Special interest.

I looked it up online.

It means narrow or extreme interests in specific topics.

In her case, it's us. Her lambs. And our safety.

She's an expert in the art of making other people survive, because she studied everything. Every tool that can be used to kill someone. Every circumstance that can possibly lead to death. Every injury that can end a person's life.

It's her obsession.

That's what makes her able to watch over us like no one else could. But that's also what makes her unable to let go of her duty.

I sigh, and I put my phone down.

I need a drink.

I take Gabriel's medal in my hand. It still says the same: she's never lost a man.

I should give it back to her. But it would mean nothing to her. She left it behind because she only cares about one single issue, in the first place. Her special interest. The only meaningful thing I could give her to catch her attention is a promise that I will stay alive. But I can't make that promise, not now, with Mint going for the vaccine.

I need a drink, and even the medal can't help me this time. Because, honestly, I don't care anymore what she would say if she saw me. She's a kindergarten teacher, not an angel. She was very clear about that.

Still, I put the whiskey back on the shelf. I decide to have a beer. She wouldn't have anything against a beer, I guess. Men drink beer. Period. Or would she?

I need to stop thinking these thoughts. It's not me. It's just my conditioning speaking. The one she gave us to make us fight better. To fight other people better, not ourselves, dammit.

She has no power over me. I repeat this three times, and I take the bottle of whiskey in my hand. Then I groan, and I put it back.

Who am I kidding? She wouldn't give a shit about my drinking habit as long as I refrain from falling out of a window while being wasted. My phone rings just a second before I convince myself that one drink won't make any difference. It's Mr. Toe.

I rather have a conversation with him than with Gabriel in my head. And that really means something, knowing Mr. Toe's charming personality.

"Is there a problem, Duke?" he asks.

The old man always seems to know when something's off.

"Nothing at all," I lie to him.

"Well, I couldn't say that," he retorts. "The mercenaries got the code."

"I was informed about it."

"Informed?" he asks, sounding deceptively docile. "Informed is nice. A first-hand experience would be slightly better, though."

I know what he means.

"You weren't there, Duke," he says, still sounding very kind. "Where were you? Did you get a lead? I bet you did, but I told you a thousand times that you shouldn't go in there without proper backup. It could get dangerous."

Maybe he's getting too old to see right through me.

"Joking," he says, sounding dead cold, again. "You were off the grid, Duke. I expect a proper report on your every fucking move. Every fucking piece of information you get your hands on. Every fucking breath you take, even if it's your last one. Understood?"

Or maybe he's not.

"I'm not hearing you, Duke," he goes on. "Don't you dare to take a shit again without telling me first, understood?"

"Yes, Mr. Toe," I assure him.

"And the lead?" he asks.

I don't answer.

"Duke?" he snarls. "Where the fuck have you been?"

I look at Gabriel's medal again. I should have had at least one shot of whiskey before this conversation. It might have numbed me enough to get through it without major problems.

"My presence wouldn't have made a difference, and you know it," I snap, "because the Agency is struggling alone to hold a whole mercenary army at bay. I'll tell you where I've been if you tell me why we don't enlist more serious armed forces. We could. And we should."

Mr. Toe laughs out loud.

"I like you, darling boy," he chuckles. "You're refreshing. But don't imagine yourself to be immortal."

"I already surpassed my life expectancy at the Agency."

He probably notices that I'm serious. The old man knows everything, including my mood swings. And, unexpectedly, he gives in.

It's a first. And it feels better than the first gulp of a vintage whiskey from a freshly opened bottle.

"Alright," he sighs. "It's easy. We don't want to attract attention. Now we have one opponent, but using more extended forces could pique other nations' curiosity, too. Opposing a mercenary army is always less problematic than face other countries, going toe to toe with them."

"Is that where you got your codename from?" I ask him. I don't really care, but I need time to think before I answer because something feels off, and I can't put my finger on it. "Going toe to toe with anyone unwise enough to cross your path?"

He doesn't answer. I'm sure he won't, either. People don't disclose the origin of their codenames. It's something you just don't do. It would feel like getting naked in front of someone you don't trust.

"If a third party gets in the game," I go on, when a plan is starting to take form in my mind, "we could turn it against—we could turn them against each other."

Against Mint's army. I almost blurted it out. I'm sure Mr. Toe would appreciate the intel. He'd reconsider his opinion regarding the involvement of regular armed forces in a second, and I'd be found in a black bag at the docks the day after.

"That wouldn't work," he informs me, without giving a reason why not. "Do you have any other plan?"

Of course, I do. And I know that he has one too. I also happen to know that he wants to hear his plan from my mouth. But it's not his lucky day. The old dog has to learn new tricks today. Like to talk straight, or shut the fuck up.

"I know how it's done," I tell him. "I've seen it so many times. If you take out the leader, the whole army falls apart."

He hums. That's not what he was expecting.

"Because," I carry on, "it's not an easy thing to keep a criminal organization together."

It takes a force of nature, like Mint. I feel the urge again to add this little detail, but I keep my mouth tightly shut.

"And that's what I've been working on, Mr. Toe," I finish my speech. "I'm getting closer to the target."

I hear Mr. Toe humming again. He took the bait. He knows that I'm his best man, and I'm the only one who can solve this discretely.

"Do you know anything about their leader?" he asks after a long and tense silence. "Other than stupid rumors that he's the devil himself and eats freshly slaughtered babies for breakfast?"

"Not much, Mr. Toe. But I'm on it."

"He's quite an enigma. We have practically nothing about him. Not even a photo or a name. He's always called differently. But one thing's sure: he united the six biggest gangs and a few free militias under his command in less than a year and took over half of the world's black markets in another. And now, no one in the world dares to oppose him openly. He's effective."

"He is," I agree. "But he's no different than any usual third world mercenary king. He believes himself bulletproof, and that will be his demise."

Mr. Toe is silent for another few moments. Then, he clears his throat.

"Alright," he says. "But I want to know about everything. Your every move—"

"And about every shit I take, I know," I interrupt him.

"Are you drunk, Duke?" he asks, sounding delightfully confused.

"Not yet," I answer, and I hang up.

I breathe out. Having the upper hand over Mr. Toe for the very first time is more intoxicating than any alcohol. Yet, I feel that I deserve to celebrate.

I take a sip out of the bottle. Then another one. After that, I stop counting.

But, strangely, even alcohol can't help my frustration.

I should call a girlfriend of mine. I have five at the moment. Which one to choose for tonight?

Celia looks a bit like Gabriel. Very slightly. Like Gabriel being pretty and with DD cups. On second thought, she doesn't look like her at all. It's just those impassionate eyes, and the way she looks at me while I take her. Mildly interested at best.

But it would be so sick. I know that my reeking complexes and strange desires press me to spend the night with her. Gabriel said it, and she was right. Not only are they ridiculous, but they are also gross. Now that I've met Gabriel in person, and I know that she's nothing like I imagined her, it would be plainly wrong to carry on with those fantasies.

I will call someone else. Definitely not Celia. Anyone but her.