Starbucks, Friedrichstraße 210, Berlin, German
"Tall iced decaf non-fat caramel macchiato, please," Sharon ordered.
"Name?" the barista didn't look up.
"Sharon."
"Sharon! You're here late!" The barista, a pink-haired and oft-tattooed woman named Erna, looked up and smiled the bright beaming smile of someone lucky enough to have slept in the past 24 hours.
"Busy day at work."
"You do look a little tired."
"Thanks a lot!" Sharon mustered a grin to take the sting out of her sarcasm.
"I'm sorry," Erna laughed, taking Sharon's Starbucks card and swiping it. "You have a good night!"
"You, too."
She wandered down to the counter to wait for her drink and browsed idly through the kitschy mugs with BERLIN written in big letters on the side. Located near Checkpoint Charlie, this particular Starbucks attracted a lot of American tourists. It was also conveniently located about halfway between the task for HQ and her little flat in Kreuzberg. She dropped in every morning and most nights.
That was important. She was so tired she was seeing trails and her field craft was suck right now. Sticking to routines was important.
Her drink came and she sucked it down with unseemly haste while she walked through the nearly deserted streets. The sugar hit would get her the last half kilometer to her place and then not keep her awake.
It had taken three hours to get everything as settled as she could – the power was back up, her team had instructions, and Ross was too busy covering his ass for the cameras to interfere. When she'd stumbled over the same chair for the fourth time, Zaiatz had pulled her to one side and given her a stern lecture and sent her home. She was grateful – only two of the stumbles had been intentional.
Probably no one was following her. All eyes were looking for Barnes. Or Steve and Wilson. But if someone did follow her, they'd see her go into her usual Starbucks, buy her usual drink, and walk home her usual way. Sticking to routines was important.
Had she already said that?
Her plodding footfalls sounded loud on the stairs and she dropped her keys with a loud clatter before getting into her door. She did a quick spin through, checking in corners and behind doors to make sure she was alone, before she shut and deadbolted the door. She shed her clothes behind her – vest, shirt, bra, shoes, jeans, panties – in a line leading straight to the shower. She rested her gun on the sink and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water pound her neck and shoulders.
Thinking felt like swimming through peanut butter. She missed peanut butter. Germans thought it was weird and the local grocers didn't carry it. Next time she was in the U.S., she should pick some up. Could she order it online? Probably. She'd order a case tomorrow once she was done …
You're babbling, Sharon, she thought. Time to go to bed. Shaking her head sharply, Sharon turned off the water and climbed out. She barely toweled off, but remembered to plug in her phone to recharge and set the alarm for 5:45 am, local time.
She also remembered to fish around in the pocket of her pants and pull out the tiny slip of paper she'd found under the fourth mug from the right at the display at Starbucks. Good field craft dictated that she memorize the information and destroy the paper right now. But she could barely focus her eyes to read Wilson's cramped letters. Instead, she slipped the paper under her phone and fell, still damp and naked, into her bed.