Boston

I prepared for my hour long run by stretching my calves out on the patio. Since our house was at the top of one of the steeper hills on little Nahant, I could see most of the town, plus a breathtaking three hundred and sixty degree view of the ocean from our back porch.

Nahant felt like an island, although technically speaking it was a natural tomblo. The land mass was just slightly more than one square mile and almost entirely residential. Now connected to the mainland by a causeway, it was absolutely beautiful, and offered me a short commute to the city of Boston.

At this hour, the sky was still dark, but a soft red glow was surfacing on the horizon and threatening to bring real daylight with it. I ran early because at three forty five in the morning, I would be utterly alone on the narrow roads of little Nahant. Each morning, I took the same three mile route around the town, enjoying the serenity the early hour ensured me. All I saw was that dim orange-pink light, all I heard was the lapping of small waves coming in off the Massachusetts Bay. It really was heaven.

The neighborhood I lived in was full of beautiful newer homes which had been built so close to one another that there was hardly room for parking in between them. My roommate Jillian and I frequently commiserated about the lack of privacy when all too often, one of us would catch a glimpse of a neighbor getting in or out of the shower from our kitchen window. This was both awkward and disconcerting. It made me feel claustrophobic; as if I were a hamster living in a cage on someone's bedroom dresser instead of a human being living inside a spacious, open-concept cottage.

Jill and I had been close friends since our sophomore year of college. God, it had been six years since then. She was a good friend at a time when I was adjusting from the move from Forks. Boston was about as different from Forks as any two places in America could be, and at the time I had been completely lost. Boston College was and is big, impersonal school; home to so many students, that a girl really never knows who to cling to.

We had a lot of fun partying and going to ball games during our school days; now Jill worked in the city, managing the billing department of some high visibility law firm. I was sure she made excellent money, although I never pried as to the specifics. The commute was as easy for her as it was for me, and since we were both single and laid back, we had no problems living in a shared space.

Jillian and I agreed on so much; for example, either of us would have traded the extra bedroom in my cottage for a wider driveway or some trees blocking our view of the neighboring homes in a heartbeat. It's something I should have thought of when I bought the property five years ago, but the ocean views had taken my breath away. Years later, the view from our bay window still typically made me forget about my distaste for crowded residential areas and fat naked neighbors too forgetful to pull their shades.

And I could forget about all of this in the early morning.

Running served multiple purposes with me. It was more than physical conditioning. In my mind, the daily run was like coffee. It was my morning burst of energy, the ritual beginning of my day. It was church; meditation, an opportunity or me to wander around inside my own mind without sitting on a yoga mat like one of those new-age goofballs.

I was free and unrestrained as I ran, but I was also careful. It was dark, and I had to take reasonable precaution. I scanned my surroundings with the critical eye of a well trained federal agent, because that's what I was. A law enforcement agent and the daughter of a cop. I moved quickly and cautiously; taking in every shadow, every movement. Occasionally, I looked out at the water, or down at my running shoes as they hit the pavement over and over in that reassuring pattern, but I never forgot about my environment. I never stopped paying attention. That was habit at work.

To that end, I never took my ipod when I was running outside. In the gym, I'd have had the volume cranked with motivating fast-paced tunes blaring through my earphones, but I had been trained never to give up one of my senses when I was vulnerable. In an open environment a woman was always vulnerable, particularly if she was alone, as I was now. Despite my considerable physical stamina and strength, I disliked being unarmed, and I clearly could not run down the streets of Nahant with a Sig-Sauer holstered across my chest. The neighbors already thought I was strange, add a weapon to that, and they'd likely start talking.

Anyways, if running was like church, then showering afterward was like communion. I wasn't the highest maintenance woman I knew; Hell, I wasn't the highest maintenance woman in my own house, but I did like a long shower.

Truth be told, the bathroom was the least impressive room in the house, which was something I'd meant to have worked on for years now. It was small, and the shower was barely large enough for my five foot seven inch frame. Still, as I let the coconut scented conditioner sit in my mass of chocolate brown curls, I looked over the top of the tempered glass shower door and out the window at the Massachusetts Bay. Now, the sun was rising over the dark ocean. I had to get going, both to free up the bath for Jill, and to beat rush hour traffic on route one. I hated rushing in the morning. That was just another reason for my early wake-up call.

My room was at the east end of the house. It consisted of a large main-room which I used as a closet and sitting area, and an overhead loft, where I kept my poster bed. The entire house was dressed neutrally with whitewash walls and pale colored hardwood flooring. Jill and I had chosen not to paint or wallpaper any of the rooms, but we accented the home with colorful throw rugs and bold furniture choices.

