He scrolled through the call log, relieved to see an 800 number. They’d never used an 800 number before. Always a local area code, which was obviously some kind of redirect from wherever CONTROL called home. He assumed it was somewhere in the United States. They wouldn’t risk leaving any kind of electronic trail overseas. Rudd was about to lie back down when the phone vibrated again. Another 800 number.

An online retailer must have sold his number to a telemarketing company. Unfortunately, ignoring the call wasn’t an option. He hustled out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him, more out of courtesy than necessity. His wife could sleep through a home invasion.

“Hello?” said Rudd, expecting the usual several-second delay before the telemarketer connected to the call and somehow still managed to mispronounce his name.

Still, he had to be sure. Rudd stiffened when a female voice immediately replied.

“Stand by to copy access code.”

Damn. CONTROL had a job for him. Something that couldn’t wait for the morning. Rudd took off down the hallway for the kitchen, the one place in the house where he knew for certain that he could find paper and some kind of writing instrument. He flipped the switch in the hallway, bathing the kitchen in the harsh fluorescent light they never got around to changing. A quick dig through the junk drawer next to the sink yielded a pen and Post-it pad.

“Ready to copy.”

The voice recited the same twenty-digit alphanumeric code twice, and the call disconnected. Rudd took the Post-it into the dining room, where he’d plugged in his laptop before heading to bed. He sat at the table and logged in to the computer, waiting what felt like an eternity for the system to boot up.

He didn’t like the timing of this call at all. CONTROL hadn’t contacted him with a job in close to seven months. Long enough that he’d begun to wonder if they’d retired him and forgotten to pass along the news. At fifty-six, he wasn’t exactly a first-string operative anymore. A fact apparently not lost on his handlers.

Work had slowed to a trickle over the past several years. Mostly stakeout surveillance or some light breaking and entering to acquire information stored on electronic devices. Not that he was complaining. He’d spearheaded a hit-and-run on a US Army major in the parking lot of a strip club near Fort Campbell, but that hadn’t exactly been a complicated job. All the intelligence had been provided by CONTROL.