Recruited

by Lynn Mason

  “Thanks, Sydney.”

  “Guess I better go.” She shouldered her purse and turned toward the door.

  “Wait,” Wilson called. “One more thing. Something important.”

  Sydney wheeled back around.

  “I need to take you to headquarters. Sloane wants to meet you.”

  Sydney was barely aware of her feet moving as she followed Wilson into the Credit Dauphine lobby.

  She didn't know who Sloane was. She didn't know where he was. She didn't know why he wanted to see her, what he would do when he saw her, or how she was even going to get there. All she knew was when it would be. This morning—now. If only she'd had more time to prepare. Maybe then she wouldn't feel so shaky.

  Wilson didn't say a word as they crossed the lobby's polished marble floor and stepped into an open elevator. Sydney discreetly smoothed the front of her pants and pushed a few stray strands of hair off her face.

  The elevator door shut and Wilson flipped open a small box at the bottom of the button panel. Then he inserted a small metal key and turned it in a three-quarters circle clockwise. Sydney felt a slight jolt and the elevator began going down.

  She waited for the car to stop on one of the subterranean parking levels. But it didn't. Instead the elevator kept descending, past all the basement and parking floors, until the lighted number display showed nothing but a horizontal line. Sydney stood ramrod straight, trying to fend off a serious case of nerves. Judging by the length of the ride, they must be more than five stories underground. Where, exactly, did Wilson park his car? The Bat Cave?

  Eventually the elevator settled to a stop and the doors slid open. Sydney and Wilson stepped into a small, bare, square-paneled room. She wondered if it might be another elevator, but the floor felt too solid beneath her feet. Her eyes had just finished adjusting to the harsh overhead lights and brilliant white of the walls when an intense red beam suddenly illuminated the room. She blinked as the ray traveled over her and Wilson and then quickly went out.

  What was that? she wondered. Some sort of scan? She wanted to ask Wilson, but he seemed so deep into work mode, she decided against it.

  Just then, the wall in front of them parted, revealing a vast office space. “This is headquarters,” Wilson said as they stepped out of the white room. “We're now six stories beneath the bank building. Only personnel with the highest security clearance have access to this area. You are now one of them.”

  Sydney acknowledged this with a brief nod. I'm in, she thought. A fierce pride overcame her, freezing her grin into place.

  They stepped out of the white room and made their way forward. The work area was a labyrinth of glass partitions and stone pillars wrapped in thick wires and cables. Men and women of different ages and ethnicities rushed to and fro, many of them nodding to Wilson, some stopping to mutter a few words in his ear. No one gave Sydney a passing glance. She was amazed at how normal the men and women looked. If she had passed them on the street in their neutral-colored business suits, she would have assumed they were run-of-the mill bankers, marketers, or sales reps. But they weren't. They were spies. Real-life, undercover CIA spies. She knew it was true, and yet her brain still couldn't quite grasp it. What looked like a typical office staff Sydney saw as gallant heroes, working together to stop the terrors of the world. And she was one of them!

  Sydney hurriedly tried to walk alongside Wilson, but his broad shoulders caused her to veer into the oncoming pedestrian traffic and she ended up bumping shoulders with a tall, dignified-looking black man.

  “I'm so sorry,” she apologized.

  “It's all right,” he said, flashing her a wide, warm smile. “I wasn't looking where I was going.”

  The man resumed his pace down the corridor and Sydney quickly caught up to Wilson. A few seconds later, they came to a short row of offices and stopped in front of one of the doors.

  “Here we are,” Wilson announced. He lifted his brows and stared at her questioningly. She smiled and nodded. He raised his fist and knocked a couple of times. Eventually they heard a muffled “Come in.”

  Wilson opened the door and gestured for her to enter. Sydney straightened her back, took a deep breath, and walked in.

  The man she was there to see was standing just inside the room. He had dark, thinning hair and a short, grizzled beard. “So you're Sydney Bristow,” he said, smiling faintly.

  “Yes, sir.” She guessed he was around fifty.

  “I'm Arvin Sloane. Welcome to SD-6.”

