Nike's Wings

by Valerie Douglas

  Most federal buildings she’d been in had been dark and relatively windowless, claustrophobic. She had a brief mental image of being enclosed in a dark, close space and pushed it away.

  Ringed around the outside of the central room on the lower floor were a series of quartered-off office spaces divided by opaque glass walls and the curved metal supports for the floor above. In the center of the area was a large conference table with video monitors suspended above it. It was a good arrangement. Not everyone would need to be in the actual meeting space to participate.

  “This is where we hold our weekly meetings, but I’ll explain about those later,” Ty said, gesturing around the open space. “To your left is the armory, to the right communications, we’ll hit those at the end of the tour.”

  He led her around to one of the workspaces, most empty at the moment.

  Nike was a little surprised to catch a glimpse of a photograph of Mitch and his sisters, all of them laughing, on one of the desks.

  “Each member of each team has their own work space. Mine is on the other side of the room,” he said and tipped his head in that direction.

  His was no different from hers, except for the location and a credenza for files. As hers did contained a broad work area, discreet file cabinets beneath the desk to each side and glass shelves above. It was airy and light.

  Buck was in his cubicle beside Ty’s on the phone. He gave them a smile and a nod when they looked his way.

  “Leave your gear here,” Ty said, sliding a hand down her arm lightly. He was too aware of the silky feel of her skin beneath his fingers even as he tried to pretend he wasn’t. He guided her toward the stairs.

  Her scent drifted to him, just a breath of it, something light, soft and sweet, like the ocean by a tropical island, soothing and calming.

  Few women affected him so deeply. Resolutely, he ignored the thought.

  “There are three teams currently, Alpha, Beta and Delta,” Ty said. “Each has different skill sets. As you’ve no doubt found, three members of each team keep them small, but mobile. You know Alpha. Beta has a similar configuration, mostly tactical like Alpha, but with more of a law enforcement mindset. Delta is emergency services, search and rescue and medic. Combining the teams gives us different configurations depending on the circumstances. We can also split them up.”

  “Delta is en route to the Midwest. The National Weather Service is calling for severe thunderstorms with the possibility of tornados. Part of our mandate is to be a national reaction team for any type of emergency, including natural disasters so I want them close at hand to provide support if necessary, to give us on the ground intel, to call for additional assistance, or fill in or coordinate until FEMA can get mobilized.”

  Her expression showing her surprise, Nike glanced at him. “So, it’s not just about shooting bad guys.”

  “No, it’s not,” Ty said with a smile. “That includes all the teams. If Delta needs help or backup, whether to search for victims or hold off looters, the next available team will respond. Including you and Alpha. As time is available each team will cross-train with the others. We also support the teams in the major metropolitan areas, as you saw in New York.”

  “The gym,” Ty said, as they reached the top of the stairs.

  Music thumped loudly.

  A number of very fit, very healthy men – all in various stages of their workouts – were using the equipment

  Like everything else in the building the gym was state of the art. Chrome gleamed. Mirrors were set to enable those working out to be certain they worked their muscles properly. Other than the surprisingly soft clank of the weights shifting against each other and the steady beat of feet on the treadmills, there was little noise other than the music. A man on the treadmill was obviously in the zone, his eyes unfocused, earphones in his ears so he could listen to his own music, his rhythm steady as sweat poured down over sculpted shoulders and abs.

  An open area was clearly intended for kata, yoga, or any other free-standing exercise.

  A tall balding dark-haired man supervised, advising and spotting where necessary.

  “Everyone in ops spends at least two hours daily in physical training between assignments or missions,” Ty waved the man over. “Either in basic PT like running and weights, or hand-to-hand combat and weapons training. Tony supervises to make sure no one risks injury. They do us no good if they’re down because of training accidents.”

  “Nike Tallent,” he said and gestured to the man who joined them, “meet Tony Ormond, ex-Navy Seal. Served in Iraq until he was injured. Now he’s with us.”

