by Sable Jordan
Fletcher couldn’t comment as he had no first-hand experience. In the picture, he stood amidst several prominent members of the Intelligence community—men not immediately identifiable outside of the linoleum-lined halls of the CIA. White-haired, the lot of them; eyes rheumy but wise. Each in various stages of decrepitude that came with old age. Two walkers, a cane and a wheelchair. Fletcher was the only man upright unassisted, stretching like a redwood among squatting oaks. One of the tech guys had photoshopped Fletcher into the frame long before he was an SOO; long after any of the other men pictured had taken their final breath.
His attention returned to the woman. He didn’t know who she was; she didn’t offer a name. Given that she’d made it into his office deep inside CIA headquarters, she obviously had some kind of pull. That was enough to keep him from calling security. That and the feeling in his gut.
Sweat broke out on his lip and he could feel the pores on his chest begin to seep. The liquid in the mug trembled from the slight shake in his hand.
Keep it together, man.
Another sip of coffee, and then Fletcher cleared his throat. “Is there something I can help you—”
She spun toward him quickly, sharp green eyes lasering through him. He expected worn and wrinkled skin, but it was smooth, if thin, and porcelain. She could have done cold cream commercials…back in the day when all facial remedies were called cold cream.
“Sit down.” Not a request.
He eyed the comfy leather chair on the other side of his desk, and then sank into one of the chairs facing her. Hard wooden affairs meant to ensure no one would unintentionally overstay their welcome, leaving Fletcher alone to do what he did best. Run ops.
She took his chair and made herself comfortable. Then she looked down at the legal pad on his desk, haphazardly covered with notes scratched in his own hand.
Evidence.
Footprints.
The knot in his gut swelled to bursting.
She propped her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers, brought the tips to rest against her lips. Her gaze drilled into him, an angry parent searching out the best location to start tanning a child’s hide.
“Douglas,” she finally said, sending ice down Fletcher’s spine. “It’s time you and I had a little chat.”
Tokyo, Japan
Kizzie entered the room and Xander went out, same as they’d done the past few shifts. They still hadn’t spoken, and it didn’t bother her. Nope, not one bit. Any thoughts about missing him—ridiculous to begin with—Kizzie simply ignored as easily as she ignored the man himself.
His cologne lingered near the entryway and she closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. She pressed her ear to the door, listening to his footsteps fade to nothing as he went down the hallway. The sound matched the present state of their relat—situation, didn’t it? She was letting him go. Not that she ever had him in the first place. And—
A door clicked shut in the distance, snapping her out of stupid.
Kizzie marked the time on her cell phone and got to work.
The spare tube of liquid tracing material from the Galletti op was in her pocket. 30 seconds later, Sumi still snored away on the sofa, unaware of the filament hardening in the subcutaneous tissue between her left shoulder blade and spine.
Kizzie capped the sharp and opened the satellite link from Fletcher on her phone. At least he’d done that much. Sure she’d seen his missed calls, but Kizzie was in no mood to talk. Tapping in a few data points, she confirmed the link was live and checked the time again.
Still had at least 22 minutes to be safe.
She crossed the space and dropped onto a chair, watching the other woman with wary eyes.
20 minutes.
This wasn’t going to go over well with Xander.
So? Kizzie was tired of playing games with Sumi, tired of waiting around for Phil and Xander to produce information from Akari’s computer—wasn’t like they’d share it with her anyway—and so damn tired of the internal roller coaster being near Xander caused. The agent training manual didn’t have a chapter for what she felt—well, unless the words Don’t Feel. Period. counted as a whole chapter—and her gut had her walking a path she was sure she’d never return from.
15 minutes.
The thoughts made her even more restless. She’d been stationary too long; needed to move already.
Now.
Screw the plan.
Kizzie pushed off the couch and paused; tilted her head, straining to make out the faint sound in the silence. A door opening?
The resounding click echoed down the hall and heavy footsteps approached.
