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He never expected to wake up again.
Because of his involvement with the Old Guard, he knew it was quite possible that he would end up with a premature death, or at least in some sort of danger. Of course, he didn’t truly expect that it would only be a few years from that monumental moment in his office.
He remembered the explosion that took out his front door. He remembered the group of mercenaries storming in. He remembered firing back, using one of the guns that Booker had left with him for safekeeping, only a week prior, when he came to check in.
He remembered getting shot in the head.
And that should have been the end of it. He should be with Anne. Away from the pain of loneliness.
Not staring up at satin.
Almost immediately everything came back to him. He took in his surroundings, as if he was still with the CIA and in training. Long but tight box, satin, solid. He was in one of his nicest suits, his wedding ring firmly on his finger.
The hint of finality was firm in the thin air.
He was dead and buried.
Well. Buried at least. Apparently not as dead as he thought.
He pushed against the top of the box - coffin, his overtaxed mind provided - and was surprised that it gave way. Only a little bit. But it did, with dirt starting to fill the box with every push.
Either he wasn’t buried as deep as he would have thought (isn’t it six feet under? Must research later), or the actual burial part wasn’t done yet. Praying for the latter, but expecting the former, he gave the lid a hard shove.
A cascade of loose dirt started packing him in. He started digging. Two feet, three, then air. He pushed the loose earth away from his face and used what was remaining of his strength to drag himself out of the hole.
In the middle of his back garden.
Well, at least he was close to home.
Still on his knees, still gasping for breath, he turned towards his home. Some windows had light spilling out, mainly the guest rooms and kitchen. Others were blocked by fabric, looking almost hastily nailed in place. He could actually make out the scent of burnt wood.
Had the attack only been hours prior?
A figure suddenly was silhouetted in the doorway from the kitchen. His vision was giving out, not enough air in his lungs yet. The sound of broken glass followed. Hurried footsteps. Hands helping him up, carrying him inside.
James Copley breathed clean air again. It wasn’t his time yet.