  Like most of the others, Tony was good-looking in a rugged kind of way with every inch of the muscle beneath his t-shirt ripped and toned.

  He shook her hand. “Pleasure.”

  She nodded as Ty moved on to complete the introductions.

  “Erik Anderson, team leader of Beta,” Ty said as the man carefully released the shoulder bar so the weights didn’t clash and clang. “Erik used to be with the FBI, now he’s with us.”

  A handsome man, Erik came over to say hello, wiping the sweat from his face, his café-au-lait skin gleaming, his eyes a curious shade of blue-gray.

  Nike shook his hand, not surprised to find his grip strong, but not crushing. Some said you could tell a lot about a man from his handshake, she’d found it to be true.

  “I read the report about what went down in New York,” Erik said. “Wouldn’t mind a demonstration.”

  She could tell he wasn’t certain how true any of it was, especially looking at the woman in front of him.

  Her mouth twitched a little.

  “I hope later,” she said, gesturing to her clothes. “I’m not dressed for it.”

  He laughed. “Fair enough. We’ll let you get acclimated first.”

  “Thanks,” Nike said.

  Continuing around the circuit of the building, they paused by a large door as Ty knocked.

  This section was obviously an office, separated by greenish opaque and clear glass panels from the rest of the space. It was probably an executive suite. It was the only one with blinds where there was clear glass. Blinds that were currently closed.

  “Come,” a deep, resonant voice called.

  Ty swung the door open, gestured Nike inside ahead of him.

  “Byron,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Nike Tallent. Nike, Byron Hood.”

  Whatever Byron had expected after reading the report on the incident in New York it wasn’t the woman who stood in his doorway. He’d been expecting some kind of Amazon not a nymph. If he hadn’t heard from both Ty and Buck and received the reports from Mark Foster, he might have doubted it.

  The report he’d received from the CIA hadn’t been any more illuminating. In fact, it had been startling in its paucity, despite his request for more information; it had contained only a little more personal information than they’d given Ty and places where she’d seen service. That last had been disturbing. Few of the international hot spots had been missed. While they gave her exemplary recommendations, they’d also given no specifics as to her assignments. What was it Churchill had said? A puzzle wrapped inside an enigma. Churchill had been referring to Russia, but it certainly seemed to apply to Nike Tallent.

  He rose and walked around his desk to greet her.

  “General Hood,” she said, quietly. “It’s an honor.”

  “We don’t stand on ceremony much around here,” Byron said.

  There was a place for it he felt, especially in something as monolithic as the service - but not here. Here he wanted the kind of camaraderie you found in a tight-knit unit. “Besides, I’m retired. Here I’m just Byron. Welcome aboard. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  She had a good firm handshake. The eyes behind the yellow glasses were still, steady. The sense of containment around her was astonishing. Byron found himself liking her in spite of it.

  His overall impression of her was good. He just wished he knew more.

  Nike stu
died him. His hair was dusted with gray, the only real sign of his age. Like most of the men here he was tall and well-built, but unlike most military men she’d met his eyes were surprisingly warm and kind. Few people in the world impressed her, but this man was one of them.

  That kindness was somehow unexpected and unsettling.

  “Later, Byron. I just wanted to do the initial introductions. Come on, Niki,” Ty said, his fingers lightly brushing the small of her back, “I’ll show you around the rest of the unit.”

  Another string of offices ran along this side of the second level, the only sound the steady tapping of fingers on computer keyboards.

  “Below is operations and communications, up here is data analysis,” Ty said quietly. “We have our own analysts, but each member of the tactical teams also has an assigned area of specialty, as will you. One thing we learned from 9/11 was that there was a difference between analyzing data and seeing it on the ground. There’s a difference in viewpoints. We want to prevent that kind of blindness. That’s also why all our teams and groups are small. Bureaucracy is the death of efficiency.”

  As they approached the first office, a woman stood and came to meet them halfway, almost stepping between Nike, Ty and the cubicles behind her.

