news last night?" "You're a monster! How could you do such a thing?" "A simple matter of leverage. He did pretty well for his first lesson except he didn't flap his arms fast enough. Actually, given what an all around sorry excuse for a human being your lover was, it was a pretty satisfying outcome. Man, could that guy scream!" "Am I next?" She wasn't expecting an honest answer but he surprised her. "That depends entirely on you. You are an unprincipled, faithless, dishonorable bitch. You don't care about anyone else's feelings. Right and wrong means nothing to you." "So. Here's how it is. Put bluntly, your longevity depends on your ability to transcend your basic nature. If you can be a faithful, loving wife and mother and a good citizen, you can have a long life. If you continue as you've been behaving, I will end you. No exceptions, no further reprieves. Keep your knees together or meet your Maker. Is that clear enough for you?" "Crystal. I can do it." "I don't think you can. I'll make random checks on your conduct at least until your children become adults. Do your best to surprise me pleasantly. If you dishonor your marriage vows I will act without warning. We will not speak again." Click. The die was cast. She would determine her own fate. Later, John watched Bethany start up the escalator to the top floor of the mall. About half-way up she spotted the upper floor railing and her hand flew to her mouth. She shrieked, spun around and shoved shoppers out of her way as she scrambled back down the 'up' escalator to the ground floor. She backed away from the escalator shaking her head and moaning. "Damn! Maybe I actually got through to her." Chuckling and shaking his head he shuffled away. John waited 10 days and had Baine report to his office. "Tell Ben Rush his wife is not cheating on him. Nothing else. Got that?" John was deliberately brusque with Baine. "Got it. I'm sure he'll be relieved to hear it. Thanks." John noticed Baine hadn't presumed to sit uninvited this time. "That's all." Baine nodded and left. Eighteen months later the secure phone on John's desk chimed. When he picked up the handset and the synchronization whines had faded the tired voice of his DIA contact greeted him. "Morning, John. I'm afraid you were right about the Rush woman. She's at it again. She took all manner of precautions to shake off any tails but the dummy doesn't seem to know the old 'tracker in the pocketbook' trick. Havin' hot monkey sex right about now. The woman has the morals of an alley cat." "John, we can't keep her husband working on just low level stuff forever. The man has real talent we need to use. It's not his fault his wife's a mobile conscience-free zone." John knew, if he notified the FBI, there would be an interminable additional 'investigation'. They'd investigate it to death. The slut would drag her whole family, her friends and the company through the mud along with her, every sordid step of the way. Ben and the twins would suffer embarrassment, humiliation and ridicule. Neither the DIA nor the FBI would even consider any less tedious solution but John knew of an agency that would provide a prompt solution if he requested it. That agency had no name or, rather, had a new and meaningless name assigned from time to time. There were fewer than a dozen employees and their entire funding was an innocuous line item in the Federal Park Service's annual budget for restroom supplies. Appropriate, since they did nearly all of the 'wet work' the Fed needed doing. John sighed. "I understand. I'll see that the situation is resolved promptly." He pressed the hangup button and held it. She was a serial cheater; she would never stop. If she hadn't yet been reeled in by a foreign intelligence agent she soon would be. He envisioned a long line of spies lined up to take their turns with her. Between her thighs, literally, lay the gateway to all the secrets in the software section where her husband worked. Squaring his shoulders John released the phone's hangup button, waited for a dial tone and dialed a number from memory. "Go," the digitized voice on the other end answered. "Mission assignment. Authorization Sierra Alpha One One Kilo. Subject ID Foxtrot-09-2010. Terminal accident. Do not disappear the remains. Subject has two small children and spouse. Insure no collateral damage. Execute soonest. End message." CLICK. The line went dead. John placed the handset quietly back in its cradle and sighed. Yes, there would be shock, loss and mourning. Those would pass and what would remain would be the happy memories. Ben and the children would remember Bethany as a beloved wife and mother. It was better for everybody this way, even Bethany. John stared down at the blotter on his desk. He knew there would soon be another ghost in his dreams. [END] ***** Thanks for reading. Please rate and comment so I can improve my writing. You are invited to read my earlier story, On The Road To Dublin (1,2).