Every morning, my body betrays me. Fucking hell, not this sugar craving bullshit again. My tongue craves the sickly sweetness of Froot Loops while my brain screams for espresso. My fingers—stubby, uncoordinated things—can barely grip a pencil properly, and the constant sugar rush makes my skin feel like it's buzzing with electricity. Twenty-eight years of experience, and I can't even write my own goddamn name properly.

  The mirror shows a stranger: skinned knees, missing front teeth, and the kind of boundless energy that makes sitting still feel like torture. Twenty-eight years of muscle memory trapped in an eight-year-old's underdeveloped form.

  Seven years in Special Activities Division, and this is what finally breaks my cover. The irony would be funny if it wasn't so damn tragic. My reflection showed pigtails instead of the tactical gear I'd worn across three continents. The hands that once assembled explosives in the dark now struggled with safety scissors. At least the muscle memory for maintaining cover stories remained intact—though explaining complex geopolitical situations would be easier than pretending to care about playground drama.

  My body's betrayal went beyond mere clumsiness. Try maintaining tactical awareness when you're constantly distracted by the urge to bounce off the walls. The heightened sensations of childhood were maddening—tags in clothing felt like sandpaper, seams in socks became torture devices, and the mere smell of candy triggered an almost pavlovian response.

  During yesterday's surveillance, I nearly blew my cover because a fucking ice cream truck drove by. Twenty years of spec ops training, and I'm undone by a tinny rendition of 'Pop Goes the Weasel.' The worst part? The constant need to pee. No one warns you that a child's bladder is basically a thimble with anxiety issues.

  Sunday morning, 7:05 AM. Five days and fourteen hours until the Hendersons arrived.

  The familiar chill of a Hartford autumn bit through my too-thin jacket—another indignity of this child's wardrobe. Jesus H. Christ, would it kill them to buy a proper coat? Five days and fourteen hours until the Hendersons arrived. The clock in my head ticked relentlessly. Tick-tock, you pretentious pieces of shit.

  Robert Warren, that pompous bastard, left for his sales firm at 7:15 AM sharp, taking his second favorite car from a garage filled with more than a dozen. Look at you in your fancy-ass BMW, you trafficking piece of garbage. The BMW's engine purred down Mountain Road—a sound that used to represent luxury but now reminded me of purring cats before they strike. Margaret split her time between the Hartford Golf Club and her "charitable endeavors," each tennis match and fundraiser another chance to expand their trafficking network. Tennis whites hiding a black soul—how fucking poetic. They left me and Susie with Mrs. Peterson, whose attention span rivaled that of a goldfish with ADHD.

  The morning dragged on like a hangover from hell, each minute stretching into eternity as I waited for the right moment. Last night's discovery on Robert's pathetically unsecured computer confirmed everything. Weak fucking security on a professional crime network—what a joke. The encrypted files revealed a sprawling network of sham adoption agencies, with the Hendersons as their primary partners. My stomach churned at the numbers: millions laundered, dozens of children "placed." The same system that dropped me into this nightmare eight years ago.

  Susie's morning cartoons echoed from the living room—my sister, not by blood but by shared circumstance. H. Christ, she doesn't deserve any of this mess. She was humming that annoying theme song she loved, completely unaware that her world was about to shatter. But it really was for the best… for both of us.

  I retrieved the burner phone from Margaret's "secret" drawer, my small fingers trembling slightly—partly from anger, partly from the constant sugar high of childhood metabolism. The keypad felt enormous under my diminutive thumbs. Each press required careful concentration: "The Cayman accounts make interesting reading. Wonder what the IRS would think?"

  The response was immediate: "Who is this?"

  "Why don't you ask your wife."

  "Why don't you ask your wife."

  My heart hammered against my ribs—a child's heart, racing at adult speeds. I quickly deleted the messages, wiped the phone's screen and buttons clean with my sleeve. Can't leave fingerprints, even tiny ones. One wrong move now could bring everything crashing down before the Hendersons arrived. If Robert traced the message too quickly, if Margaret checked her drawer before Thursday, if Mrs. Peterson actually paid attention for once... The stakes weren't just my freedom anymore. Every child in their network, including Susie, depended on perfect timing.

  A knock at my door sent adrenaline shooting through my system. My body reacted before my mind could catch up—diving, rolling, stashing the phone inside my teddy bear with movements that felt clumsy in this small frame.

