I was done. Finished. Out.
For the past seven years, I belonged to a division of the government that wasn’t on the books. I operated alone. There was a mission: I either failed or succeeded. If I failed, that meant I was dead.
After all the shit I’d seen, done, caused—I survived. It was a fucking miracle.
I was the best at what I did, but there were times I saw my life flash before my eyes. But when you’re the government’s covert assassin, what else was there to expect. If I was captured, I didn’t exist. If I died, I didn’t exist. If I succeeded, I was assigned my next mission.
The plane wheels screeched as I touched down in Alaska. Finally, I was where I wanted to be.
At times, I wasn’t sure I knew who I was anymore. My identity was erased from the system long ago. For the last three months, I’d been working on getting released from the program. It was a slow process with how deep I was in with Black Division.
Those suits knew I wouldn’t share anything I’d done. Hell, half the time I wanted to forget. After three months of debriefing, the government let me out. Of course, there was an underlying threat.
If we so much as suspect you’ve betrayed this country, consider yourself dead, Mr. Bradley.
Yeah, nothing else was new. I wasn’t an idiot. I knew I’d be monitored for years to come, but they wouldn’t find anything.