I always trust Mercedes’ Metal Works whenever I have a new assignment.
I slip into Mercedes’ one drizzly night, finding her hard at work with a torch in one hand, & prodding hot metal into shape with a chopstick in the other. When she looks up, she slid off her tinted glasses with a smirk of expectant surprise.
“Well, Ms. Guienalei,” she lilts. “You only swing by when you switch roles. What stroke of fate & management sends you my way this time?”
“Penetration job,” I say simply. “I need a new tag.”
Mercedes waves her hand at me. “I know the drill by now; but what in el nombre de Dios do you do with these?”
“They help me hide out in the open. It gives them something by which to identify me.”
She gives me a look. “Doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose of the secrecy involved in spying?”
I smirk in reply. “Not really. After I make my move, the clean-up crew goes in, questions everybody, & asks if they know anybody with my particular symbol. If they do, they say adios to recent memory associated with it.”