  "Honey?" Margaret's voice, honey-sweet with underlying tension. "Are you still awake?"

  I forced my voice higher, younger. "Yes, Mommy. I had a bad dream." The childish whimper tasted bitter on my tongue.

  The stakes were crystal clear in my mind: if the Hendersons arrived before CPS, they'd immediately recognize the signs of a compromised operation. Standard protocol would trigger within minutes—electronic records erased, offshore accounts emptied, and every trace of their network scrubbed clean.

  Worse, they'd "relocate" their current assets—innocent kids like Susie, scattered across a dozen safe houses. Some of those children would disappear forever. The thought made my small hands curl into useless fists. Even if I managed to escape, the evidence would vanish like smoke, and the Hendersons would simply rebuild elsewhere, maybe in fucking Nebraska this time.

  Monday morning, 8:15 AM. Four days until zero hour.

  The elementary school hallway felt like threading a needle with boxing gloves on. My stained cream sweater—now on day three—drew the exact concerned glances I needed from the staff. I'd chosen my outfit carefully. Mrs. Martinez, the guidance counselor with a master's degree in child psychology and a tendency to hover, had definitely noticed. Let her make a note in her little file. Every detail counts.

  During morning circle time, I executed my plan with the same precision I once used for field operations. First target: Emma Chen, the chatty one whose mother ran the PTA. "I might not see you next week," I whispered, just loud enough for Mr. Abernathy to catch. "Mommy says I'm going to visit some special friends." A calculated pause, letting my voice crack. "But I don't want to go."

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  The performance continued through lunch period—a masterclass in psychological warfare that would have made my old CIA handler proud. The "accidentally" dropped notebook, the tearful confession by the swings, each move choreographed like the complex operations I used to run. Except instead of tracking arms dealers through Moroccan markets, I'm planting evidence in a grade school cafeteria.

  Mrs. Martinez, the guidance counselor, hovered nearby, her master's degree in child psychology making her the perfect unwitting ally. When my carefully crafted goodbye letter "slipped" from my notebook—complete with deliberately messy handwriting and strategic tear stains—her reaction was everything I needed. Plant the seeds of doubt, and watch them grow into a jungle of suspicion. Some skills transfer surprisingly well from counterintelligence to elementary school.

  Lunch period was a masterclass in psychological warfare. I "accidentally" dropped my notebook, letting a folded piece of paper slip from between its pages. As Mrs. Martinez approached, the carefully crafted goodbye letter lay exposed on the linoleum floor, my childish handwriting deliberately messy and tear-stained:

  Dear Everyone,

  I will miss lots of things when I'm gone. I'll miss sharing cookies with Emma at lunch. I'll miss the swings at recess. I'll miss Mr. Abernathy's silly jokes. I'll miss my bed and my stuffed elephant Lucy.

  Mommy says I have to go stay with special friends, but I don't want to. They don’t want me anymore, I'm scared. The last special friends were mean. Please don't be mad that I didn't say goodbye for real.

  Love,

  Natalie

  I kept walking, pretending not to notice as the paper fluttered to the ground behind me. Through my peripheral vision, I watched Mrs. Martinez pick up the letter, her hand trembling slightly as she read. Her face paled, and she quickly folded the paper and slipped it into her pocket, her eyes following me with that perfect mix of concern and horror I'd been cultivating.

  Christ, these playground politics were more exhausting than negotiations with arms dealers.

  But watching the teachers exchange worried glances, noting the way they documented every "concerning comment" in their little notebooks—it was worth the mental drain. By the time I disappeared, they'd have enough red flags to fill a Macy’s Day parade.

  Across the playground, Susie stood in her class line, laughing with her friends, oblivious to the impending upheaval. It truly was the best course of action; who knows what fate awaited her at the Warrens' hands? They might even try to ensnare her in their depraved enterprise.

  These poor fucking teachers, I mused, watching them whisper in the hallway. Probably went into education dreaming of shaping young minds, not dealing with this psychological thriller bullshit. But they were perfect unwitting allies in my plan.

  As we filed back into class, I winced deliberately while sitting down, sending Mr. Abernathy scurrying for an incident report. The pieces were falling into place, each suspicious note and concerned glance building toward Thursday's crescendo.

  Tuesday afternoon, 2:30 PM. The countdown in my head ticked relentlessly: 49 hours, 30 minutes until the Hendersons' arrival.

