by Smart, Kit
Love Me Better
NO SUCH UNIT HOPELESS ROMANTICS 1
Kit Smart
Copyright © 2019 Kit Smart
All rights reserved.
To my ever patient husband, the best partner in piracy a woman could want; My feline crew: Nemesis, Poppi, Leo and Mehduggi, and to the Special Agents—You know who you are.
1
Seri
AGENCY ADMISSION POLYGRAPH
DATE: 09/01/2018
SUBJECT: SERILDA K. HUNT
“Polygraph for Agency Admission. A few questions for control.” The polygraph tech; a decent looking blonde man in his late 30’s, peers at me from across the table as he speaks into the recorder.
“Your name is Serilda K. Hunt?”
“Yes.” I lean back in my chair and get settled in.
“K stands for Karma?”
“Yes. My mother had an odd sense of humor. She let my grandmother believe that the K stood for Katherine but—”
“Please limit yourself to yes or no answers Ms. Hunt.”
“You are 32 years old?”
“Yes.”
“You currently reside in Madrid?”
“No.”
“You speak four languages?”
“Yes. My parents travelled a lot—”
“Please limit yourself to yes or no answers.” The tech reminded me with some severity.
“Yes.”
“You have eight university degrees?”
Was that judgement? That sounded like judgement. “I had alternative schooling as a child and was able to begin post-secondary education early.”
“Again, please limit yourself to yes or no answers.”
“Yes.”
“One of your degrees is in Program and Event Management?”
“Yes.”
“You also have a degree in Weapon Engineering?”
“Yes.”
“And another in psychology.”
“Health Psychology. Yes.”
“You have diverse interests.”
“Yes.” No need to elaborate. Nobody at the agency needs to know that you just sign up for things that sound interesting. The only thing that possibly saves you from looking flaky is the pedigree of the institutions from which you obtained these degrees and the fact that your parents are essentially academic nomads.
“Prior to obtaining these degrees, you were home schooled by your parents?” He gives me the ‘homeschooled freak’ look. Being agency, he’s more subtle about it than most, but a lifetime of experience has conditioned me to pick up on it and I don’t miss it.
“Yes, we lived on a boat and travelled—Yes.”
“Your mother is a linguist and your father is an archaeologist?”
“Yes.”
“Okay Serilda, I’m going to ask you some personal questions.”
“Seri.”
“Like the iPhone?”
“No. Not Siri. Seri. Long e sound.”
The Polygraphist gave me a look over the top of his glasses. “Okay. Seri I’m going to ask you some personal questions.
“Yes?”
“You told us in your vetting interview that your last job before applying to the agency was as a field coordinator with Doctors Without Borders?
“Yes.”
“And before that you were a barista?”
“Yes.”
“With all of your education, you decided to work as a barista?”
“Yes.” There’s that judgement again.
“Why?”
“That’s not a yes or no question.”
“Humor me.”
“I was interested in learning about coffee.” Because coffee is awesome.
“You do things simply because they interest you?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Barely. “Yes.”
“You are independently wealthy?”
“Yes.”
“Because you made a small fortune trading stocks online?”
“No.”
“You inherited money from your paternal grandmother?”
“No.”
“You inherited money from your maternal grandmother?”
“Yes.”
“Enough to do whatever strikes your fancy?”
“Yes.”
“And here you are.” That is some unimpressed condescension right there.
“Yes.”
“And your last romantic relationship was with one of the doctors that you were working with?”
“Yes.”
“A foreign national?”
“Yes.”
“South Korean?”
“Yes.”
“And you met abroad?”
“Yes.”
“In Afghanistan?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds spontaneous.”
“Isn’t love always?”Again that’s not a yes or no question.
“So, you were in love?”
“Yes.”
“The sex was good?”
“No.” I shrug. “The sex was amazing. Something about all the adrenalin and danger I suppose.”
“It ended when he returned to South Korea?”
“Yes.”
“You felt badly about it?”
“No.” At the polygraphist’s look I offer another shrug. “Not all relationships are meant to end in a happily ever after.”
2
Seri
“Do you have a plan?”
Question of the day. I slant a brief glance at my battle buddy before returning my focus to the tableau in front of me: Four hostiles, each armed with a gun approaching the stack of pallets that conceal four of our team mates. Our unarmed team mates. “Yeah. I have a plan.” I scan the warehouse floor in front of me running through scenarios as I do so.
“Is it a good one?”
“I have a plan.” I reiterate as I glance fully at my partner. I take in the wet hair and clothes that testify to his own recent escape from waterboarding. No weapons, no comms, four armed hostiles bent on capturing and then dragging us back to their base of operations for a round of torture and interrogation. Another round of torture and interrogation. I shift closer to him and have to bite back a curse as my feet, freshly bruised and bloodied from my own round with the interrogators, scream in protest. “I’ll distract them. You run out that way, and rendezvous with the others.”
He gives me a baleful look, which, I more than likely deserve. “Do the others know of your plan?”
