WEIGHT
822 Words
The room was quiet. The kind of silence that followed a bombshell, not peace.
Camila stared at the closed file on the table like it was a live grenade. Her fingers ached. Her back throbbed. Her body was begging for rest, but she stayed frozen in that chair, blinking slowly under the dim ceiling light.
Caleb hadn’t moved. He watched her—cool, unreadable—as if he knew everything going on in her head.
Camila shifted in the seat, uncrossing her legs. She folded her arms and dropped her gaze to the floor.
Then she spoke.
Her voice cracked.
“Agent Caleb… I can’t do this.”
She didn’t look at him.
“I have a family to take care of. My mother—she’s sick. Really sick. Cancer. My cousin’s just a teenager. She’s the one watching over her. I should be there, not here.”
Caleb didn’t interrupt. He just sat still.
Camila inhaled sharply. Her voice gained edge.
“And I have a fiancé. We were supposed to get married after my retirement. We had plans. I can’t remember the last time I saw him properly. He needs me. I need me. I’m exhausted, Caleb. I’ve given this country everything. Every mission. Every lie. Every piece of my damn soul.”
She looked up now. Her eyes were glassy. Furious.
“I cannot go for another long job. I’m already stretched thin. My life’s falling apart. And now you want to throw me at Javier Cortez?”
Caleb leaned back. His fingers tapped once on the file. The room seemed to pulse with tension.
“This isn’t just another mission, Camila,” he said quietly. “This is the one that ends them all.”
She gave a dry laugh. “You always say that.”
“No. This time, we mean it.”
He pushed the file across the table.
Inside were satellite photos. Encrypted texts. A map circled in red. Rural. Remote. Unreachable. Except by air.
“He’s hiding here,” Caleb said. “Somewhere in that region. He’s planning something—we’re not sure what yet, but it’s big. Government intel says it’s bigger than anything he’s done before. He’s mobilizing a small army, smuggling weapon parts, and bribing political players. If we don’t act now…”
He stopped.
Camila stared.
“This is suicide,” she said flatly.
Caleb nodded slowly. “That’s why we’re paying.”
She blinked. “Paying?”
“Fifteen million. Tax-free. Offshore.”
She scoffed. “Fifteen million? For what? For me to walk into hell dressed as a bargaining chip? No.”
Caleb didn’t blink.
“Ten million,” he said again.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re going backwards now.”
A pause.
“Fine,” he said. “One hundred million.”
That made her still.
Caleb leaned forward. “One hundred million, Camila. That’s more than this agency has paid anyone—ever. We’ll also assign a private medical team to your mother. Elite. They’ll begin treatment within the hour. And when this is over, full early retirement. Anywhere in the world. Complete anonymity. You walk away from this with a new life.”
Camila didn’t speak. She just sat still.
A hundred million.
The number echoed in her head like a heartbeat.
She pictured Edna’s shaking voice over the phone. Her mother’s frail breathing. Her fiancé’s tired eyes when he last held her hand.
That money could fix everything.
She could buy a home in another country. Somewhere warm. Quiet. She could disappear from the nightmare of guns, missions, and lies.
Her fiancé could have peace. She could have peace.
She tapped her fingers once on the edge of the file.
“Let me think about it,” she said softly.
Caleb didn’t smile. He just nodded.
“Take tonight,” he said. “I’ll wait.”
She stood up, the chair creaking beneath her. Her muscles screamed as she straightened, the ache now visible in her walk.
Caleb noticed.
“You look tired,” he said.
Camila gave him a half-hearted glare. “I am tired.”
He nodded again. “We’ll send a recovery team to your hotel in the morning. Spa specialists. Full massage. You need to rest before we brief you again.”
Camila raised a brow. “Since when does the agency offer body massages?”
She didn’t wait for the answer. She grabbed the file and walked to the door.
“Or is it because you’re sending me to die?”
She didn’t say it aloud. But it burned behind her eyes.
The hallway was empty. Cold. Metallic.
As she walked, her thoughts spiraled.
This isn’t a mission. It’s a death sentence.
But maybe…
Maybe she needed to take the risk. For her mother. For her fiancé. For herself.
And maybe, just maybe… this would be the mission that saved the world from the man it feared most.
- Writer
