eval!”
The words came barreling into her hiding
spot as though shouted over a megaphone. Rachel blinked. Had she
said that out loud?
No. The voice was too deep to be hers. But
whomever it belonged to was spot on in their assessment.
“Dangit, get a grip,” Rachel muttered
through clenched teeth.
Awesome little pep talk. So didn’t
help.
Still feeling like a fraud, still totally
unprepared for what might be waiting for her on the far side of the
big rectangular cyclops, she patted the top of her head. The
sunglasses she’d tucked up there when she’d come in were still in
place. She pulled them down. At least the near-opaque aviators
would mask the anxiety in her violet-blue eyes. They also made her
look the part of ultra-confident, newly appointed senior Staff
Operations Officer. Well, at least they had when she’d tried them
out in the mirror this morning— while doing Charlie’s Angels poses. ‘Cause if you’re gonna be a fraud, be the best damn fraud
that ever did fake it.
Smith and Wesson in her unsteady grip, she
inched forward in a crouch. From her low position, she peeked
around the jamb and counted heads. Three people total: one white
male, gray hair, legs planted wide and hands on his hips, standing
about ten feet from where Rachel played voyeur. Farther away was
another male, ethnicity uncertain as his back was to her, though
white or Hispanic if she had to guess by the thick dark hair. By
his build, he was much younger than the first guy. He hunched over,
hands braced on the arm of the couch, caging the jean-clad thighs
of the young black woman perched there.
Rachel’s brows knit. Two males one female.
All three fitting the descripts Dougie— rather, SOO Fletch… er… former SOO Fletcher had left for her. This was the team
she’d come to meet.
So who fired the shot?
And who was the target?
Only one way to find out.
Legs jiggly as lime Jell-o, she struggled to
regain her height. Once vertical, Rachel swallowed her nerves,
rounded the jamb, and held the gun high in a classic Weaver stance—
arms out straight, one shoulder angled toward the targets.
“H-hands!” She cleared her throat to hide
that wobble in her voice.
The male closest to her twisted his head in
her direction and groaned. “Great. A witness to this dysfunction.”
A little louder, “Children, behave. We have company.” He motioned
to her with a flick of his wrist. “You can holster your weapon,
agent.”
Rachel stood her ground. “Want to tell me
who fired that shot?”
The man in the back angled his head over his
shoulder slowly. He eyed her half a beat, then turned back to the
woman. Something was said that didn’t carry, and then he stepped
away, facing Rachel fully. It was then she saw the gun in the
woman’s expert grip, the barrel end tracking the man as he
moved.
Okay, one question answered.
The man shrugged out of his jacket and
tossed it onto the couch.
Rachel kept her weapon trained downrange.
“Anyone injured?”
“You don’t redirect that muzzle, there’s
gonna be a fatality,” the woman said, her voice all saccharine over
glass shards.
“Came close to death a minute ago.”
“Good thing you ducked, then. All that red
would’ve really messed up the bleach-white motif we’ve got goin’ on
in here.” The woman cocked her head. “Now check that muzzle before
mine finds a new target. Crystal?”
“Holster your weapon, agent,” the older man
snapped.
Was he talking to her? Yeah, that wasn’t an
option.
Rachel shook her head. “I’ll need to see
some IDs first.”
That directive was met with a round of
chuckles from the younger man and the woman.
Right. According to Fletcher, the people in
Bill Connolly’s Covert Response Unit —aka The Crew— might carry
government issued identification. Whether or not the name matched
the face, or if the name and face matched the country, was a
different story.
Tension coiled in the back of her neck. The
bag draped over her shoulder felt
The words came barreling into her hiding
spot as though shouted over a megaphone. Rachel blinked. Had she
said that out loud?
No. The voice was too deep to be hers. But
whomever it belonged to was spot on in their assessment.
“Dangit, get a grip,” Rachel muttered
through clenched teeth.
Awesome little pep talk. So didn’t
help.
Still feeling like a fraud, still totally
unprepared for what might be waiting for her on the far side of the
big rectangular cyclops, she patted the top of her head. The
sunglasses she’d tucked up there when she’d come in were still in
place. She pulled them down. At least the near-opaque aviators
would mask the anxiety in her violet-blue eyes. They also made her
look the part of ultra-confident, newly appointed senior Staff
Operations Officer. Well, at least they had when she’d tried them
out in the mirror this morning— while doing Charlie’s Angels poses. ‘Cause if you’re gonna be a fraud, be the best damn fraud
that ever did fake it.
Smith and Wesson in her unsteady grip, she
inched forward in a crouch. From her low position, she peeked
around the jamb and counted heads. Three people total: one white
male, gray hair, legs planted wide and hands on his hips, standing
about ten feet from where Rachel played voyeur. Farther away was
another male, ethnicity uncertain as his back was to her, though
white or Hispanic if she had to guess by the thick dark hair. By
his build, he was much younger than the first guy. He hunched over,
hands braced on the arm of the couch, caging the jean-clad thighs
of the young black woman perched there.
Rachel’s brows knit. Two males one female.
All three fitting the descripts Dougie— rather, SOO Fletch… er… former SOO Fletcher had left for her. This was the team
she’d come to meet.
So who fired the shot?
And who was the target?
Only one way to find out.
Legs jiggly as lime Jell-o, she struggled to
regain her height. Once vertical, Rachel swallowed her nerves,
rounded the jamb, and held the gun high in a classic Weaver stance—
arms out straight, one shoulder angled toward the targets.
“H-hands!” She cleared her throat to hide
that wobble in her voice.
The male closest to her twisted his head in
her direction and groaned. “Great. A witness to this dysfunction.”
A little louder, “Children, behave. We have company.” He motioned
to her with a flick of his wrist. “You can holster your weapon,
agent.”
Rachel stood her ground. “Want to tell me
who fired that shot?”
The man in the back angled his head over his
shoulder slowly. He eyed her half a beat, then turned back to the
woman. Something was said that didn’t carry, and then he stepped
away, facing Rachel fully. It was then she saw the gun in the
woman’s expert grip, the barrel end tracking the man as he
moved.
Okay, one question answered.
The man shrugged out of his jacket and
tossed it onto the couch.
Rachel kept her weapon trained downrange.
“Anyone injured?”
“You don’t redirect that muzzle, there’s
gonna be a fatality,” the woman said, her voice all saccharine over
glass shards.
“Came close to death a minute ago.”
“Good thing you ducked, then. All that red
would’ve really messed up the bleach-white motif we’ve got goin’ on
in here.” The woman cocked her head. “Now check that muzzle before
mine finds a new target. Crystal?”
“Holster your weapon, agent,” the older man
snapped.
Was he talking to her? Yeah, that wasn’t an
option.
Rachel shook her head. “I’ll need to see
some IDs first.”
That directive was met with a round of
chuckles from the younger man and the woman.
Right. According to Fletcher, the people in
Bill Connolly’s Covert Response Unit —aka The Crew— might carry
government issued identification. Whether or not the name matched
the face, or if the name and face matched the country, was a
different story.
Tension coiled in the back of her neck. The
bag draped over her shoulder felt
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