Jeffrey, TWO
"Jeffrey" was a tag Sheldon picked up and stayed with all through CIA special training. Special training, weapons training, operation conditioning, etcetera, etcetera and so on. All that time he wasn't training, they had him behind a desk in an open office floor as a level one secretary. Five months of it. Learning the lingo, and perfecting his game.
His first official assignment as a CIA field agent--a year and six months after desk-squatting, and wearing sunglasses inside--landed him "temporary suspension of duty", unquote.
The idea had been: two agents go in, neutral, no questions asked. The bar was quiet, a heavy drug dive, curious. Don't draw attention, don't make a move. Look, listen, and get out. A warm-up for a rookie, like Jeffrey was then.
It turned out: a tip had been given on the inside, things shifted quick, guns flared, and Jeffery's temporary partner got himself shot in the back of the head. Just like that. Ten minutes and your world's flat on its ass. Tits up. Like fire works. And a jet of blood--honestly, black as oil--rising feet in the air, suspended for that perfect second. Then death. Golden moments.
He never said he was shocked, or horrified, or anything about the tragedy. He never did mourn. Because he never liked the guy. Thought he talked too much--was too cocksure, loud--but would count himself lucky if he went out in the way he had (hail of bullets. dramatic bar scene. jets of blood. pull your position and go epic, grand scale.), and spent his suspension on a beach.
Another agent had told him, week after The Day, the agency would have thrown him into a pit in Mexico, if they hadn't been so fucking busy keeping the debacle silent.
Irony tasted like acid, ash, and acetone cordite.
ends in sands