Recruited
Page 13
Francie flashed her a sympathetic look. “Too bad.”
They continued their leisurely afternoon stroll through Westwood Village, sipping their sodas and taking in the crisp spring-afternoon air. Despite the occasional throbbing beneath her gauze wrappings, Sydney felt good. Incredibly good, in fact. Her debriefing at SD-6 had helped her push past the trauma at the arena, and the more she thought about it, the prouder she felt that she'd managed to get out of there on her own.
SD-6 didn't tell her much, which didn't surprise her. Sydney didn't care. It was over, she was alive, and she had helped her country. The agency seemed very happy with the work she had done, especially linking Sandoval with Levski. Wilson had been really impressed too. And even though he didn't exactly say so, she could tell he was relieved she was okay. He had apologized for not being able to tell her the truth, and she had accepted his apology. He was only doing his job. She realized that now. “I really do have a daughter named Claire,” he had told her, showing her a photograph of a smiling redheaded girl from his wallet.
Sydney had looked up at him. “I never doubted that you did.”
Now Sydney and Francie paused in front of a bakery window. As she scanned the colorful display of assorted treats, Sydney caught sight of her reflection. Her long brown hair, although free from its customary clips, looked the same as always. Her tank top and capris fit the way they usually did. Even so, there was something different about her appearance. She seemed taller somehow, her movements more direct. And she was surprised to see a small smile on her face—something she hadn't even realized she was doing.
Could it be that she was . . . happy?
“Oh, I can't stand it,” Francie cried, shaking her head. “I'm going to run inside and get one of those macadamia nut cookies. You want anything?”
“No, I'm fine,” Sydney replied. “I'll wait out here.”
As Francie disappeared through the shop door, Sydney strolled around the corner of the building. The combination brick-and-stucco wall at the side of the bakery served as an unofficial bulletin board for UCLA students, and it was constantly covered with promotional posters, job ads, lost-and-found notices, and Roommates Wanted signs. Sydney sucked the last of her Dr Pepper through the straw as she studied the flashy concert flyers. A band called the Numbers was playing at that trendy club near the Pier that evening. And she'd heard a lot of good buzz about the Bordersnakes, who were performing at the Lion's Den. Maybe she and Francie should go catch a show that night. It felt as if they hadn't been out together in ages. They could even invite Todd and get crazy.
All of a sudden, Sydney became aware she was being watched. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a tall blond guy walk up and stop right beside her. He was pretending to study the wall of posters, but it didn't take a secret agent to know that he was checking her out.
It was Dean Carothers. His big green eyes and dimpled chin were as dreamy as always, and he looked even more tanned and muscular than before.
He turned toward her and smiled. Sydney braced herself for a rush of anxiety or anger or heart palpitations, but instead she felt . . . nothing. Not the slightest flinch. It was as if that horrible, humiliating encounter with him back in September had happened to someone else entirely.
“I hear the Bordersnakes have a new CD,” he commented, nodding toward the funky promotional flyer.
“Yeah,” she replied. She couldn't help wondering why he was talking to her. Did he need help prepping for finals or something?
“Are you a fan of theirs?” he asked, taking a step closer.
“I haven't actually seen them live yet,” she said. “But what I've heard on the radio I like.”
He flashed her another broad, toothy grin and leaned casually against the wall. “You really should check out a show,” he said. “They're awesome.”
“Right.”
She toyed with her straw, waiting for him to pull a notebook out of his backpack and ask her about the summer class schedule. Instead, he held out his hand. “I'm Dean, by the way. Dean Carothers.”
Sydney's eyebrows flew up. Was he actually introducing himself? My god, she thought. He doesn't remember me at all.
“I . . . uh . . .” She gestured awkwardly to her bandages. “I can't shake your hand.”
“Oh, sorry,” he exclaimed, his smile disappearing. He withdrew his hand and shoved it into his pocket. “What happened to you?”
She shook her head. “It's a long story.”
“Well . . . why don't you tell me all about it at the club Saturday?” he asked, giving a modest shrug of his shoulder. He lowered his chin slightly, as if wanting to provide her the best possible view of his eyes. “You said you've never seen the Snakes live before. How about I take you?”
For a moment, Sydney stood silent. “Sorry. I'm going with other people,” she replied finally.
“Oh,” he said, his handsome face falling.
“Yep,” she went on. “I don't know who yet, but someone else.”
Then, with an innocent grin, she nonchalantly strode past Dean's shell-shocked form, rounded the corner, and headed down the sidewalk toward the bakery. A man sat on a nearby bench reading the Los Angeles Register. As she passed, a large block-type headline screamed out at her. Rock Musician Missing: Police Suspect Foul Play.
Sydney tossed her empty soda can into a trash bin and stood gazing out at the bustling traffic. Francie had been right. Everything was different. Only the world wasn't coming to an end.
It was just beginning.
I've come a long way from the scared, vulnerable young woman I was last fall. I'm strong. Powerful. And I have a purpose.
And now I'm ready for more. I want to be challenged. I want to save the world. And I've finally found a way to do it . . . as an agent for SD-6.
One semester at a time.
DON'T MISS ANY OF THE
OFFICIAL ALIAS BOOKS
FROM BANTAM BOOKS
ALIAS: DECLASSIFIED
THE OFFICIAL COMPANION
THE PREQUEL SERIES
RECRUITED
AND COMING SOON
A SECRET LIFE
Sydney froze, staring into the shiny chrome muzzle of the gun. A 9-millimeter Ruger, she surmised. During the past several months she'd learned all about guns. Their makes and models. How to load, shoot, and clean them. Even how to conceal them on her body. But there was one thing her studies hadn't covered: how it felt when one was pointed directly at you.
A lot of good those months of training had done her. She knew she should be able to find a way out of this. But then fear slid down her throat, forming a cold, hard ball in the pit of her stomach, preventing her from moving. Speaking. Breathing. And only one thought kept echoing in her panicked brain.
I'M NINETEEN. AND I'M GOING TO DIE. . . .
Alias: Recruited
A Bantam Book / October 2002
Text and cover art copyright © 2002 by Touchstone Television
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address Bantam Books.
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