You learn it, you go to work and you almost immediately forget it.
There is no way you can do the kind of work we were asked to do if, every time you walk into a room with a mark, you are looking for two different exits and a minimum of four potential weapons. You'd get made faster than a preacher in the Champagne Room.
You can tell because we all--doesn't matter whether you played for the visitors or the home team--we all got the same class so we know the look, we can see the involuntary pause that is so hard to shake. It's like a reflex: that quarter-step that operators take while doing all that survey work.
You're saying to yourself, "A quarter-step, what difference could that possibly make?"
Fuck you is what I say. Fuck you.
That quarter-step has lost me team members and it has saved my life more than a few times.
No, you have to bury that stuff deep, rehearse and rehearse until you can walk into every room like it's your bathroom. That's how you tell the professionals from the test-takers, the workers from the wanna-bees.
The funny thing is that just then, at that moment, when I had to figure my next play, all that stuff, that training, snapped into focus. I had a quarter-step of "What am I go to do?" and then I was able to answer my own question.
I knew what to do.
I didn't like it, but I knew what to do.
My dog looked at me like he was waiting for me to throw a ball. He wanted to know the next part of the game.
Couldn't really blame him; with all that had happened so far it must have seemed like the best walk ever.
We turned around and headed down the dark side street.
Half-way into the next block and with the pastel shades of blue and red emergency lights bouncing off the low-hanging clouds, the dog and I turned into the alley and headed south toward the main drag.
I pulled out the flashlight and began looking for the right one. Trees, shade, a covered porch and no kids: I was asking a lot and so I needed the conditions to be tolerable. Most of all, it had to have a fence. I wasn't concerned that he'd get out, I just didn't want it to be too easy for anyone else to get in.
Close.
Almost.
Not quite.
I had to be careful with the light. I didn't want to rouse another homeowner. I didn't think I could go another round of that.
No fence.
The dog started to slow down and pull away from me. It wasn't like before, he knew I was up to something.
I told him I was sorry.
I meant it.
I needed intel. I had to find out what had happened and who was after me. Who had taken the time to learn my patterns and anticipate where I was going to be and when? That takes effort. Motivation.
I turned it over and over in my mind as I passed the light across the back yards.
When had they picked me up?
What had I missed?
Why were they interested in me? After all these years?
All of the situational awareness training replayed in my mind's eye.
Another quarter-step.
No. I had to put that away.
If they knew what I knew then they would know what I was thinking and how I would react. Christ, if they were really good, they'd have probably already staked out my Go Bag spots.
Perfect.
Well, not "perfect" but pretty close.
Close enough.
He'd be safe here until I could figure out what I was dealing with.
I led him on to the covered porch and to a spot with the best view of the yard and the back gate. I pulled the vinyl cover off of a stack of summer furniture and improvised a little sleeping area.
He wouldn't like it. He'd use it, but he wouldn't like it.
I think he knew it was coming. I didn't have to ask him, he just went over, sniffed, turned around and lay down.
As I walked back past the sliding glass door, I realized that I could see all the way through to the house to the uncovered front window. The house was empty and, now, it was a possibility.
But that would have to wait. Top priority was provisions and counter-intel.
Time to find out what was out there, how they got out in front of me.
Time to see if I could knock them back a step.
I wouldn't need much.
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