Fishing, sailing, and swimming in the middle of the ocean where monsters could pop-out.
Knowing that this is marvel, they might very well exist.
Carlos leaned against the railing, looking at the ocean.
"Y'know, I never thought I'd be doing this with my son."
James smiled. "Neither did I. But here we are, I do wonder if the kraken exists."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Don't Jinx it." Said Carlos, now imagining how he would even kill such a thing.
James and Carlos headed out to buy fishing tackle and diving gear. This time, Carlos's pickup finally proved its worth—its cargo space was ideal for the haul.
They picked up two full sets of fishing gear and four diving kits, all of which were brought directly to the yacht. They were ready to set sail for a short sea trip, but the upcoming SHIELD assessment and the flower shop's grand opening forced a delay in their fishing plans.
"What's the name of the shop?" James asked as they prepped to head out early that morning for the ribbon-cutting.
"Alice Flower Shop," Carlos replied. Alice had been Wesley's mother's name—clearly, Carlos still held onto that memory.
"Not bad," James said, smiling. "But don't get stuck in the past. If someone good comes along, don't hesitate."
Carlos gave a grunt of amusement. "I won't. I've already hired a shop assistant. So, when are we going fishing?"
The shop had taken three months to open—Carlos had insisted on doing things right, setting up his own floral network, and ensuring the shop ran smoothly from day one.
"After the SHIELD assessment," James answered. "No idea what it involves yet."
They drove over to the flower shop together. Out front, a woman was sweeping the sidewalk.
She wore a checkered flannel shirt tucked into utility pants, practical flat shoes, her brown hair tied back in a ponytail. Gold-rimmed glasses framed her eyes. She looked about thirty-five—refined, not flashy.
"This is Alice Hepburn," Carlos introduced. "She's the new employee," Carlos then looks at Alice as he points toward him. "James, my son."
James smiled. "Welcome to the family. Please take good care of my dad for me. I travel a lot, so he'll need the company."
"Nice to meet you," she replied, a little shy and blushing, but warm.
James had a feeling something might blossom there—not that he'd rush it, but it was oddly suspicious that her name is also Alice like his dead wife and the shop's name, he won't question it though..
"Well, I'm off. You two enjoy your opening day." He hopped in his sports car and drove straight to the SHIELD New York Division. Today was assessment day, and despite his confidence, he wasn't sure what to expect.
On the way, his phone rang.
"Mr. James," came Philip's voice, "your land has been sold. The winning bid was $435 million. Following your instructions, we applied deductions based on your yacht and flower shop expenses to reduce the tax burden. After fees and taxes, $350 million has been deposited into your account."
U.S. taxes were brutal. After cutting out real estate transfer tax, auction house commissions, and the usual bureaucratic bloodletting, he'd lost nearly $100 million in the process.
"Good work. Call me if anything else comes up." In America, especially when you're rich, a good lawyer is non-negotiable.
At SHIELD headquarters, the assessment began.
"Operatives, your exam begins now," the instructor said. "Written portion first. One hour. Let's see how you perform under pressure."
James opened the test, glanced through the questions, and whispered, "Cortana, answers."
Ten minutes later, he handed in a perfect paper.
"Mr. James ... you're fast," the examiner muttered. "Head to the shooting range. You're expected there."
James made his way inside. The indoor range was silent and soundproofed.
"Mr. James, welcome," said the firearms instructor. "You'll find five disassembled handguns on the table. Your task: assemble one of them, load it, and hit the targets downrange. We clear?"
"Crystal." James scanned the parts. Cortana displayed the weapon schematics in a HUD of his eye. He went for the Beretta 92F—his preferred pistol, with the highest round count: fifteen.
"Begin."
James moved in a blur. Both hands grabbed pieces and clicked them together. As adrenaline kicked in, his perception slowed and everything around him felt weightless.
The pistol snapped together, the clip loaded, and he emptied all fifteen rounds into the bullseye before ejecting the magazine and racking the slide one last time.
"Perfect performance. Total time: 35 seconds." The instructor looked stunned. "You're done here. Head to the main entrance—the driving instructor's waiting."
James raised a brow but complied. Downstairs, a gruff man handed him a key.
"There's a car in the garage. Find it. Instructions are inside. Go."
No electronic fob. No remote. Just a plain key. Wesley glanced at the logo—Ford Mustang. He jogged to the garage entrance, found a camera monitor, and checked where the Mustang was parked. Second floor. He ran.
He reached the car, unlocked it manually, and found a folder in the passenger seat. Opening it, he glanced over the instructions, then started the engine and rolled out.
Destination: the same yacht club he and Carlos had visited before.
Traffic was light, so he pushed the car close to the speed limit but never broke it. This was about precision, not recklessness.
At the yacht club, Ross stepped outside, recognizing the driver of the car. "Mr. James —"
James raised a finger to his lips. "Shhh."
Ross got the message and stepped back.
James sprinted to a small speedboat, jumped in, started it, and took off toward open water.
Ross blinked. "Assessment, huh?" He smiled and shook his head. "Of course it is."