She assessed the workup in front of her. “Draigen’s going to be here soon. We’ve got Jono in with Legacy’s weapons people, but that’s not the part of the hierarchy responsible for strategic planning. We should have done an infiltration higher up in the organization sooner than this.”
Terryn seemed distracted as he reviewed the files. “We need to go in now. With the connections between Legacy and the fey attacks, I’m concerned Draigen might be in their sights. We’re going to go with a hard insertion.”
Sinclair arched an eyebrow. “I’m not sure what you mean, but it sounds fun.”
Laura bit back a smile while Terryn shot him an annoyed look. A woman’s picture popped onto their screens. “This is Allison Forth. She’s in the U.S. illegally, using Fallon Moor as an assumed name. She is wanted in Ireland for participating in a Dublin bombing. As Fallon Moor, she has a nebulous administrative title at Legacy.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s a hard insertion?” Sinclair asked.
Laura examined the image. Moor was a brownie, a race of fey that usually allied with the Seelie Court. Brownies tended to prefer lives of orderliness and cooperation. When something happened to disrupt their plans, they transformed into boggarts, the maniacal version of their normal selves that could be dangerous. The transformation was a mania in which their rationality slipped away until they could restore balance in their lives again. Moor’s pleasant face belied the list of crimes that scrolled up next to it. Laura was already thinking of ways to create a persona template of the woman. “We bring Moor in, get her to cooperate, and I take her place at Legacy.”
“Sounds like that could go bad very easily,” he said.
“That’s why we call it hard,” she said.
Sinclair leaned back in his chair again and crossed his arms. “What’s our authorization for all this?”
“I’m authorizing it,” said Terryn.
Sinclair tilted his head, a curious expression on his face. “Look, I’m undercover on your word only, macCullen. Some of this stuff sounds against the law. I don’t know how you did things in Ireland, but people have rights here, including to their political opinions.”
Without a word, Terryn pulled up more documents—police reports, individual criminal records, Web site snapshots. Sinclair became quiet. “Not if they cross the line into subversion. When that happens, it falls within InterSec’s jurisdiction. I believe, Agent Sinclair, you will note the connections between Legacy rank and file and the recent attacks on fey businesses.”
Sinclair grunted in reluctant acknowledgment. Terryn lifted his gaze and settled his deep green eyes on Sinclair. Terryn was an Old One and could turn his deep gaze into a formidable weapon of intimidation. Facing someone who had seen centuries pass, kingdoms rise and fall, and deaths uncounted was a humbling experience.
Laura’s second surprise of the meeting was watching Sinclair meet that look without flinching. For a moment, she thought Sinclair was going to argue with him, but instead he wrinkled his brow and returned to the screen in front of him.
“The documents are on your email, Agent Sinclair. Feel free to review them and see if they meet your legal concerns. We can discuss any questions you have later. You’re dismissed,” Terryn said.
Sinclair stood, not quite smirking, and muttered as he left the room. “Maybe in your mind.”
His parting glance at Laura told her there was probably going to be more than one discussion later. Laura stared down at the table, gloom settling over her.
“He’s going to be a problem,” Terryn said.
She didn’t look up. “It’s all new to him, Terryn. I’ll talk to him.”
“If he can’t get on board with the job, we’ll have to find another solution,” he said.
She didn’t want to think about another solution. Despite Terryn’s initial threats of incarceration, there were worse situations than a cell. InterSec had outposts in some of the most desolate places in the world. “I know. Give me some time.”
Terryn gathered his folders. “Things are moving quickly, Laura. Time isn’t something we have.”
He left. Perplexed at his uncharacteristic abruptness, Laura slowly spun her chair around and stared down the empty hallway.
CHAPTER 6
A BALL OF paper flew across the room as Laura entered Sinclair’s office. It hit the wall next to her head and landed beside the wastebasket. Sinclair crumpled another piece of paper and tossed it. And missed. Laura watched as he balled up more paper. Neither spoke as she leaned against the doorjamb, and he continued throwing and missing. Laura poked her foot at the growing pile of paper. “Have you never done this before, or do you just stink at it?”
He glowered at her and missed another shot.
She blinked her eyes at him, affecting an overly enthusiastic attitude. “Maybe your aim will improve if you picture the wastebasket as Terryn’s head.”
He paused, then threw a paper ball at her head. She batted it away, and it landed in the wastebasket. “See what you can accomplish with teamwork?” she asked.
He gave her grudging smile, leaned back, and began tossing a small green stress ball straight up and catching it. Laura let out an exaggerated sigh. “If you’re going to play with yourself, I can leave you to it.”
“Ha-ha,” he said.
“He speaks,” she said.
He dropped forward and tossed the ball from hand to hand. “I don’t think this is going to work out.”
“It has to,” she said.
He stared at the ball as he passed it back and forth. “And what if it doesn’t?”
She moved up to his desk. “Jono, listen to me. You can make this hard, or you can make this easy. What you can’t do is make it impossible.”
“Impossible? He forced me to join InterSec because I figured out your real identity, Laura. I didn’t ask to be here. Plus, he treats me like an idiot,” he said.
