by Rachel Renee
The Professor
The Cauley Files
Rachel Renee
Copyright © 2018 Rachel Renee/Rachel Morgenthal
All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Editing by Audrey Bobak
Cover Design by Alora Kate at Cover Kraze
Formatting by AB Formatting
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Thank You!
Acknowledgments
Also by Rachel Renee
About the Author
1
2007
“Agent Cauley? Are you ready to make this sacrifice?”
Agent Cauley. I like the sound of that. I look to the man giving the orders, no telling how far my eyes are bugging out of my head. His expression is unchanged. Am I ready for this? When I accepted the offer to work for the CIA, I thought it would be a while before I got an assignment, any assignment. Here I am, a few months on the job, just recently graduated from college, and they want to send me overseas to hunt down a rogue operative who’s working against the United States, sharing information with the Italians. “He knows everyone else,” my superior says. “He will never suspect you because you don’t fit the profile,” I’ve been told. “With your dark hair and olive skin, you’ll easily pass as Italian,” was the latest confession as to the agency’s reasoning.
Am I ready? “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I finally answer. The stern man stares at me across the desk, no indication that he even heard what I said. Or maybe he’s reading me, trying to decide if I meant what I spoke. My lips part to say the words once more, when a small grin appears on his face.
“Pack your bags. You leave in two hours.”
I start to utter the words aloud but think better of it. The lieutenant is uncompromising, expecting nothing but respect and cooperation after every order. If I bulk at all, he’ll regret his decision. But, two hours? That’s no time at all. I nod to the man and stand from my seat before speaking. “Yes sir,” I answer.
“Don’t let me down, agent. This could mean great things for you within our organization.”
“I won’t,” I tell the man, planning to do whatever it takes to prove myself. Although, I feel anything but confident in this moment.
Training the last few months was intense. Twelve-hour days at the facility, a few field assignments around the Savannah area, even a couple of items I was forced to work on in my downtime. I hadn’t fully realized, until this afternoon, that I was being groomed for a position as a clandestine service agent. Being a field agent in a foreign country was the end goal, but I’m young and inexperienced, so I thought it wouldn’t happen for years. Firearms certification, interrogation training, information technology, and obscure objects training (lock picking, computer files transfer, etc.) should have clued me in. Plus, the fact that they were forcing me to brush up on my Italian should have been an indicator that there was a plan in place for me. Apparently, my lieutenant had a job in mind the moment I entered the program. I just needed more training. The training that I’ve been undergoing recently.
Walking out of the stark-white office, I close the large wooden door behind me, lean my head against the plain white wall of the hallway and just breathe. The agency has faith in me, so I must have done something to prove my worth.
There’s a lot that needs to be done in a little amount of time, which means I need to get my shit together and get going. After pushing off the surface of the wall, I march toward the entrance of the building.
Who should I contact to let them know I’m leaving? My parents are hundreds of miles away, but I think to send them a message just to let them know they may not hear from me for a while. We aren’t as close as we used to be, but they may worry if they call and I don’t respond for weeks.
During training, we were told that our life could become a series of moves back and forth through this reality. They suggested that if we weren’t in a serious relationship, we should consider not becoming part of one for the foreseeable future. Families are often torn apart and if there’s no family to destroy, the better we will be at our job because our work will be our only focus. When I graduated from high school and left for the military, my parents moved away from Georgia and started new lives, separately. I don’t have to worry about my family holding me back. They have their lives and now, I have mine.
My girlfriend, if you can call her that, is another story. She has her whole life ahead of her and is quite busy working on that. Should I tell her that I’m leaving? Ask her to wait for me? Eliza, the one I shouldn’t be thinking about at this moment, is working her way through college, going into the police academy and starting a career of her own.
There’s no telling how long I’ll be on this first mission and no way to explain to her what I’m doing without giving myself away. Rule number one, don’t let anyone in on your missions. You may become a new person, attain a new identity for a non-specified amount of time and sent to only God knows where, but you may not share any specifics with anyone outside of those whose mission is the same as yours.
