Dirk Steele was the best of the best. Nineteen years of training, fighting, traveling and learning had made him a lethal and sophisticated weapon. Not a crude, blunt instrument, like a bomb. Agent Steele was a sniper, a scalpel, a ninja in the dark. He was the coup you didn't expect. The dark horse, the ghost in the machine. He was death to the enemies of his masters, fear to those who grudgingly did their bidding.
When Venezuela decided to nationalize the oil industry, he was there. Dirk Steele knew Saddam would invade Kuwait before Saddam did. In Panama, in Bosnia, in Libya, and on the streets of Detroit, men knew him without knowing him. He was the last resort. When political pressure failed, when invasion wasn't possible, they called Agent Steele.
His specialty was the creation of credible resistance. He knew how to organize, fund and arm a counterrevolutionary militia like he knew how to take out the trash. He was a master of propaganda and its dissemination. He knew how to turn a population against a leader who only had the best interest of his people at heart; he could kill a man and make sure his ideas died with him. He was an operator at every level. Deadly on the battlefield, literal or political.
He was a physical specimen. Tall, tan and heavily muscled, his body the reward for a lifetime of hard work. He was a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu black belt and a
girevik
-- a lifter of Russian kettlebells. Daily yoga practice had kept him flexible. He moved as a panther does, smooth and powerful.
Today Mr. Steele was on a mission again.
He sat in the back of a small San Salvador cafe, facing the door. El Salvador had recently become the first country on Earth to adopt Bitcoin as legal tender, and the IMF wasn't happy about it. They'd tried to apply pressure through more conventional means, but El Salvador's young President Bukele remained obstinate.
Dirk Steele intended to help him see the error of his ways.
The door of the cafe opened. In walked Agent Steele's contact, Andrea Hernandez.
She was a young Latina. The tan skin, long dark hair and full figure all matched the pictures he'd seen in her dossier. The man in him couldn't help but stir a bit at the sight of her. In another context she'd be exactly his type. He buried those thoughts as she approached and sat at the table next to him.
He made eye contact with her and smiled. She caught his eyes, smiled shyly, looked away and then quickly glanced back. He leaned slightly towards her.
"
Hoy es un día muy soleado, ¿no?"
he asked.
"
Sí,
" she replied, "
Y la luz es amarilla.
"
Code phrases exchanged, they both sat for awhile and enjoyed their coffees in silence. He left first. A few minutes later she came out of the cafe and came down the street to meet him. They spent the next few hours moving aimlessly around the city -- first by bus, then they took an Uber. After Dirk was convinced they weren't being followed they made their way back to Andrea's apartment.
Her place was small enough to be called cozy. Modern, with a third floor view of West San Salvador's trendy Escalón neighborhood. The AC felt great after the hours outside in the hot afternoon sun. Andrea invited Dirk to take a seat on one of the low couches in her living room while she got them some water from the kitchen.
She sat the glasses on the coffee table in front of the couch and then sat down next to him. Finally they could talk business.
He took a sip of water and knew instantly something was wrong. She was looking at him. He met her gaze, and her dark golden brown eyes seemed to flash with triumphant internal laughter.
"Oh, you are very good," she said. "Most people don't realize they've been drugged for at least another minute."
He tried to stand, to reach for the pistol concealed in the waistband of his shorts, but his limbs felt heavy. He was suddenly tired, as if he'd been running for hours. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open.
He felt he could still speak, but he didn't. There was nothing to say. Even the best make mistakes, and he'd made his. He would die here on this couch.
