the ex-spy

Julianna Baptiste began each day in the cellar. She raised her fists, swept her arm back and slaked her anger with a punch. By the time she’d worked up a sweat, she’d dealt with Alex’s fake smiles, his smirking lips and the dimple in his chin. The punch bag continued to dance on its rope, shaken by the force of her blows, then limped to a sway, the crimson cover sticky in places.

She had quit working for the government, those secret agencies that Hollywood romanticised in spy films when in reality they relied on hard graft and few rewards. What good was she? The numpty on the money laundering desk who couldn’t even spot her husband’s duplicity wasn’t going to “see” the things criminals hid.

She wanted to see things clearly again.

Nothing would come of anger, but more anger.

There was nothing else to do but corral her fear and anger into the energy of resistance; the one thing she possessed that couldn’t be broken.