BIA Ch. 123
by Shrimpy
Day Sixteen
The nurse who took the application form looked at Isaiah’s face and confirmed once more.
“The patient’s name is Joseph Cole, correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“And the guardian’s name?”
“Isaiah Cole.”
The nurse flipped through the multi-page application, her eyes scanning only the signature sections.
“Have you heard the full explanation from the attending physician about stopping life-sustaining treatment?”
“I’ve heard everything, and we’ve discussed it thoroughly.”
At the mention of stopping life support, the nurses at the nurse station momentarily paused their work and glanced at each other. They looked as though they couldn’t believe their ears, hearing that the ghost that haunted the Fairfax Medical Center ICU was finally departing.
“Alright, I understand for now. The attending physician will review the documents once more, and once it’s confirmed there are no issues, they will approve it.”
“Understood. Please contact the number listed there when that happens.”
The number written on the document was Morgan’s. The only thing left to do anyway was settling the hospital bills, which was something Morgan and WD’s finance person would handle. They’d probably deduct it from this side’s salary and split whatever remained amongst themselves. In any case, since the sole family member had consulted with the doctor and decided to stop life support, a third party couldn’t possibly object.
After submitting the application, he went down to the first-floor lobby. Mickey was sitting on a chair directly across from the reception desk, talking on the phone. Seeing his serious expression, Isaiah could guess who he was talking to.
“Alright, I understand. Let’s talk again.”
He hung up when he saw Isaiah approaching. Isaiah didn’t sit down but stood in front of Mickey and asked.
“Jack?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“It seems there’s no answer yet. We agreed to talk again as soon as they contact him.”
Isaiah checked the clock flashing red on the reception area’s digital display. He had arrived in time for the first morning visiting hours, but it was already past noon.
“Did you see your father okay?”
Mickey asked, rising from his seat. Instead of answering, Isaiah gestured towards the hospital entrance with his chin. As they walked to get a taxi, Mickey’s stomach rumbled like thunder. It was natural, given he hadn’t even had breakfast, let alone lunch.
But there was no time for a leisurely lunch now. The attending physician, now seemingly reluctant to let go of his cash cow, had dragged things out unnecessarily, making their flight time tight. They had to get to the airport first, check in, and then get something to eat.
Fortunately, thanks to a generous tip for the taxi driver, they arrived at the airport without being late. After checking in, they still had about forty minutes before boarding, so they decided to eat at a fast-food place near the boarding gate. When Isaiah told Mickey to order, he brought back nearly four servings’ worth of food just for himself.
“You can eat all that this early?”
“It’s… lunchtime, though.”
Ah, right. Isaiah took a sip of his lemonade with a slightly blank expression. It had been a while since he’d woken up this early, so he wasn’t used to it. Plus, he hadn’t slept much because he’d been exchanging messages with Jack until late at night.
“More importantly, you have a driver’s license, right?”
Isaiah said, putting down the paper cup containing his lemonade.
“We’ll rent a car when we land at the airport.”
“Uh, about that.”
Mickey, who had already devoured one hamburger and a chicken leg, crumpled the greasy wrapper with a troubled look.
“I got my driver’s license digitally, but it’s on that other phone.”
‘That other phone’ was the work phone Isaiah had shot to pieces yesterday. As Isaiah silently pressed his temples with his fingertips, Mickey picked up his second hamburger and mumbled, barely audibly.
“Why’d you have to smash the phone…”
Isaiah pulled the pistol from his back pocket. Mickey, startled, dropped the hamburger and threw his hands up.
“Ah, no, sir. No.”
“Here, yours.”
Isaiah passed the pistol under the table.
“Keep it, just in case.”
“Ah.”
Mickey looked blank for a moment, then quickly glanced around and snatched his gun from Isaiah’s hand. He hastily shoved it into his sweatpants pocket. Watching the clumsy movement, Isaiah picked up his lemonade cup again and asked.
“Ever shot anyone?”
“…No, sir.”
Mickey seemed slightly ashamed of the fact.
“I hope it stays that way.”