  “Thanks,” she replied, shaking his hand. Then she glanced over at Wilson. “What's SD-6?”

  Wilson shut the door and motioned for her to take a seat. She and Wilson sat down on padded chairs facing a wide wooden desk, while Sloane took his place in the high-backed leather chair behind it.

  “There are a few things you need to know now that you are at this level of your transition,” Wilson said, his face a mask of seriousness. “SD-6 is a code term for us. What we are, what you are now a part of, is a black ops division of the CIA.”

  Sydney furrowed her brow. “Black ops?” she repeated.

  “What that means,” Sloane said, leaning forward, “is that our unit is highly classified, even within the agency itself. Only a few top-ranking officials in government know about us.”

  “I don't understand,” she said, shaking her head. “Why are you a secret to your own country?”

  “Because the fewer people who know our identities, the better we're able to do our job.” He paused briefly, his hand sweeping toward the office window and the bustle outside. “All these people you see here, they are an elite force of agents whose main objective is to seek out and stop anything that threatens national security—even if it seems to run counter to other government policy. We risk our lives when other people can't even risk their images.”

  “I see,” she said, even though she still couldn't quite fathom what he was saying. So not only was she part of an undercover agency, her section was even undercover within the undercover agency. Or something like that.

  “You'll be finding out more as you move up,” Sloane went on, seeming to sense her confusion. “Which, I must add, should be very soon. I've been hearing a lot about you, Miss Bristow. We're all very pleased with your progress.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she replied. Her pride seemed to ignite and a warm feeling coursed through her. She looked over and smiled at Wilson, who gave her an encouraging nod. “I'm very honored to be a part of this, sir.”

  Sloane's gaze intensified. For a moment he appeared to be studying her, as if she were an interesting lab specimen. But just as Sydney was beginning to feel uncomfortable, his face broke into a grin. “Well,” he said as he stood up, signaling the end of the conversation, “very soon now you will be ready to go out on field missions, and I just wanted to get a sense of who you are.”

  “Yes, sir,” she responded. “Thank you very much.” She and Wilson rose from their seats.

  “Thank you for coming by, Miss Bristow. I'm sure we'll talk again soon,” Sloane said, lightly clasping her hand. “Oh, and Miss Bristow? Enjoy the concert.”

  10

  SYDNEY STOOD IN FRONT of the full-length mirror Francie had mounted on her closet door and stared at her reflection. The transformation was amazing. She almost looked like a different person.

  Staring back at her was a tall, tough girl in black leather pants and matching leather vest. The top layer of her hair was teased into stiff spikes that stood up on her head at a thirty-degree angle. Her eyes were ringed with thick dark lines, and a deep, bloodlike red covered her full lips. On her right ear, an inch-long spike hung from a metal cuff. And a large silver armband shone on her left forearm.

  She had decided to dress the part of a rock groupie. It began when she realized the silver arm cuff Wilson had given her didn't go with anything she'd typically wear. The last thing she wanted was for it to stand out and make people suspicious. So she decided to design an outfit around it.

  She raised her f
ist into the air and assumed the cocky semi-snarl of a rocker. “Yeah,” she said to her image. “Sydney Vicious!”

  This was going to be fun. She hadn't worn the outfit since she and Francie dressed as biker chicks for Halloween. Sydney laughed, remembering the look on their R.A.'s face when they walked out of the dorm, Francie holding a whip and barely able to walk in her tight vinyl skirt and thigh-high boots.

  As a little kid, Sydney had loved dressing up and pretending to be other people. A fairy princess. A black cat. A swashbuckling pirate. Costumes gave her confidence. They let her play mental tricks on herself, getting her to do things she'd never be able to do when she was plain old Sydney.

  Her theatrical skills and knack for dialects brought all sorts of other perks too. Whenever she and her boarding school friends had wanted to go clothes shopping, they would put on their most fashionable dresses and pretend to be rich, snooty English tourists. The saleswomen at the posh boutiques would practically mow each other down to assist them. Of course, had they known who the girls really were, they probably wouldn't have even wasted breath insulting them.