“No. They’ll figure it out.” Hopefully.
This time I get a raised eyebrow, and a doubtful nod in the direction of our four team mates trapped behind the stack of pallets with no escape route—sans running directly past the enemy agents. “I wouldn’t put money on it.”
“Do you have a better plan?”
“We take the chance to get out of here now while we can.”
I follow his glance to the open door behind us. We have the perfect chance to leave most likely sight unseen. Regret. “That is probably the more sensible choice.”
“But you’re not going to go with it are you?”
I shrug to show that I know how stupid what I am about to do is. “No.”
“Because you can’t just leave them there.” It wasn’t a question.
“Because I can’t just leave them there.” I agree.
“Just like you couldn’t leave me.” His tone is this peculiar combination of resignation, determination, and something like admiration, that I’ve never heard before.
“Yes.”
“You’re certifiable.”
“I know.” I agree with a nod. “Ready?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice.”
That earns me the sid
eways version of baleful. “Says the woman about to pick a fight she’s not ready for.” He mutters. Yeah. Let’s do this.” And with a crooked little smile that is no more than a twist of the lips he’s gone; crouched low to the ground and moving swiftly for the door. The door that I would be running for if I had any common sense.
I wait until, he has his hand on the door handle. When he looks back at me over his shoulder, I dart out into the center of the room.
Despite knowing that it will do me very little good with my four gun toting opponents, I swipe a box cutter off of a nearby packing station as I move forward.
I expect them to hear me and turn around as I move towards them, but my training serves me in ill stead, and instead, I find myself standing there, in the middle of the room, unseen and unheard.
I have a good ten seconds to internally debate my next move before one of the hostiles decides the matter for me and starts to pivot in my direction. At which point, instinct just sort of takes over, and I launch myself at the hostile nearest to me.
I know I can’t win in hand-to-hand combat against all four of them. I’m just a trainee, I probably can’t even win against this one guy. He has years of training and experience on me. As well as a good forty kilos. But, seriously, you have to give these things a shot while you’re alive right?
I experience a fleeting moment of satisfaction when I manage to wrap a hand around my opponent’s neck, only to find myself on my back looking up at him in the next moment as I struggle to regain the breath he’d knocked out of me when he’d flipped me over his shoulder onto the cold, unforgiving concrete floor in response to my attempted neck grab.
It takes a second for me to remember that I’m in a fight, but when I do, I kick out my right leg in an attempt to knock him on his ass.
Somewhat surprisingly, the random kick works, and he lands on his back with an ugly grunt that satisfies me right down to my aching and bruised shoulder blades.
Scrambling across the floor with speed fueled by desperation, I manage to get one hand on the man’s gun and twist myself around so that I’m aiming it in the direction of the three hostiles still on their feet. Realizing almost instantly that I should probably have opted to use the man on the floor beside me as a human shield, I push myself slowly to my feet.
It occurs to me, as I stare down at the three hostiles pointing their weapons at me, to be grateful for the yoga practice that allowed me to push myself up without the use of my hands. Because this is the most productive thing to be thinking about at a time like this. Maybe you should focus on what your next move is here Hunt.
“Is that a knife?” One of the hostiles asks with an impressive lack of interest. I take in his relaxed stance and the slightly bored expression on his face, see that both the stance and the expression are more or less mirrored by the other two and I have to give it to them. I’ve literally made an entire series of the worst choices I could possibly make here. I wouldn’t be very impressed by me if I were in your shoes either. “It is. Do you have a problem with that?” I keep my tone calm and conversational as I frantically try to think of a next move that will either end in my escaping from my current circumstances, or at the very least, in doing something that won’t make me look like a total waste of space when my performance comes up for review post exercise.
“It’s rather an odd choice.”
“People carry knives sometimes.” I can’t think of a damn thing, aside form going with them and hoping for a future opportunity to escape. Yeah, things will get so much easier when you’re weaponless and have your hands zip-tied behind your back. Maybe, I should just run for it and hope that they miss or somehow don’t shoot anything too vital…
“Not to a gun fight.”
He has me there. “Touché.” I mutter a tad ungraciously for want of anything else to say. Since, I am coming up with nothing on my own, I survey the room for inspiration. Surely, there is something that I can use to my advantage; something my opponents hadn’t considered.
“You lost princess?” Knife Fight Guy asked. I need to master the art of looking at things without moving my head or eyes. Clearly.
“No.” I nod in the direction from whence I’d launched myself into this mess. “I’m pretty sure the best escape route is through there. I do appreciate the concern though.” Literally the only escape route. I amend mentally as I raise myself onto the balls of my aching feet in preparation to make my move.
“You really think that’s a smart idea?” Knife Fight sounds only mildly curious.
“No.” No sense in prevaricating. We all know stupid when we see it.
“Good. I’d be concerned if you did.”
“I don’t need your concern.” I shift my weight forward slightly.
“Don’t do it Hunt. We’ll have you down and dead in two paces.”