“And you do the same. Like it or not, he’s the boss. Terryn will let you disagree with him. He won’t let you insult him. You have to earn his trust. That’s what this whole situation is about,” she said.
Annoyed, he glared. “I do not kiss ass.”
She spread her hands out. “No one’s asking you to. Just respect the fact that he knows what he’s talking about. Because he does. Believe me. If I didn’t trust Terryn macCullen, I’d be dead ten times over.”
He tossed the ball up. “I don’t know if I like the politics around here.”
She crossed her arms. “I think you need to learn them before you decide that. The fey are complicated, but despite what you were raised to believe, we’re not evil, Jono. There are reasons Terryn thinks the way he does. You two probably have a lot more in common than you realize.”
Sinclair snorted. “Yeah, right. I’m sure the uncrowned heir to a throne can get down with my issues.”
She considered his point. As a fey/human hybrid, Sinclair was unique. That was why his grandfather created the spelled medallion for him—to hide his true nature. The jotunn knew enough about the fey and humans in the Convergent world to know that his grandson would have been poked, prodded, and tested. Social integration moved slowly in most parts of the world. Biological interbreeding would speed things up considerably, and that was something many people would find appealing—and others horrifying. “He’s got a target on his back simply because of who he is, Jono. Sound familiar?” she asked.
He glanced at her with lowered eyes. “It’s different.”
Exasperated, Laura slumped into the guest chair. “Jono, give me one week of no conflict. Do the job we both know you can do.”
He grinned. “Was that a compliment?”
She pursed her lips. “If I say yes, can we drop the subject?”
He spun in his chair, then leaned on the desk. “If I say yes, can we go out for dinner?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes.”
He frowned. “Wait, I lost track. Is that ‘yes, that was a compliment’ or ‘yes, we can have dinner’?”
His frown deepened into playful confusion. “I think I’m a yes behind.”
She leaned toward him with a smug, playful smile. “That’s because I’m one step ahead of you.”
He threw another ball of paper at her. She snatched it out of the air and threw it back. “Do you want to review your strategy with Legacy?”
He shrugged. “What’s to review? Show up. Act like I don’t like the fey—which won’t be tough—take notes, and leave.”
“Where were you born?” she asked.
“Philadelphia.”
She shook her head. “Wrong. Never use your own data for a persona.”
“Persona? You’re going to make me a glamour?” he asked.
“No, but you’re still undercover. That’s as much a persona as a glamoured persona. You need to be convincing. You are going to get to know these guys like friends. You don’t know how long you’re going to be there. You need to create a credible life for yourself that has no connection to who you really are. When it’s all over, you don’t want to leave anything behind that might lead to the real you.”
“The real me,” he said.
“The real you,” she said.
He cocked his head at her. “Is this the real you I’m talking to right now?”
She blinked. Not the question she was expecting. In the brief pause, a cascade of thoughts and emotions sped through her mind. Yes. No. What? Of course. But . . . He’s baiting me. No, it’s fair given the context. Ouch. Talk about pushing a button. How dare he? Is he serious or playing with me? Again. “Ha-ha,” she said. It was the best she could come up with, and she felt stupid for it.
Sinclair’s measured look said he wasn’t sure how to interpret the response. With a subtle flick of his eyebrows, he decided to let it pass. “Okay, so I need a better cover than a name.”
“Cress can help you build a legal framework in case someone decides to look into your history. She’s good. Excellent, in fact. Your job is to build the personality—who you loved or hated, your favorite books and movies, what you like to eat. Drill it into your memory and stick to it. The slightest lapse can be trouble, so keep it simple but keep it . . .”
“Real,” he finished.
“Yes.”
A faint smile creased his face. “This is what you do every day?”
She shook her head. “Not every day. Most jobs only require an occasional appearance. Only deep cover takes over your life.”
He laughed. “I’ve been driving limos every day for two months.”
She smiled. “But you didn’t need a persona for it, just a name. As Bill Burrell, limo driver, you’ve been interacting with low-level Legacy staff briefly. The job doesn’t require that you interject yourself into the workings of someone’s life. You get to be Bill Burrell and go home at night. It’s different now that they’re letting you in deeper. You become someone else. Start by creating a job history. What did you do before you drove limos?”
He pursed his lips. “Circus performer.”
She didn’t laugh. “Too contrived.”
“It was a joke,” he said.
She compressed her lips. “I know you think it was, Jono, but you need to understand something. I take this seriously, and you need to take this seriously. When you’ve proved you can do the job, then you can joke.”
It was his turn to get annoyed. “I’m getting tired of all this ‘proving myself’ bullshit.”
“It’s hard. I know. But it’s that way because the stakes are high. A mistake can cost lives. Look what happened on the road this morning. You have to show you won’t get yourself killed. That’s the first step. Then you have to show that you can be relied on not to get a teammate killed.”
“I didn’t ask for this. You screwed up, not me,” he said.
