He sat up in bed and stretched. His back muscles and his joints ached, still stiff and not fully recovered from the previous day’s brawl. He repeatedly squeezed his fingers into fists and stretched them out straight. There were no cuts on his knuckles, but they hurt as if he had been the one bleeding. Although the x-rays had shown nothing wrong, the pain in the back of his left hand made him think hairline fracture.

He groaned as he stood, hoping his next job would be easier, and slowly shuffled his feet to the kitchenette.

The coffeemaker had failed to start again. He pulled down a mug and filled it with tap water, added a single coffee packet and put it in the microwave. The beeps of the machine’s buttons pounded his head.

His phone rang to indicate an incoming message. He grabbed it from the kitchen counter and flipped it open. “New mission: termination of Jason Bourne. Location: Madrid. Proceed now. Details to follow.”

“Who the hell is Jason Bourne?” he said.

No matter. He could finish that job, see a little of Madrid, and be back in time for Saturday night’s Florida State game.