He opened his eyes, back in the hospital room. He felt the dried salt on his cheeks from his tears, but could not wipe it off. This was his life. Overnight, he'd gone from Olympic Gold Medallist, fame and fortune to ... a log. He couldn't move. Couldn't do a damn thing for himself, ever again. His fame was over. His career was over. Any independent life he might have had was over. Hell, his life was over.
He caught a subtle odor in the air. Cigarette smoke, expensive.
He turned his head to the right and saw a man seated next to the bed. He was older, in his forties or well-preserved fifties. He dressed well, but not too well. The suit was expensive, but not ostentatious. Black, no pinstripes. White shirt, custom tailoring. Black silk tie. Bruno Magli wingtips. And he was smoking. In a hospital.
The man looked at Mike, nodded. "Good morning, Mike."
Mike was caught off guard. "Morning?"
The man consulted his watch, a Rolex, one of the nice ones. "Four fifteen AM, to be exact," he said. "Time to get moving."
Mike had already had enough of this man. "I'm paralyzed, Mister--"
"Simpson," the man said, digging into his breast pocket for a thin leather wallet. "Jon Simpson, Deputy Director, Defense Intelligence Agency, Strategic Support Branch." He opened the wallet so Mike could see the ID card inside. It looked official enough, but why would--
"Why am I here, you're wondering?" Simpson said. "Don't bother nodding, save your strength."
Simpson waved his hand around the room. "Where is here, Mike? Does anything strike you as off about this room?"
Mike gathered his breath. "You're smoking. There's no window, no TV. And that doctor had the worst bedside manner I've ever seen."
Simpson nodded. "Jason's a talented surgeon, but much better with people when they're under his knife.
"You're in limbo, Mike. Teetering between two lives. Specifically, a life that isn't life, and a death that isn't death."
"Do you always speak in riddles, Mister Simpson, or is there a contest going on that no one told me about?"
Simpson smiled. "Excellent. There's still some fight in you after all."
"Please leave, Mister Simpson. I don't have the energy for this."
"Mike," Simpson said as he rose from the chair, "you're going to have to learn to call me Jon if we're to work together."
"Work together?"
Simpson began to pace. He was one of those "talk with your hands" guys. "We're at war, Mike. There are bad people out there, people that want to kill us. People that hate our freedoms."
"Cut the shit, Mister Simpson," Mike said. "You don't believe that any more than I do."
Simpson turned to look at Mike, new respect in his eyes. "No, I don't. And I'm pleasantly surprised that we can dispense with the crap and get down to business."
Simpson leaned on the bed. "As I said, you're in limbo, caught between two lives. In one life, you're a lump. You're a mind in a body that doesn't work, and if you're lucky, the biggest accomplishment ahead of you is that you might, one day, wiggle a finger. You've got friends and family, for whom you can be a burden to bear. Your parents are nice people. Why do this to them? Why make your poor mother wipe the shit from your ass until she dies?"
Mike tried to sigh, but it came out a shallow wheeze. "And you have a miracle cure, right? Some kind of secret agent voodoo."
Simpson smiled. It was not pleasant. "Yes, I do. You've heard of nanotechnology?"
"I did go to college, Mister Simpson."
Simpson leaned in closer. "We've got shit that would make those geeks on the internet cream their shorts. Yes, Mike, I can reverse your paralysis. In fact, I can boost your whole motor neural system, giving you speed and reflexes that surfer boy in the movies could only dream of."
"At a price."
Simpson leaned in again, uncomfortably close. Mike could smell his aftershave. "What in this world doesn't come with a price?"
Simpson got up and walked around the room again. "The deal is simple, Mike. Take the deal, and 'Michael Carlton' dies tonight in that crash. Your parents will have a mangled body for a funeral, closed casket, of course, and then they get to start the grieving process and get on with their lives. Your friends move on, and as far as the world is concerned, you're just another young star that flashed out and died young. There will probably be a made-for-TV movie about you.
"Meanwhile you get your body back, with subtle improvements. You work for me. You tend to the interests of the United States of America, and the DIA has your back. Lots of money, see the world, all that shit. You become a hired gun, one of our secret weapons.
"The downside is you sever all ties with your previous life. Never see your parents again. Never see your fans again. To everyone you've ever known, you're dead. You walk away and never look back."
Mike's bravado failed. He loved his family. Could he do this? Could he just choose to walk away from them forever?
When he spoke, it was a whisper. "How much time do I have to think about it?"
Simpson didn't even look at his watch. "None. I need an answer right now. We've waited too long as it is to really stage your death convincingly. I need to know. Now.
"Are you in or are you out?"
Mike's head spun. This was too big. No one made decisions like this so quickly. He needed to think, to
Simpson snapped his fingers. "Mike? In or out?"
)
