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The new kid speaks up again. "We'll get him. That
bastard can't party all night."

You try and fail to stifle a sigh and refocus on the
door, knowing the kid hasn't taken his eyes off the side
entrance for the last three hours. Was I ever that peppy?
you think.

Yes, the answer comes quickly. Yes, in the old days,
when joining the CIA meant impossible missions behind
enemy lines, plastic masks, and enough unbelievable
gadgets to make James Bond (heck, Secret Squirrel)
jealous. You remember when you first got an inkling that
wasn't the case out there in the "big wide world." When
your professor, a so-called field agent from the Cold War
who weighed 300 pounds if he weighed an ounce, nearly
fainted when you asked him how many people a spy has to
kill in an average mission. The old boy sputtered about
how "spy" is a derogatory word and how real agents
protect America with account books and intelligence
reports. You didn't believe him then, but you learned
later.

Giving in to the inner tormenter, you look away from
surveillance to swipe the donut, taking a good look at
your partner. He really is young, maybe ten years less
than your thirty-eight. Why the powers that be feel the
need to rush them out of college so young to spy on drug
dealers, now that would be an interesting piece of
intelligence. Could also cost me my job, your mind
returns. Who knows? Maybe this guy in the club
overcharged a senator on his crack.

"Wait, there he goes!" Suddenly, you're thirty again,
first night in the field. Enlivened by the sudden call to
duty, you spin to the binoculars once more and bore a
hole into every face passing the ritzy rose carpet of the
club. Is the dealer going to run? Maybe your back-up's

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