She eased back down into her seat, trying to affect an innocent look while her belly clenched and unclenched. Either Xander or Phil would come through the door, and if it had to be one of them she hoped for the latter.
The footsteps grew louder and louder, pounding on nerves already stretched to breaking, and then started to fade as they went by, headed toward the elevator bank.
Kizzie steadied her breathing. She’d wait out the rest of the time, just to be sure.
Lifting her leg, she reached for her lucky knife only to remember it wasn’t there. She’d left her weapons for every shift. Xander would have noticed if her knife was gone. Hand in her pocket, she fingered the only protection she’d have should things go to hell.
She sat up straighter in the chair.
This was the right thing to do; the “Kizzie” thing to do.
3 minutes.
She crossed the room and gripped the woman’s bony shoulder. Sumi gasped awake, mouth wide, and Kizzie clamped a hand down over it. “Scream and I’ll hurt you.”
Sumi seemed to focus and then nodded. Kizzie eased her hand away; thrust the sweater Xander had bought into the center of the woman’s chest.
“Let’s go.”
* * * *
Langley, VA
The coffee sat on the table, close enough to reach but Fletcher was too intimidated to move a muscle. He breathed slowly, trying both to avoid eye contact and not shift his gaze.
“Ma’am, if I may ask—”
“Two changes of clothes in your drawer…lots of pictures on the wall. This is home for you, isn’t it?” She twisted her muted silver head toward the window, peering out at the growing daylight beyond. Then she made a sweep of the office, practically ignoring his presence on the opposite side of the desk.
“Ma’am—”
“Oh, hell, Douglas. Stop calling me that. Makes a girl sound old.” Sharp greens settled on him again. “Just ‘cause it’s true doesn’t mean I want to be reminded of it every time you open your mouth.”
“Then who am I talking to? If we’re going to have a ‘little chat’?”
“That’s my fault.” She rocked back in the chair, but the apparent relaxation didn’t take away any of the power she radiated. “I said chat and you assumed I meant we’d be getting to know each other. I sometimes jump ahead in these things, figure everyone connects the dots quick as I do. Murder on my social life,” she said offhandedly, then sighed. “Suppose I at least need to give you the rules. I’ll ask you a series of questions. You’ll answer them truthfully.”
Fletcher cocked a brow. He was a behind-the-scenes man. The closest he’d ever come to being in the field was a simulation the Agency made operation officers run in order to put themselves in a field agent’s shoes. It helped hone an operator’s skills knowing the strain an agent in play felt.
In the familiar surroundings of his four walls, Fletcher knew he was in play now. And trapped. Pinned to a chair with an unknown opposite him, questioning him. If he answered wrong what would be the result?
Even more frightening, what would happen if he answered right?
Keep calm. Maintain eye contact. Are you breathing normally?
He wasn’t; swore he could hear his lungs fill with air; heartbeat so acute he filtered out each of the five phases of the cardiac cycle. And she hadn’t even asked a question yet.
Sweat prickled his hairline and the phantom touch of a pencil between his fingers had him pantomiming the dance.
He clenched his empty fist.
“And if I don’t?” he asked, proud his voice sounded strong.
A thin smile curled her lips. “You like it here, Douglas? Your cozy office with the certificates on the wall…? That’s a nice window—takes a while for an officer to get a window ‘round here. I’m sure you want to keep it.”
Fletcher crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair, though the wood was too hard for him to feign comfort. “The threat of losing my job might have more weight if I knew who you were. Since I don’t, it’s a rock fight with cotton balls.”
“Who I am is above your pay-grade.” She laughed, a short, feminine grunt, and then twisted her lips into a distasteful sneer. “That’s so Hollywood B-movie, isn’t it? I mean, it’s true, but no less…overdone.
“I’ve been in these halls long enough to see tons of agents come and go. A lot of them have the potential to go far, and then throw it all away, shagging their bosses.” She bent forward and whispered. “How’s that for a cotton ball, Dougie?”