  With a thin smile Ty said, “Nike Tallent, Anita Brubaker, our lead systems analyst.”

  Of a height with Nike, Anita Brubaker was a pretty woman of mixed heritage, her long thick hair a true black, in contrast to her sharp blue-gray eyes. Her face was rounded and there was enough of a slant to her eyes to hint at some Asian or Polynesian blood somewhere. Built stockier than Nike she had a little bit more curve to her body and carried about twenty more pounds than Nike did. She wore a suit, but it was a tight fit, the skirt just a fraction too short for federal standards. The lace camisole beneath her jacket offered a tantalizing glimpse of her very lush cleavage.

  If it wasn’t for the sharp look in her eyes, Nike might have liked her, but that look, skating from Ty to herself was a clear warning. Hands off.

  Anita had been watching as Ty escorted the new girl around. The only female member of an operations team.

  Until now Anita had been the only woman - except for Delia in communications, but Anita didn’t consider her any competition - in a building full of hot, gorgeous muscular men and she liked it that way. She’d deliberately not chosen another woman for her data analysis team. Her boys were all geeks and nerdy, well qualified, but unchallenging.

  The rest of the men here, though?

  It was a banquet, a smorgasbord of buff men. Most were still single, almost all were hot, and some of them smokin’ hot. Then there was the boss man. Not Byron - he was married, not that that made that much of a difference as far as she was concerned, but he was a little too stiff, too military for her - but Ty Connor.

  Lean and handsome, for all he was older he was yummy and he was the boss.

  The only question had been how long it would take to get the attention of at least one of them. Especially that specific one.

  Anita had liked the odds. Until now.

  Given what she’d heard about Nike Tallent, she’d expected her to be taller, more , butch, an escapee from a muscle-building contest.

  Not this.

  She’d heard Nike Tallent was friends, just friends, with Mitch, who was one of the hottest men in the place. Based on that, she’d thought the woman might be a lesbian, which would be even better. Cause no one could be just friends with someone that fine, that tight.

  Anita knew instantly as soon as she looked at Nike Tallent that she wasn’t gay, not even close.

  What she also didn’t miss was Ty Connor touching Nike Tallent, and often. In the time since Anita had been brought on board, Ty had never touched her. Not once. In fact, he sometimes made an effort to keep from touching her.

  She didn’t like that one little bit.

  “Anita comes to us from the NSA,” Ty continued. “She was highly recommended.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Nike Tallent said, offering her hand.

  Anita responded, insincerely, “You, too.”

  It wouldn’t have been so bad, but up close Nike Tallent was even prettier than she’d thought, without the extra pounds Anita carried that no diet had ever been able to get rid of, and while she had the right to use the gym here that was far too much like work.

  There was nothing sexy about sweat, she thought, unless it was on a man.

  She eyed the other woman, carefully concealing her consternation.

  What color were her eyes, she wondered, behind those glasses? Why did she still wear them inside?

  Her eyes wandered over the other woman. She even had great legs. It was disgusting. Then Anita saw the marks.

  “Oh, that’s a nasty scar,” she blurted, almost sadly, although she was grateful to find a flaw, any flaw in the other woman. “What happened?”

  Nike glanced down at her calf, angled it a little to see better although she knew exactly what the other woman referred to.

  Her foot had gone through a weak spot in a roof while she was trying to escape the pursuing security forces. There’d been no time to pull it out back out carefully. Worse still, the cuts had bled profusely, giving those chasing a much easier trail to follow. It had been a close thing.

  Actually, the scars that curled over the muscle of her calf were like another tattoo and considering the rest, almost pretty. They were hardly the worst scars she carried, but she wouldn’t tell Anita Brubaker that.

  With a slight shrug and a small smile, Nike said, “An accident. I got a little clumsy.”

  “Still, that’s a shame,” Anita said, “You know they have those scar reducing creams. You should try them.”

  Nike said gently, “They don’t bother me as much as they bother other people. I’ve gotten used to them. They’re a reminder to be more careful.”