  Sydney sighed. She wanted to keep in touch with her old friends, but it was hard enough keeping in touch with her new ones.

  If only Francie could go with her tonight. Francie loved Raul Sandoval even more than Sydney. In fact, she was the one who had converted Sydney to his music. But there was only one ticket, and it would have appeared totally ungrateful to have asked Wilson for another. Plus, she'd have to explain why she was fiddling with a strange arm cuff all night—and how she'd managed to score front-row tickets to a sold-out show in the first place.

  All of a sudden, Sydney heard a key scratch in the front-door lock. Panic surged through her and she instinctively searched for a place to hide. But it was too late. Francie burst into the room, wearing her waitressing uniform and a scowl. She took two weary steps toward her bed, then paused and stared openmouthed at Sydney.

  “Uh . . . hello? Who are you and what have you done with my roommate?”

  “Hey, Francie,” Sydney said with a sheepish grin. “I . . . I thought you were at work tonight.”

  “I was. Terwilliger's heart must have grown ten times today. He let us off early since the place was totally dead. Probably because everyone's going to Raul Sandoval's show. Lucky bastards.” She threw her bag onto her bed while continuing to gape at Sydney. “Okay, now. Out with it. Why are you dressed like that?”

  Sydney's mind reeled. “I'm . . . going to a theme party,” she blurted out.

  “Really?” Francie's eyes sparkled. “How fun! Can I come?”

  “Um, I don't know. The thing is . . .” She paused, suddenly sweltering in her leather ensemble. “I'm sort of going to see a guy.”

  “Get out!” Francie exclaimed, her smile as wide as her eyes. “You have a date! And you didn't tell me!”

  Sydney held up a hand. “No, no! It's not a date. I'm sort of just . . . checking him out. You know? But I would like to go by myself. In case something happens.”

  Francie's mouth curled into a sly grin. “Say no more. I totally understand.”

  “Really?” Sydney asked guiltily. “You sure you're not mad?”

  “Of course not.” Francie sat on the edge of her bed and began pulling off her shoes. “Besides, I've got big plans myself. I'm going to take a long hot bath and then watch TNT. They're showing Philadelphia Story tonight. You know what a sucker I am for Cary Grant.”

  “Right,” Sydney said, breathing a sigh of relief. That had been close. “Well, have a good time.” She grabbed her car keys off her dresser and headed for the door. “Bye.”

  “Hey, wait!” Francie cried. “Don't you want to borrow my whip?”

  Sydney laughed. “Um, no. I don't think so.”

  “Suit yourself,” Francie called out as Sydney stepped into the hall. “Maybe on the next date, then?”

  By the time Sydney arrived at the Las Cruces Arena, the place was spilling over with people. She joined the throngs of concertgoers heading for the doors and noticed several other fans wearing similar leather ensembles.

  She was glad she'd dressed up. She would have felt funny otherwise, going to a concert on her own. Her getup helped her feel like a tough, wild rebel. She even walked differently, her black engineer boots taking long, swaggering strides as she strutted up to the front entrance.

  Sydney flashed her ticket to the guy at the front turnstile.

  “Whoa. First row,” he exclaimed, pushing up his glasses as he surveyed the ticket. “Okay. Take the escalator down to the basement level and an usher will show you to your seat. Oh, and security wants us to remind people not to start a mosh pit.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Sydney said, snatching back her ticket and loping toward a nearby escalator.

  She felt incredibly brash and sassy. As she strode down the length of the concourse, she could feel people staring at her. Groups of girls shot her snooty up-and-down glances, while guys tended to focus on the large zipper of her tight leather vest. Sydney sauntered along, pretending to be oblivious, all the while enjoying the attention.

  Throughout the arena, gigantic photos of Raul Sandoval's face hung from the ceiling. Everywhere she looked she could see his frothy black curls, sultry eyes, and seductive grin. The guy was definitely sexy. And even though he seemed a little too stormy and self-aware to be her type, she could see how Francie and Claire Wilson could drool over him.