It’s not worth risking it. I’ll disappear for a month or however long it takes, and when I come back, I’ll tell her that I’m a CIA operative and I’d been sent on my first mission without warning. Then apologize for not telling her I was leaving or even when I’d be back. I think she’ll understand it better than if I tell her I’m leaving for work and then can’t explain any other details. No need to break things off with her because what we have has never been defined. Although I always wanted it to be clarified, I never pushed because we have both been so focused on our future careers. That’s what connected me to her in the first place. She knows what she wants, she loves her community, our country, and she wants to serve and protect. We have a lot of the same goals.
I’m not your typical twenty-something out partying or bringing home a new girl every weekend. Being from the south, I was raised to be a gentleman and to treat all women with respect and dignity. Then there’s the fact that I was taught my career should come first. Everything else would fall into place later. My father instilled a strong work ethic in me, raised me like a military recruit from the beginning. Right out of high school, I enlisted. My father retired from the army and he was my hero. So, I always knew the military would play some part in my future as well.<
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After basic training, I started college and finished up two bachelor degrees, one of each in biological engineering and international relations, in record time. I didn’t want a career in the army, it was just a stepping stone. With the army and college degrees under my belt, I applied for and was accepted into the Professional Trainee program through the CIA in Georgia. I was sent directly to their Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Glynco. After that, I was given a bigger role in the agency, although I was still pushing pencils every day.
About nine months ago, I met a sweet older woman at the grocery store just outside of Savannah. We ran into each other twice, literally, and after the second time, she started talking to me, asking me all sorts of questions. By the time I was at the checkout line, I was giving her my number because she said she wanted me to meet her daughter who was as driven and focused on her career as I seemed to be. Said we should have coffee, talk about life and see where it led us. I wasn’t going to give her the number. I didn’t have time for dating, but she was extremely persistent and sweet, so I figured it couldn’t hurt.
Within the week, Janice Sheppard called and set up a time for me to meet her daughter. When I pulled up to the cute little house a few blocks from the grocery, I was so nervous, feeling like I’d been duped. No college-age girl was living in this perfectly manicured home alone. And, there were three cars in the drive, so I knew there were going to be other people involved in this meeting, which was not expected.
I sucked it up though, never being a person to skirt away from an obligation. When I knocked on the door shoved atop a small set of brick stairs and perfectly centered between window boxes overflowing with flowers, the woman from the grocery embraced me like I was her long-lost son home from war. She quickly ushered me into the home before I could say another word. Janice introduced me to her husband, Gregory, a local police officer and then introduced me to the dark-haired beauty looking just as shocked at my appearance as I’m sure my face displayed.
After short introductions, Eliza Sheppard and I left the home, with both parents’ approval, and had a coffee date that lasted until they were turning the lights out at the café. The rest is history, they say. Between her schooling, mine, work, and her doing everything she could to get into the police academy, we didn’t have much time to spend with each other. If we couldn’t physically get together, we would talk late into the night on the phone, often falling asleep to each other’s voices—that is, until recently.
Over the last few months, the director sent me through multiple training models. I was tasked with continuing my education through online coursework within the CIA University and had multiple briefings with the CIA director in charge of my division. I rarely had any time to spend with Eliza, physically or over the phone. I knew the CIA was grooming me for something. I just didn’t realize it was for something so immediate.
By the time I reach the parking lot, my mind is made up. I came into this job alone, I will complete it on my own. Besides, I can’t ask someone that I’m not married to to wait around for me. If she’s unattached when I return, I will try to make things right. If not, I may still try to make things right, me leaving without a word. I won’t try to disrupt her life too much. Which is also what I’m trying to do by not telling her now.
The clock on the dash reads 22:14 as I turn the ignition over in my Chevy. I realize I have less than the allotted two hours to get home and pack up some things. I also need to let my landlord know that I’m leaving. He knows that I work for the CIA, in fact, everyone in my building does, so the man who owns our apartment knows the procedure for our assignments. One perk of the job.
By the time my watch reads 24:00, I’m at the airport awaiting my first flight as a CIA agent. Rome, Italy, is my destination and Paolo Rubio, AKA Darren Sanders, is my objective.
2
It’s funny how a trained mind works. I spent the twelve hours it took me to fly across the ocean and enter Italy learning everything I could about Paolo Rubio. I didn’t think twice about my decision or second-guess anything I was doing. I was focused, a man on a mission. The mission named Paolo Rubio. Fifty-two, agent with the CIA since 1987. Seems he has traveled the world but has called Italy home for over ten years. His wife is an Italian native, which I assume is why they settled in the country. Rubio has one son, nearly eighteen, and they both have a penchant for fast cars and money. Money that Rubio isn’t acquiring from his job as an agent. Which is why they suspect Paolo is selling secrets, secrets that I have not been informed of yet, so that they have money for the nicer things in life. I have one objective to complete by any means necessary. I’m prepared to achieve my mission as we make our final descent into Rome.