Isaiah took another sip of lemonade and put it down. He had ordered a chicken wrap for his meal, but he had no appetite. He was definitely hungry, but somehow, he didn’t feel like eating. In the end, he just picked at the hash brown that came as a side and put down his fork. Across from him, Mickey was heartily eating his third hamburger.
“What’s your major?”
Startled by Isaiah suddenly speaking to him, Mickey quickly swallowed the food in his mouth and replied.
“Criminal Psychology.”
Isaiah suddenly remembered what Mickey had been rambling about in the bathroom the night before. Right, people always want to tell others what they know, one way or another.
“You must have studied hard. Which university?”
“Brown University…”
“Impressive.”
Isaiah said, resting one elbow on the table. Mickey looked unsure how to react. Just half a day ago, Isaiah had been threatening him with sniper rifles and bomb vests, and now he was suddenly complimenting him; it seemed his brain couldn’t process it. Embarrassed, you could say.
After finishing his third hamburger with a look like he might choke, Mickey immediately downed his diet cola. Then, dabbing around his lips with a napkin, he said.
“You became the youngest WD elite agent, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Youngest… how old were you then?”
Mickey asked consecutively, pulling his chair closer.
“I don’t know much about that side of things, but I heard that even among WD snipers, elite agents are few and far between. What’s the selection process like?”
He didn’t know much and likely wasn’t interested, but asking seemed like a desperate attempt stemming from the idea that a compliment should be returned with another compliment.
“What do your parents do?”
“Huh?”
“Just curious, suddenly.”
Though taken aback by the random question, Mickey answered.
“My father worked at a bank, and my mother was a middle school teacher.”
No wonder. Isaiah rested his chin on the back of his hand and lifted one corner of his mouth. No wonder he seemed well-educated just from the way he spoke. He was the typical child of a middle-class family. A child raised with abundant love under parents who graduated from good universities and held respectable jobs. Well-educated and well-raised in an environment lacking nothing, growing up to be a respectable adult just like his parents.
It was strange. It hadn’t been like this yesterday, but today, whenever he talked with Mickey, he often thought of Bran. Probably because they had many similarities. Their height and build were similar, but it was impossible not to think of him, especially given that they both earned the ‘youngest’ title and became FBI agents around the same age. More accurately, he kept comparing the two. They have so much in common, so why are they so different? Both are FBI, so why is one a Mafioso doing all sorts of dirty work, while the other sits at a desk, easily analyzing and criticizing it?
He knew intellectually it was the difference in their assigned missions, but it was hard to fully accept. Knowing it wasn’t Mickey’s fault, whenever he saw his innate simplicity and untarnished aspect, he couldn’t suppress the urge to hurt him, to defile him.
“An elite agent at WD means a sniper who gets paid per job, not an annual salary.”
The company arranges the jobs and takes a commission. Isaiah picked up his fork and said.
“Even working just a few times a year, you earn much more than the average WD sniper’s salary of $40,000. Several times more. That’s how high the pay per job is. So naturally, snipers with high accuracy rates are selected first, and the minimum threshold is 70%.”
“Accuracy rate means…”
“It’s basically the kill rate. It only counts if you hit the target’s head or heart precisely.”
Isaiah poked the center and top of the hash brown with his fork.
“But WD is full of blockheads who hate calculating things twice or thrice. So they always count based on a hundred shots.”
Mickey suddenly fell silent.
“So you can roughly calculate the minimum number of people you have to kill.”
Isaiah placed his fork back on the tray.
“As for how old I was, I was seventeen.”
Mickey offered no reply. He clearly intended to say something like, ‘That’s amazing,’ but seemed utterly unable to get the words out. Seeing the dark shadow fall over his blue eyes, Isaiah belatedly felt guilty, as if he had bullied a child. Isaiah spoke in a deliberately nonchalant tone.
“On a battlefield, you could reach that number in a single day.”
Mickey still said nothing. Even the faint flush that always lingered under his eyes disappeared. Seeing his complexion instantly turn pale, it seemed unlikely he would eat the last remaining hamburger. Isaiah stood up from his seat and said.
“Time’s up. Let’s go.”