All thoughts of bravado went right out his little window.
They’d been careful, he and Rachel. Very careful. If they were together at work, there were usually others around. They didn’t take rides home together; would show up at each other’s apartments in the early morning hours. No e-mails or text messages that didn’t involve cases. He mentally scoured every minute of their time together, looking for any leaks, when the woman across from him broke into his thoughts.
“Should I hitch up my skirt, or are you convinced I’ve got the bigger pair?” She looked at his hand. A pencil he didn’t remember grabbing flipped between his fingers. The playful tone left her voice. “Answers only.”
Fletcher nodded.
“A few days ago, you accessed an obsolete database.”
Question or statement? The look in her eyes said she wanted a reason why either way. “Following up on Intel from an agent.”
“Who?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the agent.”
“But you took the liberty of breaching my database.”
“Didn’t know it was your database. It wasn’t very well protected, or hidden… For good reason, I’m assuming…?”
She didn’t flex a muscle and Fletcher thought better of pushing it.
“I didn’t do anything outside of my scope of duty, m—” He swallowed the ‘ma’am’ about to fall from his mouth, the word too dry to wet his throat. “Given my rank and the variety of operations with which I’m involved, it’s important I have access to multiple sourc—”
“What were you looking for?” He shifted in the hard chair. “You’re going to drag this out for no reason, aren’t you? Keep your agent safe by answering my questions. Otherwise I’ll cast a large net and pull everyone in. Guilty or not, just having the stench of traitor on you will be enough to spend the rest of your miserable life looking over your shoulder. And have no doubt I’ll make it miserable, Douglas.”
He didn’t doubt it. In fact, that she knew he’d accessed the database—knew about he and Rachel’s relationship—was proof enough this woman wasn’t making an empty threat.
“Working a case on a man named Sanzio Galletti. My agent found a possible known associate and I ran the info through the database. Came back positive… for a woman named Naima Karam…though she also has several other aliases.” He watched her face, both for recognition and for any hint that she knew he was lying, but her expression remained still.
“Why you personally, Douglas? Why not kick it down to an analyst?”
“Didn’t know what it would lead to, and the Galletti op is sensitive.” Damn but he was terrible at this. His armpits were leaking like a faucet. Meanwhile, Ms. Cold-Cream Commercial sat across from him with the best poker face he’d seen on anyone.
“And who else knows about the woman? Apart from you and your agent?”
Fletcher shook his head. “No one.”
“Not even that cute girlfriend of yours?”
“She’s not my—”
“What about William Connolly?”
Fletcher’s eyes widened a hair; he shook his head.
A tiny smile curled her thin lips. “Let’s say I believe you—and if you didn’t understand the emphasis, what I’m really saying here is I don’t believe you at all—but say I do. Here’s how this happens. Your agent stops hunting Ms. Karam and you bury this. Personally. And never access my database again, or the next time you see my face this chat won’t be so nice.”
Fletcher nodded quickly, and she stood to leave, her dove gray suit falling into place. Something niggled though. That tiny scrap of information culled from the database.
He pressed his lips together.
Leave it alone.
She was passing behind him now, on her way out the office.
“Ma’am?”
“Oh, dear.” She huffed, stopped with her hand on the knob. “That sounds suspiciously like a question. Be thankful your job is safe. You’ve got your girlfriend and your nice office, and your window. Keep your nose clean and I won’t have to come see you or your agent again.”
She pulled the door open.
“How long have we known? About Harvey…about…the salted bomb? Project HRV is real, isn’t it?” Could she hear his heart hammering in his chest? The pencil flipped faster than he’d ever flipped it before and he waited an eternity for her answer, praying she gave him a look that said he was wrong; that she had no idea what he was talking about.
“Douglas, Douglas, Douglas…” she said on a weighty sigh. The door shut. “Guess you don’t like that window much after all.”