The moment the plane tires skid across the tarmac, my heart skips a beat and practically jumps out of my throat. What in the world do I think I’m doing? I can’t hunt down a trained CIA Agent. One who’s been a part of the division for more than twenty years. I’ve been with the CIA for a year. One year! I just became an official agent less than twenty-four hours ago. Paolo is going to make me the moment he lays his eyes on me.
Panic creeps in the instant the door opens and the people aboard the aircraft start disembarking. The man sitting directly in front of me eyes me suspiciously as he grabs his bag from the overhead compartment. I’m trying to pull myself together. Trying to be the agent I told my superior that I was, that I need to be.
A hand is reaching over the seat, a brown paper bag at its end. “A few deep breaths, soldier,” the man tells me. “You’ve got this.”
I look into the man’s sincere brown eyes before taking the bag from him and placing it open at the base of my lips. Breathe, I tell myself, and breathe is what I do. After the fourth exhale, my mind has cleared and my heart has slowed, so I remove the bag and look back up at the man who handed me my sanity. He’s not there. I peer out into the aisle, and the man with the knowledge of my plight is nowhere to be seen.
I take the brown bag, close it, and fold it neatly before placing it in the bag that I’m retrieving from my own overhead bin. I tell myself that I’ll not need it again, but I don’t know if I’m being honest about that thought, so I keep it just in case. By the time I’ve exited the plane, I’m feeling calmer and more collected—the man I’ve been training to be.
Objective one: Find where they are unloading the luggage.
Objective two: Head to the terminal that leads to public transportation where I’ll meet my guide. He’ll be holding a white sign with the name Niccolo Esposito, my mission name, written in some form and black print across the front.
The last document I opened before the plane landed was my file. The role I’m supposed to be playing. Esposito is what threw me over the edge. It means exposed. Why would they give me that last name? Clearly, someone who doesn’t know their Italian concocted the plan and the more I thought about it, the more I thought about everything. How I got to this point. What I’m sacrificing to do this job. I’d come to grips with it all long ago, before I even accepted my appointment within the CIA organization, so why I’m questioning it now is beyond me.
I give myself until the moment my luggage is being dragged behind me to dwell on anything negative that is coming my way. The moment the sliding doors open and the warm Italian air hits me in the face, I’m no longer Liam Cauley, but Niccolo Esposito, the Florence Italian, coming to Rome for the summer on school holiday, le vacanze scolastiche.
I’m now the new professor teaching at the college Paolo Rubio’s son, Santi, will be attending in the fall. Meeting Santi is the very first part of this mission. He’s staying near the apartments that I’ll be living in while here in Rome. I was given the name of the caffé that he frequents, which has been determined to be where my first meeting with him will take place. After befriending the son, it’s our hope that he will take me home to Papa Rubio. That’s when the real assignment will begin.
I peer around the bustling parking lot ahead of me. The sidewalk is filled with so many peopl
e, it’s hard to make out the fact that someone is here waiting, holding a sign with my name on it. Scanning the perimeter for the third time, I finally see an older gentleman, slightly taller than me, at least six-three, waving a white sign frantically over his head and staring directly at me. N. Esposito is written in script across the front and the man holding it is now scowling in my direction.
Moving as quickly as I can through the multitude of civilians also trying to get to their destinations takes longer than I would have liked. Apparently, longer than my contact would have liked as well. The sign he was waving was shoved in the front seat and my bag was ripped from my hands the moment I arrived.
“Get in, entra,” he’s shouting after throwing my luggage in the trunk. I’m standing still, my mouth agape as I watch this man, fully grown beard, eyes a light blue, manhandling my things and now doing the same to me.
“I’m going,” I tell him. “What’s the rush?” My legs are carrying me to the back door that’s awaiting me, the man’s large hands grasping what he can of my bicep.
“Rubio’s flight is arriving any minute and we don’t want to take any chances of you being seen before you’re supposed to.”
“Shit,” I utter, now hustling to get in the vehicle.