All of my oversized oak dressers were in the main portion of my bedroom, alongside several shelves of books and a largely unused computer desk. Today, I would be taking the nine fifteen flight from Logan International Airport to Brussels, Belgium. I would be one of three plainclothes United States Marshalls on the flight, and the only female. That was par for the course when you were a female law enforcement officer; I rarely worked with another woman.

The flight would be over seven hours long, so I wanted to be comfortable. I chose a pair of loose fitting dark wash jeans and a purple tank top that hugged my toned body closely, but allowed me to move unrestricted. Later, I'd have to throw on some kind of sweatshirt or jacket to cover my holster, and to stave off the frigid air that always blasts through the cabin on international flights. For now, it was just jeans and a cotton shirt. Anyone watching me leave the house would have guessed I worked at the Gap.

Although I knew it wasn't a good idea, I always skipped breakfast. I'd usually grab a bottle of water on my way out of the house, and that's the only thing I'd have until they served the first on-board meal at noon. By six a.m., I was driving across the causeway toward Lynn and the city. The drive took forty five minutes on a bad day, thirty on a normal traffic day. Today seemed average, with no accidents and very little constructions. "Fucking miracle in Massachusetts" I thought aloud.

I must have swore thirty more times on the way to Logan. Since we were plainclothes agents, we parked in the public lots just like your average traveler. I walked into terminal B holding a boarding pass for Flight 226 to Brussels, and lugging an inconspicuous grey carry-on bag. Inside were common articles, a change of clothing, toiletries, and the kindle that Jill bought me for my birthday. Since I was traveling to Belgium, I had put about four hundred U.S. dollars worth of Euros in my wallet; I kept a drawer full of foreign currency in my home. No point in changing money all the time when I travelled abroad several times a week.

Besides the Euros, only a few of the things I carried were specific to this trip. A map of Brussels, two phone numbers scratched on the back of a cream colored business card, and an expensive silk scarf bearing a delicate blue and gold geometric floral print. One of the phone numbers on the card was for the 33rd Avenue Hotel, Brussels. The other was for a private residence in the west end.

After passing through security with my bag, I walked past a plethora of shops, restrooms, and down an out-of-the-way "dead end" hallway that very few travelers would come across, even by accident. An inconspicuous beige doorway at the end of the dimly lit hall was labeled with a standard black sign. "Employees only." To the right of the door a small plastic box required keycard access and I gained entry by raising my wallet to the box, which was able to read the magnet in my keycard right through the leather. A barely audible clicking noise let me know the card had been scanned, and I opened the door to gain access to another hallway. This one was over 100 feet long, well lit, and was lined with several doorways. Each door was accessible by keycard.

The 5th doorway on the right bore a large sign. An embossed seal on the front depicted a bald eagle hovering over a six pointed star. "Department of Justice, U.S. Marshalls, it declared in raised gold lettering."

Opening my wallet, I withdrew a second keycard; this one had to be swiped to read. As I held the card up in preparation for the swipe, the door swung open, nearly hitting me in the face. I jumped to the right to avoid being hit, and dropped my bag directly in the path of the man coming out. He stumbled over the carry-on, dropping a near-empty Styrofoam cup into the hall. For a moment, I watched as a few tablespoons of coffee ran onto the tile, and then looked up into the bright red face of Lieutenant John O'Reilly, my direct supervisor.

"Jesus fecking Christ Isabelle" He swore loudly, in his deep Irish brogue. He stumbled to the left of me and then spun around, barely composed. I froze momentarily, until he began shaking with a hearty laugh. Officer Durden joined him from inside.

"Bella's here." Sam Durden joked. More snickers erupted from inside the office.

"Sergeant Isabella Swann, flight 226?" Lieutenant O'Relilly spoke questioningly in his deep accent.

"Yessir."

"Find your sidearm and get out back before the others board, Sergeant."

"Sir."

"That's my girl," he said more softly, winking at me and moving for me to pass. After making my way safely through the door, I turned to see John limping fairly swiftly down the hall with Sam Durden trailing him by a few strides. Seconds later, the door shut itself automatically, and I instinctively headed for the locked closet where we kept firearms and ammunition.

Suiting up was simple. Holster, sidearm, jacket to conceal. Extra ammo and a few knives carried strategically so as to be invisible to civilian travelers. I didn't know who else would be on this flight, but I was fairly certain it was Officer Jimmy Anderson's rotation. He was a good officer; I trusted his judgment explicitly. He also had Lieutenant O'Reilly's respect, which meant a lot to me, since the Lieutenant and I had developed such a close working relationship over the past few years. John had promoted me a couple of times. He joked about my clumsiness, but he knew I was keenly observant, and a hell of a shot.

I boarded the plane from the rear entrance, directly off of the runway. Taking me seat moments before the civilian travelers were allowed to board, I scanned the plane for anything abnormal. Through the curtain in the section ahead I saw that Officer Anderson was already on board and stowing his carry-on in the overhead compartment. His eyes caught mine, but no words or looks were exchanged despite the vacant plane.

