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All was quiet in Joao Pessao.
Kingpin Raúl Fama sat comfortably in an Aeron office chair at a poker table surrounded by (who were perceived to be) his associates. On the table, crumpled or crisp, being steadily banded by a balding man with three fingers on one hand, was a mound of hundred dollar bills. As the man worked from across the table, Fama lit the cigarette (upon looking closer, it actually appeared to be a hollowed out cigar filled with cannabis) between his lips and blew two columns of smoke from his nostrils. The smoke billowed in translucent clouds out of the opened windows of the shack. He pushed a stack of poker chips from the edge of the table and said something to the faintly stout, pockmarked man beside him.
Atop a small knoll was Agent Misty Cox, who shifted in her prone position on the ground and held her breath as she rested in Fama's cannabis field—she was lying in what looked and smelled like indica, but it was all the same to her. Misty spread her legs and dug the logger toes of her boots into the moist, loamy soil. She looked into the tactical scope of her sniper rifle, unconsciously drew her mouth agape, and pressed the butt hard into her shoulder. With one hand gripping the forestock, the other beneath the trigger guard, and a crystal clear shot to Fama's forehead, Misty hooked her finger around the trigger. Just as she began to draw it back, a generic ringing noise sounded in her earbuds.
She cursed under her breath and, without releasing her hold on the forestock of the rifle, reached into the soil beside her and tapped her phone screen to answer the call. Misty dug an elbow into the soil and moved her other hand back to the trigger guard.
"Agent Cox."
"Cox, we've got a problem," Director Fury said.
"Yes. Mine involves a Kingpin… and an overwhelming amount of cannabis."
Fury's sigh crackled in her earbuds like crumpled cellophane wrapping. "We've got another problem."
"Talk fast. I've got to shit—shoot. Fury, my head feels very light. You'll vouch if the higher-ups threaten suspension for a failed drug test, right?"
"The problem is even greater than that."
"Just say yes. I'll shut up."
"Yes, Cox."
"Wonderful. What's the problem?"
A beat.
"Fury? You there? Is this conversation happening in real-time?"
"I need you to stay calm, Cox."
"You're testing my patience."
"I need verbal affirmation that you're not going to flip shit. Do you understand me? I know you."
Misty rolled her eyes and sighed. "How can I promise you that I won't flip—wait, wait." Misty watched Fama stand from his seated position on the Aeron chair and walk to the makeshift bar across the room. She followed his lengthy strides with her tactical scope, adjusting the rifle back to a seamless, by-the-books forehead shot. Fama leaned on the bar, cigar wagging on his lips, and poured himself a glass of what looked like—Misty looked closer—bourbon. "As I was saying… How can I promise that I won't flip shit if you don't tell me anything?"
"I need your word, Cox. Say it, even if it's a lie."
"I promise I'll stay calm."
"Barton's gotten himself into a—stay calm and shut your damn mouth!" Fury shouted. "He's gotten himself into a fix, Agent. He's been compromised."
Misty felt her chest tighten. Her mouth went dry and very suddenly felt finely ribbed as if she had eaten a spoonful of beach sand; it tasted faintly of saline. Her stomach, once empty and craving something salty, now churned with a white-hot burning sensation that travelled through all of her limbs. Compromised? She couldn't help but to think terrible thoughts about what that meant specifically. Was he hurt? Dying? Dead by now? She couldn't even form comprehensive thoughts, let alone words to answer Director Fury's incessant calling of her name.
Without another moment of hesitation, Misty took the shot at Fama. She didn't bother to see if she had hit him (even though she was completely confident that she did) and instead, began to take apart the sniper rifle and pack it away. Before strapping up, in her immense spitefulness, she set a fire that began to burn steadily through Fama's supply. Misty swung the weapon over her shoulder and began her trek across the field, boots treading in the small flames that built in the soil.
"I'm on my way."