  A stammering high-school-aged guy led her down to her seat. Sydney was amazed at how fantastic it was. The stage was directly in front of her, right at neck level. At the moment all she could see were thick burgundy drapes and two towering stacks of speakers flanking either side. Below them, two truck-sized men stood glaring at the assembling crowd.

  “Ra-ul! Ra-ul! Ra-ul!” the onlookers began to shout.

  And then it began. The lights came down. The curtains opened. And high-pitched screeches of electric guitars blared from the walls of speakers.

  A spotlight shone down from the ceiling, illuminating a tall figure. He stood in front of a microphone in the center of the stage, wearing a ripped white T-shirt and brown leather pants. A starburst Les Paul guitar was slung across his chest. Raul Sandoval.

  He raised his arms in a messiah-like gesture and the crowd went wild. “Hello, Los Angeles!” he cried. Then with a nod toward his band, he bent over his guitar and began to play.

  Sydney had never seen such a concert in her life. The music was almost excruciatingly loud. The entire arena quaked, and she could feel the throbbing of the bass guitar in the center of her rib cage. But it was thrilling, too. Sydney closed her eyes and let herself merge with the energy, dancing along to all of the songs. Occasionally she would stop, fiddle with her armband, and snap a few shots.

  There was plenty to photograph. Sandoval strutted up and down the stage to a barrage of flashbulbs and fireworks. Exotic dancers rose up through trapdoors. In keeping with his rebellious lyrics, Sandoval's face became a fixed snarl, and he thrashed and whaled on his guitar as if he were furious with it.

  Forty minutes into the show, the music suddenly died down to the volume of a distant storm. Sandoval grabbed a microphone and walked to the edge of the stage, looming right above Sydney. All the lights went out except for a single white spot beaming down on him. He stood there panting, beads of sweat glistening on his body like rhinestones. Girlish squeals erupted from every part of the arena. Sandoval gazed out at the audience, and then his eyes fell on Sydney. He smiled. Sydney froze in surprise. Then the music swelled and Sandoval began to sing in Spanish.

  It was a love ballad. She mentally translated the lyrics as she watched him crooning into the mike, eyes closed, his left hand moving up and down with the melody.

  You've caged my heart.

  Your eyes, your lips, your laugh,

  your touch are the walls of my prison.

  I cannot escape, and yet

  I do not want to.

  I live at your command.

  I
love at your command.

  I die at your command.

  All around her, couples stood with their arms entwined, swaying. Sydney felt a pang. For the first time that night she was aware of being alone. She found herself thinking of the nameless young agent, and how it might feel to lean up against him, enfolded in his long, muscular arms.

  Get over it, she told herself. Like that would ever happen anyway. Just forget about the guy and have fun.

  As Sandoval crooned and emoted, Sydney twisted her bracelet so that the center stone pointed right at him. Then she pressed the red stone to the side. Click.

  There, she thought smugly. Claire would have that one under her pillow for sure.

  After a long, wailing final note, the song ended and the rest of the stage lights came up. Sydney cheered along with the rest of the crowd, some of whom were throwing items of clothing onto the stage. Sandoval picked up a blue scarf and mopped his face with it. Then he raised his arms and waved to the audience. Women everywhere screamed. Sydney ended up getting slammed hard against the stage as two girls behind her pushed forward toward Sandoval.

  “Give it to me! To me!” they screamed.

  Sandoval kneeled down directly in front of Sydney. He looked right at her, a brash, seductive smile slowly making its way across his face. Then he reached out and handed her the blue scarf.

  Sydney stood there blinking for a moment, still gasping from the sudden impact with the stage. Eventually she lifted her hand and snatched the sweaty rag with her fingertips. “Thanks,” she murmured, blushing in spite of herself. Sandoval might be a total poser, but he was kind of cute.

  The band started up again. Sandoval gave Sydney one last look and paraded back upstage. All around her, girls were giving Sydney death glares. She quickly shoved the scarf into her bra and went back into her tough girl stance. She really hoped she wouldn't have to use her combat skills on any crazed fans.