Double Agent at Home Plate

Mara's thumb hovered over her iPhone, the screen glowing with an encrypted message she'd prayed would never come. *One last extraction. Tomorrow. 7th inning stretch.*

She'd left the life three years ago—no more dead drops, no more poisoned cocktails, no more being someone she wasn't. Now she sold insurance and baked cupcakes for the PTA. But some pasts don't stay buried.

Lightning cracked across the sky, and the crowd at her son's baseball game flinched. The air smelled of ozone and impending rain. Marcus stepped up to the plate, twelve years old and already developing his father's shoulders, his father's determination. The father who thought she used to be in "consulting."

*First pitch.* Marcus swung and missed. A strike.

Mara's heart hammered against her ribs. The handler wanted her to extract a defector from the owner's box above section 204—where one of the dads, a tech CEO, was apparently passing classified intel to foreign buyers. She'd have to leave Marcus's game, pretend to go to the bathroom, slip upstairs, neutralize the target, and somehow return before anyone noticed she was gone.

*Second pitch.* Ball. Marcus adjusted his grip.

She'd done this exact play a hundred times. Blend in. Strike. Exfil. The muscle memory was terrifyingly intact. But Marcus was watching. He always looked for her face after every pitch, searching for approval, for pride.

*Third pitch.* A solid hit. The ball sailed toward left field as Marcus sprinted toward first base.

Lightning struck again, closer this time. The umpire looked at the darkening sky but waved play on. Mara stood up, her iPhone clenched in her fist. She could be the woman who saved the world again. Or she could be the mother who watched her son round second base.

She powered off the phone and sat back down.

Marcus slid into home just as the sky opened up. He jumped up, muddy and grinning, searching the stands.

Mara waved. He beamed.

Some missions, she decided, are worth staying undercover for.