like a lead brick and her arms
started to shake from the strain of holding the gun. It was so much
easier to maintain a shooter’s stance on the range. Paper targets
had no faces. Didn’t shoot back, either, did they? And the
protective headphones really did a bang-up job of muffling the
retort.
In real time, with her ears ringing and
adrenaline and emotions and a near-death experience tucked in her
front pocket like a polka-dot hanky, aiming felt like
bench-pressing an elephant with just her pinky toes.
Pushing through the burn, she lifted her
arms a little higher, tried to relax her shoulders.
“Okay, I’ll settle for a roll call then,”
Rachel said, recovering. She bucked her chin. “And after Miss
Congeniality over there puts her piece away, mine will follow.”
“Agent,” the older man coaxed softly, “we’re
all on the same side here.” He flashed an easy smile that made him
look like everybody’s favorite grandpa. In his crisp buttoned-down
shirt and steel gray slacks, he was all set for a family portrait
followed by sweet tea and a rousing round of bingo. His cane, and
hair, and soft, watery eyes were out of place in this underground
facility.
“I’m not so sure we are on the same
side. I was just shot at by a member of your team.”
“No you weren’t.”
Three brisk words and grandpa was gone. A
hardened agent filled his loafers, and he took two deliberate steps
toward her, mouth in a sneer. Then his voice went positively
arctic.
“You look like the by-the-book type, so let
me dissuade you of that notion quickly before it ends up in an
‘unofficial’ official report. See, had you been shot at by a
member of my team, you’d be dead. You’re what, five-six? Buck
thirty, buck thirty-five?—” a dismissive snort— “We’d have you
bagged and buried between South and East Nonations by now.”
Every hair on Rachel’s body stood at
attention. She shifted her gaze a millimeter, locating the younger
man in the back. Though he wasn’t close, she could see his face was
a blank, giving away nothing and all the more evil for it. He
tipped his head to one side, slowly rocked his head to the other;
casually shook the small bag he held in his hand. Zero vacancies in
that double holster strapped beneath his armpits added to his
menace. A not so subtle reminder that some of the folks on the
CIA’s payroll did things that weren’t above-board.
And she’d just walked in on three of
them.
“‘That’s how a conspiracy works,” a softer
voice chimed in, affecting a raspy, Tennessee accent. Brow knit,
Rachel flicked her gaze to the woman on the couch. “‘Dem boys on
the grassy knoll…”
Rachel picked up on the quote. Who knew
watching Shooter over and over with Fletcher would finally
come in handy?
Were they playing with her?
“Alas, you’re still topside and breathing,”
the old man stated. “Not a strawberry blond hair is out of sorts,
is it? So you weren’t shot at by a member of my team, were you? No,
what happened, agent, is you almost walked in front of the door a
member of my team shot at. Understand the distinction.”
It sounded like a question, but the threat
wasn’t buried deep enough to have been so innocuous. His gaze bored
a hole through her Ray Bans, giving her the notion he saw right
through the capable and confident SOO act.
Definitely not a haze the rookie moment. No,
this was his team putting her on notice. She might run the mission
as far as Langley was concerned, but she wasn’t in control by any
stretch of the imagination. Either she got on board with that
or—
‘Or’ wasn’t an option.
Without her consent, her head bobbed. Then
the man’s eyes softened, and his voice lowered so that only she
could hear.
“I understand you’re new at this, Hayford,
and you’ve got big shoes to fill. So I’ll give you a tip: don’t
ever draw down on any member of my team. Of all the agents I
handle, one of the two in this room happens to be the sanest in
started to shake from the strain of holding the gun. It was so much
easier to maintain a shooter’s stance on the range. Paper targets
had no faces. Didn’t shoot back, either, did they? And the
protective headphones really did a bang-up job of muffling the
retort.
In real time, with her ears ringing and
adrenaline and emotions and a near-death experience tucked in her
front pocket like a polka-dot hanky, aiming felt like
bench-pressing an elephant with just her pinky toes.
Pushing through the burn, she lifted her
arms a little higher, tried to relax her shoulders.
“Okay, I’ll settle for a roll call then,”
Rachel said, recovering. She bucked her chin. “And after Miss
Congeniality over there puts her piece away, mine will follow.”
“Agent,” the older man coaxed softly, “we’re
all on the same side here.” He flashed an easy smile that made him
look like everybody’s favorite grandpa. In his crisp buttoned-down
shirt and steel gray slacks, he was all set for a family portrait
followed by sweet tea and a rousing round of bingo. His cane, and
hair, and soft, watery eyes were out of place in this underground
facility.
“I’m not so sure we are on the same
side. I was just shot at by a member of your team.”
“No you weren’t.”
Three brisk words and grandpa was gone. A
hardened agent filled his loafers, and he took two deliberate steps
toward her, mouth in a sneer. Then his voice went positively
arctic.
“You look like the by-the-book type, so let
me dissuade you of that notion quickly before it ends up in an
‘unofficial’ official report. See, had you been shot at by a
member of my team, you’d be dead. You’re what, five-six? Buck
thirty, buck thirty-five?—” a dismissive snort— “We’d have you
bagged and buried between South and East Nonations by now.”
Every hair on Rachel’s body stood at
attention. She shifted her gaze a millimeter, locating the younger
man in the back. Though he wasn’t close, she could see his face was
a blank, giving away nothing and all the more evil for it. He
tipped his head to one side, slowly rocked his head to the other;
casually shook the small bag he held in his hand. Zero vacancies in
that double holster strapped beneath his armpits added to his
menace. A not so subtle reminder that some of the folks on the
CIA’s payroll did things that weren’t above-board.
And she’d just walked in on three of
them.
“‘That’s how a conspiracy works,” a softer
voice chimed in, affecting a raspy, Tennessee accent. Brow knit,
Rachel flicked her gaze to the woman on the couch. “‘Dem boys on
the grassy knoll…”
Rachel picked up on the quote. Who knew
watching Shooter over and over with Fletcher would finally
come in handy?
Were they playing with her?
“Alas, you’re still topside and breathing,”
the old man stated. “Not a strawberry blond hair is out of sorts,
is it? So you weren’t shot at by a member of my team, were you? No,
what happened, agent, is you almost walked in front of the door a
member of my team shot at. Understand the distinction.”
It sounded like a question, but the threat
wasn’t buried deep enough to have been so innocuous. His gaze bored
a hole through her Ray Bans, giving her the notion he saw right
through the capable and confident SOO act.
Definitely not a haze the rookie moment. No,
this was his team putting her on notice. She might run the mission
as far as Langley was concerned, but she wasn’t in control by any
stretch of the imagination. Either she got on board with that
or—
‘Or’ wasn’t an option.
Without her consent, her head bobbed. Then
the man’s eyes softened, and his voice lowered so that only she
could hear.
“I understand you’re new at this, Hayford,
and you’ve got big shoes to fill. So I’ll give you a tip: don’t
ever draw down on any member of my team. Of all the agents I
handle, one of the two in this room happens to be the sanest in
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