A Glock 19 that had traveled with her from Prague to Damascus to Caracus. Always cleaned, always ready. The weight of the weapon felt familiar in her hands. muscle memory overriding eight years of peaceful retirement. She checked the magazine, still full, and chambered around with a practiced motion that would have shocked anyone who knew her, only as the woman who brought apple pies to church socials.
The satellite phone came to life on the third attempt. The number she dialed was burned into her memory, though she’d never expected to use it again. Control. The voice that answered was crisp, professional, ageless. “This is Nightingale,” Martha said, using a call sign that had been retired with her. “I need information.” A pause. Nightingale was decommissioned.
Nightingale was never decommissioned, just relocated. Martha looked out her kitchen window at the empty road. “I need everything you have on a motorcycle club called the Wolves operating in rural Montana. Focus on current leadership and methods. This is highly irregular. So is retirement. Martha’s voice carried an edge that could cut glass.
12 hours or I start making inquiries through other channels. The line went dead. Martha pocketed the phone and returned to check on her patients. Jake was awake, watching her with new interest. Something in her posture perhaps, or the way she’d handled the phone call with quiet authority. You’re not just some farm lady, are you? He asked.
Martha adjusted his blanket and checked his pupils for signs of concussion. I’m exactly what I appear to be, a 73-year-old woman who likes her privacy. Lady, I’ve been around dangerous people my whole life. I know what it looks like. Jake’s voice was stronger now, though still strained. What did you do before you moved out here? I was a librarian.
