Palm Reading in Paradise

I traced the lifeline on the tourist's hand, feeling the absurdity of it. A former intelligence officer turned palm reader in Key West—the universe had a twisted sense of humor. The woman's orange manicure gleamed in the sunset light as she awaited her fortune.

"You'll live a long life," I lied, watching her husband watch me from across the tiki bar. He'd been following me for three days—amateur surveillance work, but persistent. My spy instincts, dormant since I'd fled the Agency, stirred like old pain.

"Really?" She brightened. "And what about love?"

I started to give her the standard line about new horizons when lightning cracked the sky purple. The storm had been forecasted, but the sudden illumination revealed something that made my blood run cold.

Under the momentary flash, I saw the husband's wrist—a distinctive scar, shaped like a lightning bolt. I'd seen that mark before. In a Damascus safe house, thirteen years ago. He wasn't a suspicious spouse tracking his wife's palm reader.

He wasCleanup.

I kept my voice steady. "Love comes when you least expect it."

The first drops of rain began to fall. I handed the woman her change with a smile that didn't reach my eyes. Her husband was already moving through the crowd, his hand disappearing into his jacket.

I'd known this day might come. Hadn't I? You can't just walk away from the life, not really. The Agency finds you eventually, in tourist towns or back alleys, under palm trees or prison fluorescents.

I slipped out the back door, the knife already in my sleeve. Some fortunes you have to carve yourself.