“Voice mail from P. Coulson, recorded on 12/01/2013 at 7:38 PM.”
"It’s me," he says, and his voice is ragged as if he’s been running hard. "I know we have a date at eight, which means you’re probably in the shower. I’m going to be late. Got something that just came up, and I don’t know how long I’ll be. You have my number, and if things go pear shaped, you know that the GPS in my phone is active."
There is silence for a moment.
"I’ll make it up to you tonight, I promise."
“Voice mail from P. Coulson, recorded on 12/01/2013 at 8:56 PM.”
"Hey," he says, and his voice is softer now. "Me again. I’m sorry. I won’t be able to make it up to you tonight. Looks like things are going more pear shaped than planned. Couple of old friends. Want to chat. I may not make it out. Right now they have me holed up on the roof. Don’t know when I’ll be back. If at all."
Silence, as if Phil is weighing his options. Then gunfire, and yelling.
"If I don’t come back, I love you. Always have. You should know. They’re coming up. I have to go. See you soon."
When Steve arrives at the last known trace location, only a smashed cellphone and a broad, viscous smear of blood marked the agent’s passing.