  The conversation was definitely not going the way Anita wanted. The longer they talked the more she wanted Nike Tallent out of her area as fast as she could get her gone.

  “Let me introduce my boys,” Anita said.

  Both of Anita’s ‘boys’ were rapt in the information they scanned on their screens.

  “This is Bruce,” Anita said in a whisper.

  A little heavyset, his hair close-cropped and graying, Bruce just raised a hand without turning.

  “And Gary,” she said.

  Gary was young, thin as a whippet, his hair a little long, his face thin too, but he wasn’t unattractive. He chewed gum steadily. He had hazel eyes beneath the long brown hair. He grinned, flipped a hand in greeting and blew a bubble, unflinching as Anita’s eyes turned his way, her eyes going from blue to ice.

  “Thanks, Anita,” Ty said, dropping his hand to Nike’s waist again, relieved to be steering her away.

  Anita was good at her job, but Ty had misgivings. He also couldn’t help but be thankful she was on the second floor and not the first, not that she didn’t find reason enough to come downstairs anyway.

  Ty had noticed the marks on Nike’s leg, too, but he had his own share of scars, some a great deal uglier than those. Hers looked strangely decorative they were so neat, almost like scrollwork.

  He sensed that Nike had lied to Anita about the cause, but the lie was so effortless he knew it was one she’d repeated so often it was second nature. He couldn’t help but wonder how she’d really gotten them.

  Beyond Data Analysis was a solitary workspace, separate from the Data area, as was made clear by the large red ‘Keep Out’ signs taped to the glass partitions.

  Softly, Ty said and tried to keep from smiling, “Meet the God of the machine, otherwise known as Jerry Anderson, computer wizard, networking guru and all around computer tech.”

  He couldn’t help liking the man.

  A narrow face, handsome in a foxy way, peered around the glass partition warily, amber eyes sharp beneath hair the color of good sherry. That hair was tied back under a faded red, white and blue do-rag.

  “Damn stra
ight, Ty,” the man said, popping to his feet and offering his hand to Nike, “and don’t forget it.”

  Ty just shook his head, amused.

  “This is Nike Tallent,” Ty said.

  Jerry Anderson eyed her. “Mitch calls you Niki.”

  “I know,” she said, and waited.

  Jerry straightened, eyes sparkling. “A woman of few words. It’s a miracle. I think I’m in love. God, she’s cute.”

  His eyes glinted.

  Ty found it difficult to argue with either assessment, especially the last. A small smile curved Nike’s mouth as she eyed the gangly tech.

  She was beautiful with the sunlight dancing in her hair and her eyes twinkling behind the glasses.

  Tilting her head, Nike said evenly but in obvious challenge, “And I can kick your ass.”

  “Really?” he said, delighted, “can you show me?”

  Her laugh appeared to surprise even her.

  “Not right now,” she said. “I’m not dressed for it.”

  Jerry glanced over her dress appreciatively.

  “True. All right, later then,” Jerry said, equably, then sobered to look at Ty. “She’s all set up on the system with all the security clearances and permissions she needs. Good to go.”

  “Thanks, Jerry,” Ty said.

  Flapping his hand, Jerry sent them on their way as he settled back into his chair.

  It was like watching a magic act, Nike thought, Jerry Anderson just seemed to keep unfold as he’d come to his feet. Standing, he was at least six five or six six, thin, but fit, with muscle beneath the ragged, holey t-shirt tucked into equally shabby jeans. The sneakers were even more decrepit, nearly as much hole as canvas. Then he folded back up again as they went down the stairs.

  She shook her head, smiling a little.

  A voice was speaking in the area designated Communications so Ty bypassed it for the armory.

  Accessed by key code the munitions area was exactly as Nike expected, but better. At least one of every kind of prime weaponry was there, racked on wooden frames against the green opaque glass walls, lending it a brightness most such rooms didn’t have. At the end of the room was a small shooting gallery with targets mounted and waiting.