The First Pitch

The bullpen phone rang at 2 AM.

'Your old partner's back,' the dispatcher said. 'Friend of yours claims he has information.'

I hadn't heard from Julian in three years—not since he took the fall for our botched operation. I drove to the warehouse with the weight of a grizzly **bear** on my chest. Julian stood under a flickering streetlamp, thinner than I remembered, his face a map of hard choices.

'They're going to kill you, Miles,' he said without preamble. 'The Agency never officially retired you. You're a loose end.'

I laughed bitterly. 'So what? You're here to warn me out of the goodness of your heart?'

He handed me a manila envelope. 'I'm here because you saved my life in Prague. Consider us even.'

The envelope contained everything: surveillance photos, financial records, proof that I'd been living in a fishbowl for years. I'd been a **spy** so long I'd forgotten what it meant to be invisible.

'Why now?' I asked.

Julian's eyes dropped to his shoes. 'I'm dying, Miles. Pancreatic cancer. Figured I'd do one decent thing before I go.'

The air between us thickened with things we'd never say. Three years ago, I'd chosen my career over him. Now he was choosing me over whatever time he had left.

'Come to the game tomorrow,' I said impulsively. 'My son's pitching.'

So that's how Julian ended up sitting beside me at the **baseball** diamond, watching twelve-year-olds with oversized uniforms and dreams of the majors. My son wound up and threw, a perfect strike that caught the corner of the plate. Julian whooped like a proud uncle, but I saw him wince, his hand pressed to his side.

'You need treatment,' I said.

'Treatment costs money. Intel pays better.' He gestured toward the field. 'You've got a good life here, Miles. Don't let them take it.'

After the game, we sat in the stands as the parking lot emptied. 'I haven't been completely honest,' I admitted. 'I think someone's been following me.'

Julian's expression darkened. 'They never let go, Miles. Once a **spy**, always a spy.'

Then came the sharp crack of a branch behind us. Julian shoved me backward. 'Run!'

I scrambled toward the outfield fence, legs pumping. I hadn't gone **running** since myAgency days, but now I sprinted like my life depended on it—because it did. I vaulted the fence just as a gunshot shattered the evening silence.

I circled back hours later. Julian's car was gone, but a note rested on the bleacher: 'They'll keep coming. Get your family and disappear. You know the protocols.'

Now I sit in a motel room three states away, watching my son sleep. The television shows news of a car accident on the highway—Julian's car. They say it was a collision. I know it wasn't.

Tomorrow I'll vanish again. But tonight, I mourn a **friend** who died twice—once when I chose duty over him, and once when he chose me over himself.