“Good thing.” I hold Knife Fight’s gaze.
“Good thing?”
“Good thing we’re not using real bullets.” Reaching for every last ounce of energy in my body I lunge for the door. Hearing the sound of guns firing I then collapse onto my right foot the moment it hits the floor, and with a brutal joint grinding force that has me cringing internally over the amount of damage I am probably doing to my knee and ankle; reverse my direction.
Casting a prayer to the powers that be, that the abrupt reversal will buy me the second and a half I need; I don’t even bother to spare a glance in the direction of Knife Fight and his companions as I throw myself on top of the agent I’d knocked onto his back earlier.
Dropping the gun and knife on the center of his chest and grabbing two fistfuls of his tactical jacket in my fists, I use all of my strength to jerk myself backwards onto my back and bring him down on top of me.
Relief floods my body as I feel the gun dig into my clavicle. Thank the powers that be that that actually worked. Releasing his shirt, I grab the gun in my left hand and jerk my arm out from under him as I use my head to shove his head aside. Knowing that I have perhaps only a few seconds to press my advantage, I’m firing before I can really even see my targets.
The thunk of paint pellets hitting the body of my impromptu human shield reverberates through me and back in the corner of my mind that observes things and comments, I spare a moment to be grateful that they aren’t hitting me directly. I have enough bruises at the moment.
I had taken down one of the three agents, and have just managed to get a bead on Knife Fight when I find myself blinded by some kind of spotlight type thing. Determined, to go out fighting, I start firing in the direction of the light in the hopes that I can take it out and regain some of the vision I’d lost, before Knife Fight and his remaining back-up dancer can get to me. Not to mention the asshole with the light.
“Cadet Hunt! Cease Fire!”
Are you fucking kidding me?! I keep firing and manage to take out Knife Fight’s back up dancer before having to duck back under my human shield as Knife Fight redoubles his efforts, and a hail of paint pellets slams into the shoulders of the man on top of me. Better you than me. I tell him silently.
“God damn it Cadet Hunt! Cease fire!”
I squirm down until Human Shield’s shoulder is tucked over my head and draw a bead on Knife Fight, who is, of course, doing all of the right things to make himself a smaller target by laying on the floor with his arms outstretched in front of him as he fires at me. Can anybody say war of attrition?
“Cease FUCKING fire!” The disembodied voice roars again. Reflexively, I calculate his position and contemplate shooting him before ultimately deciding that since he isn’t shooting at me just yet, it would be best to deal with Knife Fight first.
Of course, I am currently getting nowhere with Knife Fight. Time to think of something Seri.
“CADET HUNT, this is your FINAL warning. CEASE FIRE NOW or I will have you brought up before a review board.”
I search the deep recesses of my brain for something, anything, like a brilliant plan to get me out of this situation, and find nothing. Distraction
it is again. “I don’t even work here yet.” I shout as I wriggle further under Human Shield. Review boards are for employees only right? “Tell him to stop firing first and I’ll consider it!”
Now more than halfway out from under the deadweight of Human Shield and still firing blindly, I suck in a deep breath and gather myself for the next part of my plan. Gotta get better at this planning stuff. Surely, there is some kind of book I can read or something?
Raising my right hand to Human Shield’s hip, I shove hard as I simultaneously stop firing at Knife Fight long enough to yank my gun hand out from under Human Shield’s body. I wait only long enough to be certain that my hand clears Human Shield’s deadweight before I lever myself up with a hard push on Human Shield’s hip and launch myself as hard as I can in the direction of Human Shield’s feet firing rapidly in the direction of Knife Fight as I fly through the air.
To my utter surprise, I see a burst of yellow paint blossom on Knife Fight’s neck guard and am deeply satisfied by it when I hit the ground with bruising force.
Because, despite my dismal Super Hero Landing attempt, I somehow manage to land mostly on my shoulder and right hand, I still very much have my air and am therefore able to twist onto my back and fire a round in the direction of the Disembodied Voice.
I have another brief moment of satisfaction as yellow explodes against the chest of Disembodied Voice before the world steadies a bit and I am able to see clearly that I have not shot a hostile playing their part in the orchestration of some sort of elaborate plot designed to recapture me and drag me off for more interrogation. No, I have shot an M.P..
A very irritated M.P. Who shoots me a scathing look as he fingers the yellow goo splattered all over the front of his pristine uniform. Naturally, as he isn’t part of the exercise, he isn’t wearing body armor. “Ma’am, the director would like to see you.”
I look around at all of the downed hostiles who, with the exception of Human Shield are now busy collecting themselves and regaining their feet. “Now?”
The M.P. levels a piercing look at me. “Ten minutes ago.”
So much for my moment of victory. Pushing myself to my feet, I set the safety on my gun and briefly debate tucking it into the waistband of my pants before ultimately offering both it and my box cutter to Knife Fight who has pushed himself to his feet and is casting speculative looks at me and the M.P.s as he puts himself to rights.