Tokyo, Japan
One minute the apartment was pitch black, the next there was a soft light. It came from a room in the heart of the open floor plan, casting a glow like a paper lantern in the night. The floor-to-ceiling walls of the center room were made of shoji screens, wooden frames covered by translucent rice paper. Traditional, a complete juxtaposition to both the ultra-sleek glass high rise where the apartment was located, and the modern appliances and electronics now partially visible in the low light.
Well, it was better than a house full of beady-eyed clowns.
Kizzie shifted her gaze to a digital clock on the wall; back to the central room where a dark silhouette grew larger and larger as it approached. A panel of the wall slid open, and then a woman stood in the entryway. Lean, tall, a shocking length of royal blue hair, the ends tipped white. Dressed in high-end skinny jeans and a thin, silk tank top. Tattoos sleeved both arms from shoulder to wrist. With the light backing her, it was hard to see her face, but her confidence radiated for miles.
Fay?
A small yip sounded from far away. A dog. Next apartment over, possibly. Kizzie ignored it.
“The dead is arisen,” the woman said. She brought her hand up, dipped her face, and then a small flame appeared. It caught on the tail of a cigarette and she took a long drag before gliding over to Sumi, who had inched away from where Kizzie stood by the door.
“Fay—” Sumi began, but the other woman cut her off.
“I was so disappointed when you didn’t come after CosKink. I thought you’d taken the coward’s way out.” She flipped on a light that flooded the apartment with the rays of the sun, puffed the ciggie. “But, you’re too courageous for that, shinsei.”
Shinsei—Sacred.
Sumi nodded. “Courage, s-strength, and d-discipline. These are the marks of a warrior.”
Kizzie sidestepped, taking the opportunity to look around for anything that might be of use while the two blue-headed crazies were occupied.
“And where She leads you will follow,” Fay said, chortling. “I’m glad you came. I’ve waited a long time to tell you this, Sumi. Found sort of a perverse pleasure in turning it over in my head, selecting the perfect words. Actually, I wanted to tell you all, but you got to th
e others…”
Sumi flicked a nervous glance in Kizzie’s direction, wet her lips. “I…I…”
“Oh, shut up and listen. Itsutsu Shinseina Senshi…” Fay chuckled. “It was all a lie. She set it up so you’d have something to believe in, would willingly do Her bidding. That’s how you handle the simple-minded. Give them something bigger than themselves to fight for. Make them feel like they’re a part of you.”
She…Her… Unless Fay was prone to speaking in third person, she wasn’t the Mistress, just as Kizzie suspected. Besides, how was Sumi supposed to give back the lock Kizzie already had?
“A sloppy slut, an organized glutton, an indecisive fool and you, the predictable blank. None of you were ever Her true submissives. Or sacred, for that matter,” she snorted, “You’re nothing. Just another empty cunt She used for Her own ends.”
Sumi’s eyes widened and her chin trembled.
“Yes, that did feel as good as I imagined it.” Fay let the cigarette burn in her hold, continued with the berating. “You should know why I chose you, Sumi. Because you reminded me of my mother…”
A smile ghosted over Sumi’s face, but Kizzie recognized the boom lowering. Judging by the earlier compliments, this wasn’t going to go well. Her eyes darted around the apartment; squeezed the hard metal in her pocket. Another ten, fifteen minutes tops.
“She was a gutless woman, much like you,” Fay said. “Easily influenced, easily controlled, couldn’t think for herself. My father would beat her, and she’d look to me for saving. Oh, but when he beat me, I was on my own. And when I killed the bastard…she had the nerve to toss me away, like a stray eyelash, lost in the fringe of a rug. Did you feel that way when Shinari cut your leash? Unhinged, unloved… So you set out to get your revenge on Her, by targeting everyone else.
“Pathetic. And, I suppose, that’s the reason you’ve brought this woman here.” She spun to Kizzie. “You are?”