In the past few years, Richmond has seen its violent crime rate drop by nearly 22 percent. This is a testament to all of this city’s brave sworn officers, the integral leadership of former police chief Rodney Monroe, and my ease of sneaking up behind bad guys from the shadows and snapping their necks in complete silence.
Hey, wait. Who am I? Did I just get off a boat? Why am I all wet?
Whoa, crazy flashback. Back to my point. Much of the continuing crime in Richmond stems from problems in our inner-city neighborhoods, with drug deals gone bad and small bands of gang-related violence. Luckily, I understand the mentality of gang members, I’ve busted narcotics cartels in Eastern Europe, and I’m able to, with a double blow from two strong overhead strikes, break an arm at the Coronid fossa and lower ulna, causing the assailant to scream in agony before I flip backwards over his head and break the second henchman’s nose with my palm, then pistol-whip the third guy in the face with a 9mm SIG Sauer SP2009 handgun, without ever showing my own face to security cameras.
How do I even know such moves? Is Jason even my real name? And why do I have like 17 passports in this suitcase, each of them obviously a picture of me, but with different names?
Jesus, this is scary. The flashbacks keep coming. What was I even saying? Oh yes, crime stuff. Lower crime rates, I believe, are contributing to economic development efforts in the downtown areas of Broad Street, where nightlife is booming and art galleries thrive. Marie would have loved this place had she not been shot by an assassin, veering our car over a bridge, then drowning in an Indian river. But it’s great to know I can have a fun evening on the town with other friends, walking down in the streets, and not have to stay positioned alone for hours at a time in a third-story bathroom staring out a slightly-cracked window, gripping the cold, steel handle of a bolt-action Barrett M90 bullpup sniper rifle, just waiting for the target to enter the crosshairs.
How do I even have access to such a weapon? And why do I know more than three-dozen ways to tie a knot? What the hell is Operation Treadstone?
I’ve got to make this stop. But let me first finish my thoughts: the nefarious actions in this town aren’t going to stop themselves. I expect Richmond’s new police chief will step up patrols and put more “feet on the street,” pound a large dent into regional drug trafficking operations, and – if needed – I’ll pop in from time to time to kill a couple bad guys by inserting a Filipino bolo knife directly into their airways, felling any opponent in seconds.
Holy crap, I remember now! The white room. Operation Blackbriar. My name is not Jason Bourne. It’s David Webb! I’m CIA!
Awesome! It’s great to remember everything again! Look, I gotta run. This guy Desh has been on my tail now for like a week, flew all the way from the Mediterranean to Virginia to find me (safe to say I think he’s pretty determined to blow me up). Unlucky for him, though, I just happen to be the world’s greatest assassin/spy, or so I just found out.
By the way, shouldn’t you be at work? Oh, you’re telling me that you’re at the office now? I highly doubt that. Because if you were in your office, we’d be having this conversation face-to-face.