Chapter 93 - Tools of the Trade
By early afternoon, the lighthearted banter over property lines shifted into physical labor as Henderson dragged out his toolbox, saws, and bags of quick-setting concrete to begin framing the foundation of the infamous gazebo.
My father and I rolled up our sleeves, joining in to help level the ground and drive the primary wooden stakes deep into the rich Indiana soil. It felt remarkably therapeutic. For years, my hands had known the cold, sterile weight of carbon-fiber sniper rifles, encrypted mobile terminals, and tactical detonators. Now, feeling the rough grain of cedar wood, the weight of a heavy framing hammer, and the rhythmic swing of physical effort felt like an anchor pulling me back to reality.
"You're swinging that hammer like a man who used to clear rooms for a living," Henderson muttered, pausing to wipe sweat from his forehead as he watched me drive a six-inch galvanized nail straight through a crossbeam with three clean, powerful strikes.
"Just structural integrity, Arthur," I replied smoothly, adjusting my grip on the handle. "You want this roof to hold up against the winter snow, you can't cut corners on the load-bearing joints."
My father chuckled softly from the other side of the frame, handing me a fresh nail. "He’s a perfectionist, Arthur. Always has been. Whether he's drafting tactical extraction routes or framing a backyard gazebo, everything has to be plumb and level."
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"Well, I appreciate the craftsmanship," Henderson grinned, patting me on the shoulder. "Far better than hiring those contractors from out of town who charge an arm and a leg just to crack your foundation."
I smiled back, driving the nail home with one final, satisfying blow. Out of town contractors—a phrase that used to mean extraction teams, shadow brokers, and corporate assassins. Now, it just meant bad handymen. The transformation was complete. I wasn't an operative anymore. I was just Marcus, a son helping his father and his neighbor build a wooden roof under an autumn sky.