  I continued laying the groundwork with the teachers the next day, punctuating the day with strategically timed sniffles—just enough to keep them on edge. It won’t be long until they request a parent teacher conference, and when they do, I'll be the perfect little angel, technically everything I said was true.

  Time crawled by in this pint-sized prison. For fuck's sake, how many times can these kids ask to go to the bathroom? I endured another mind-numbing lesson about fractions, my adult brain rebelling against the simplicity while my child's hand fumbled with the pencil.

  I watched the teachers huddle in the hallway, their whispers carrying traces of worry. Poor souls thought they were protecting a troubled child. They had no idea they were soldiers in a war they didn't even know existed. By Thursday, their collective concern would become a spotlight, illuminating every dark corner of the Warrens' operation.

  And I? I'd be gone, taking with me enough evidence to burn this whole network to the ground. But first, I had to survive three more days of this psychological chess match, all while trapped in a body that couldn't even reach the top shelf of the bookcase.

  I slipped through the front door at precisely 2:45 PM, my backpack heavy with "homework" that was really a collection of damning financial records I'd photographed with a disposable camera. Try explaining those shots at the one-hour photo, asshole. The familiar routine of after-school arrival felt different today—the air itself seemed to vibrate with impending chaos. Like the calm before an explosion, when you can feel the change in air pressure right before everything goes to hell. My carefully crafted text message had been a precision strike, and now I was about to witness the fallout.

  Something's off. Warren's BMW is in the driveway too early. Robert's voice carried from his study, sharp with anger. My message had hit its mark. Bet those offshore accounts aren't looking so secure now, you pompous prick.

  I crept past his office, my child's footsteps naturally quiet on the plush carpet. Through the crack in the door, I caught fragments of his conversation: "...damage control...move the accounts...what about the Hendersons?" Dance faster, asshole. The music's about to stop.

  Dinner was another performance in suburban normalcy. Margaret's hands shook slightly as she passed the peas, her tennis bracelet catching the light with each tremor. Look at you, trying to keep it together while your world crumbles. Robert barely touched his food, his phone buzzing every few minutes with increasingly panicked messages from his partners in crime.

  His eyes kept darting to Margaret, sharp with suspicion. Last night's interrogation had left cracks in their carefully maintained facade—his accusatory "Did you send that text? Do you know who senit it?" met with her too-quick denial. Rank amateur hour at the Warren household. I sent the text, but who would suspect an eight-year-old?

  The tension between them crackled like static electricity. Robert stabbed at his pot roast with unnecessary force, while Margaret's wine glass had been refilled three times already. Nothing says guilty conscience like drowning it in Chardonnay, she may not have sent the message… but she sure feels guilty about something. Every time their eyes met across the table, another silent accusation passed between them. The perfect power couple, dissolving in real-time over dinner.

  Susie chatted about her day, her words coming faster than usual, a nervous energy making her bounce in her seat. "And then Emma said I could come to her birthday party next month! It's gonna be at the trampoline place, and—" she glanced between Margaret and Robert, her fork pushing peas around her plate. "Um, and maybe we could get her one of those dolls like mine? The one Mommy and Daddy got me when I first came here?" Her voice got smaller with each word, shrinking under the weight of the adults' silence. There won't be any party next month, kid. But there'll be something better—freedom.

  That night, lying in the cramped guest room bed—relegated there after Susie's arrival—I mentally rehearsed the plan one last time. The Hendersons would arrive Thursday at 3 PM sharp, expecting their usual "delivery." Instead, they'd find a hornet's nest of child protective services, federal agents, and enough evidence to sink everyone involved.

  In the darkness, I heard Susie's soft footsteps pad to the bathroom. I'm sorry, kid. But sometimes you have to break something to fix it. When this was over, she'd understand.

  In the darkness, memories of my previous life surfaced like ghost images: the weight of tactical gear, the familiar click of loading a magazine, the coded phrases that once meant the difference between life and death. "Phoenix is grounded"—that was the last message I'd sent before... before this. Now my weapons were carefully planted evidence and manipulated conversations. My battlefield was a suburban home and an elementary school. But the mission remained the same: protect the innocent, eliminate the threat. Some things don't change, even when everything else does.

  The digital clock blinked 2:13 AM. Forty-eight hours and counting. Tick-tock, motherfuckers. Your time's almost up.