She winced at the truth of it. “You’re right. You exposed me. I didn’t know my body signature had a shape that doesn’t change because I’m wearing a glamour. I never anticipated that someone could sense that shape like you can. But I didn’t let those mistakes get me killed. Now I’m trying to show Terryn and Cress and whoever else cares that those mistakes aren’t going to get them killed. And the only way I can do that is to help you succeed at this. If you’re telling me you don’t want to do it, then you need to decide whether you like your hell hot or cold because Terryn will send you somewhere extremely unpleasant whether you like it or not.”
“And you’re okay with that,” he said.
Sighing, she shook her head. “Not in the least, and I will do whatever it takes to make it not happen.”
He smirked. “So you’ll have dinner with me?”
“Yes, as long as you understand it has nothing to do with anything else.”
He smiled. “Night watchman.”
She smiled back and settled into his guest chair. “Better. Now, let’s bring Bill Burrell to life.”
CHAPTER 7
WITH SINCLAIR SLUMPED half-asleep in the passenger seat the next morning, Laura pulled her SUV into a parking space a half block away from Fallon Moor’s apartment building. She turned off the engine, let the seat back to make more leg room, and picked up her coffee from the console. The pale dawnlight revealed a flat-front, nondescript building in a muted shade of brick in a line of similar row houses. It had no distinct architectural character, but the location near Logan Circle was pricey enough to warrant its appeal.
The morning commute coasted past the SUV on the left, traffic moving at the speed limit at the early hour. Within a few minutes of parking, it started to slow, as the traffic began its gradual build for the day. Early risers made their way along the sidewalks, coffee cups and briefcases in hand, their faces neutral except for the occasional avid cell-phone talker. Another typical day in a typical city neighborhood with the noted exception of its being home to an international terrorist.
Sinclair slouched in the passenger seat. That a grown man with rugged good looks seemed like a little boy when asleep amused her. She wanted to smooth the worry line off his forehead but resisted the urge. They were working. “Am I going to handle this myself, or are you going to wake up?” she asked.
Sinclair shifted sideways in his seat, his eyes open to slits. “It’s so nice to wake up next to you.”
She chuckled into her coffee. “Yeah, if you actually, you know, woke up.”
He reached for his coffee. “You drilled me half the night. Even I think I’m Bill Burrell now.”
She smirked. “Be glad you only had to do a history. It’s worse when you have to bring some kind of expertise to the job.”
He snorted. “Well, I think I’m bringing some expertise to the job.”
A motion near Moor’s building caught Laura’s eye, and she cocked her head for a clearer line of sight. A man in a maintenance uniform stepped out and swept the sidewalk. She leaned back. “I’ve had to learn languages for missions. I became a qualified English professor for one. I’ve been on archaeological digs, and no one questioned my knowledge. There’s a difference, Jono, between behaving like someone and becoming that person. You’re using existing skills and memorizing a life history you can create on the fly. You can’t do that every time.”
Even as Sinclair complained about the hour, his gaze was on the street. “Boast much, Cuddles?”
She flushed with anger and embarrassment, at the nickname, at his tone, and at the dig. Several cutting responses flew through her mind. As the silence lengthened, she caught herself short and laughed. “Sorry. You totally have a point there.”
He smiled. “Thanks. You do, too, but it would go down better with doughnuts.”
“I’ll try to remember that next time you’re snoring when I’m going through the drive-through. And I’m going to pretend you didn’t call me Cuddles,” she said.
They fell into a comfortable silence. Laura was tempted to quiz him on his undercover persona but resisted the urge. She had to acknowledge to herself he knew it. In f
act, she had quizzed him far longer the previous night than she needed to. He had it down, but her own anxiety kept her at him. On several points, he had become so comfortable with the constructed history that his voice resonated near truth when he spoke. Now, that impressed her. As she had gone to sleep, she allowed herself to hope everything would work out for him.
As the caffeine kicked in, Sinclair eased straighter in his seat. He tapped his fingers to the beat of a song playing on the satellite radio. “Do you like to dance?”
“Sometimes,” Laura said.
He glanced at her. “That’s kind of a yes-or-no question.”
She pulled her hair back and flipped it up from where she was leaning on it. “Not really. There have been times when I’ve liked current music enough to dance to it and time periods when I didn’t. I liked the stuff in the seventies and some of the eighties.”
Sinclair cocked an eyebrow. “Time periods? How old are you anyway?”
Laura pursed her lips. “Umm . . . right now, Mariel is twenty-eight.”
Amused, he grunted. “Okay. How old was Janice Craw-ford?”
Laura lifted her eyes in thought. “Well, I wanted to create a SWAT persona who was old enough to have some experience but not too old to be considered a washout. She was twenty-eight.”
“Uh-huh. And Laura Blackstone?”
“Oh, Laura Blackstone is older. Twenty-eight and a half.”
He tilted his head at her. “I like younger women.”
She smirked back at him. “Oh? And how old are you?”
He rubbed his chin. “I’m going to go with thirty.”
She let a smile linger on her lips to hide a sudden sense of unease. Her truth-sensing ability detected a fluctuation. His statement should have registered as an outright lie, but it didn’t. Granted, he had been joking, but humor didn’t hide underlying responses. “That’s not what your birth certificate says.”
He arched his eyebrows with a playful look. “Really, Mariel Tate? My birth certificate might be altered?”
Face Off lb-2 Page 5