When the first few passengers boarded, they eyed me with questioning glances; the first few always wondered how I got on the plane before they did. It made little sense that I had managed to get by them at the gate, but civilians were rarely suspicious of my presence on their flight. Truth be told, I was probably the least identifiable as an officer out of all the officers at Logan. Few travelers would peg a thin, attractive young woman as a plainclothes officer. It made me a commodity in the eyes of my superiors. I was always used in situations where covertness was most critical, and I always came through. It had made me something of a star within the agency, though few of my male colleagues resented me for it.

Flying had become very routine and redundant over the course of time. Takeoffs, announcements, the beverage cart…before I knew it, we would be landing on the opposite side of the Atlantic. The only thing I disliked about flying as a Marshall was that I could never use a headset. I couldn't have my ears covered; the "no loss of a sense" thing. I couldn't count how many new release movies I'd watched sans-audio, and that pretty much ruined the movie if I ever planned to see it properly.

Most of my time onboard was spent trying to appear normal, while continually scanning the plane for any sign of danger. Unruly passengers, strange objects in the cabin, all of these situations needed to be monitored closely. The rule was simple; you only step in when you feel instinctively that interference has become necessary. No need to cause panic over nothing.

The flight to Brussels was long but uneventful. In other words, it was a perfect shift. It was after ten at night local time when we landed, and I could see that it was quite dark from the airplane window. After a brief walk through the odd-smelling terminal, I passed through security, and found my way to the offices of the Belgian State Security Service. I knew most of the officers working there. Only one was new. He looked very young, even to me. Gretchen, the BSS staff assistant informed me he was brand new to their location. She thought he was maybe twenty five or so.

"Cute," I muttered under my breath. Gretchen's mouth popped open. I instantly looked embarrassed, but she winked in response. Sometimes the female office workers seemed to be under the impression that female officers were all frigid workaholics that wanted to be men as opposed to wanting to be with men.

"If I were half my age…" Gretchen trailed off and smiled. I let out a quiet giggle and walked toward the filing desk designated to foreign law enforcement agents. I filed a half a dozen sheets of basic paperwork and stashed my firearm. The assistant at the desk was also younger than me, and looked intimidated. I smiled broadly at him, but he looked away.

Standard procedure was to overnight in the foreign nation if the initial flight was over five hours. Per my assignment, I would stay the night in Belgium before returning to the U.S. via Dublin tomorrow afternoon. Walking outside into the damp dull night air, I began to rummage through my bag for my cell, and the business card I had packed before I left home that morning. Thumbing the card, I considered my options.

The 33rd Avenue Hotel was a swanky boutique hotel only thirty minutes from the airport. A call to the concierge would mean that within the hour, a uniformed driver would retrieve me from the airport, probably in a Mercedes, and take me to a plush room where I could eat candy and drink every nip of hard liquor in the mini bar before passing out on the still-made bed. I could shower in the morning, and then go back to sleep for a while underneath the crisp sheets to lose the hangover. In the afternoon, I would be driven back to Brussels International in the Hotel's car, retrieve my sidearm, gawk at the new, too-young-for-me Belgian officer in the airport's BSS office, and take my flight back to the U.S. frustrated.

Eeh, Not too bad.

I looked at the card again, and let my cell shift in my other hand. My pulse raced as I considered option two.

Dial the second number, the residential address. Maybe he'll answer. If not, just call the hotel.

I stopped and took a breath.

If he answers, I will have to wait for almost an hour for him to show up. When he arrives, it will be in an old, grey Volkswagen. He'll take me back to his place on the east side of Brussels, near the park. Naturally, staying overnight with one of the preeminent pastry chefs of Belgium will ensure a meal slightly better than those M&M's and nips of Dewar's I'd have had otherwise; and although his apartment is a bit cramped, it's clean. He'll ask about home, and I'll have to spend a few hours reminding him of America, of New York, and of American food and football. He'll relish being able to speak to me in English, without having to speak with the same articulation he uses with his staff at the restaurant. One thing will lead to another. There will be wine. I will not sleep. But in the morning, that new Belgian officer at BSS will have no effect whatsoever, and I'll have something to think about on my way home.

Belgian lovers are nothing special, but an American lover in Belgium isn't so bad, especially if he makes good dessert.

Jackson Damien. +32, 2-217-03-21

I squinted to read the card, and again as I punched the numbers into my phone. I should just start preprogramming my numbers, to save time. I fumbled to find a spot in my wallet for this card, and considered how programming phone numbers into my cell would make it possible for me to throw all those scraps of paper away, once and for all. Should I?

In the middle of my thought, a warm voice came through on the other end of the line.

"Bella?"