Traitor Games

by Sidney Bristol

  She nodded at Noah, who flipped the switch on the projector. An image of the SICA company structure filled a previously blank, wooden wall.

  “These are the cells and groups we have identified. Keep in mind, this is just the tip of the iceberg.”

  …

  Friday. Munich, Germany.

  Irene skimmed the notes Noah had sent about the first day of the summit. She was still on the fence about how much they could trust the man, and she had massive problems allowing him to sit in on these meetings, but his attention to detail was incredible. After being there in person or getting conferenced in, this was the next best thing.

  She’d always appreciated Noah’s thorough approach. While they hadn’t been a great fit as handler and asset, she knew he could do great work. Still, there was something between the words she wasn’t seeing. He was different.

  A rhythmic knock on the door signaled Mitch’s return.

  She sat up a bit straighter.

  Things had been tense between them since the other night, and they couldn’t continue. Not like this.

  “Hey. It’s getting cold out, so I went ahead and grabbed something for dinner later.” Mitch plopped a canvas bag down on their tiny kitchen counter and shed his coat.

  She watched him strip down to just jeans and the long-sleeved knit shirt.

  Mitch was a good-looking man with gray streaking his blond hair and lines developing around his mouth and eyes. The beard he’d grown helped hide a strong jaw and worry lines. He’d age gracefully. She could see how he’d have made an appealing political candidate if he’d chosen to follow in his father’s footsteps. Then again, being the president’s bastard, “coat-closet son” would always be pinned to his record.

  Mitch stopped emptying the bag and faced her. “What? What’s wrong?”

  Irene shook her head. “Sorry, just thinking. I read Noah’s report on today.” She gestured to the laptop. “It sounds like SICA is trying to frame you for the attack on the Paris office. We probably want to lay low for a while.”

  “What?” Mitch frowned.

  “They know we’re up to something, and you’re the most visible target out of all of us.”

  Mitch leaned over her and began scanning the paragraphs, muttering words under his breath.

  This close she could smell soap and the beard oil he’d begun to use to keep his skin moisturized. She wanted to lean into him, but that merely put them back into the problematic territory they were fighting.

  Mitch straightened. “Goddamn it. What the hell?”

  “We’ll figure it out,” she said.

  “How?”

  “I don’t know yet, but worrying about it won’t solve our problems.”

  Mitch paced to the other side of the room and braced his hands on the windowsill.

  The other night she’d come out of the shower to find Mitch gone. For a few moments it had shaken her. She’d thought he’d up and left, not that she could blame him. All she’d done was push him away, time and time again. She’d crawled in bed and cried.

  The truth she didn’t want to face was that Mitch mattered to her. They’d begun as something closer to enemies and grown to be partners. She hadn’t wanted it and she sure as hell hadn’t been looking for it, but here he was.

  Irene didn’t believe in fairy godmothers or miracles. Her mother had always said to make her own dreams come true, and Irene had taken it to heart. She’d studied criminal justice and thrown in ancient literature as her electives. Her parents had been hesitant about Irene’s goals to go into law enforcement. When Irene had been recruited by the CIA for a special task force appointment no one had believed her in the beginning.

  She’d worked for the agency nearly twenty years. She only needed half of that to tell her it was time to wake up and accept that this situation they were in, up against a terrorist force, wasn’t going to go away.

  And neither were her feelings for Mitch. She’d fought them. Tried smothering them. But each time she kept coming back to the truth that he meant something to her.

  She stood, collecting her meager courage, and crossed the room to him.

  Her ex-husband had always accused her of being closed off and cold. She’d had to be to survive at the CIA and he hadn’t made it easy to come home and be vulnerable. But Mitch was different. He proved it every time she hurt him.

  She slid her hands around his waist and felt his exhale.

  “Not now.” He wrapped his hand around her wrist.

  She squeezed tighter and closed her eyes. “Listen? Just for a minute?”

  Perhaps if he didn’t look at her she could say what she needed to.

  For a moment they stood like that, Mitch poised to push her away. In the end he pressed her arm tighter against him. Because that was who he was. He was the kind of person who held on and didn’t falter when things got tough. He wasn’t perfect, but he was a damn good man.

  “I’m sorry. I’m very good at being the bitch. I’m not good at letting people in.” She steeled herself for the next bit. No one at work knew, at least not from her. “I have an unfortunate history of pushing people away. My ex-husband never let me forget that after our baby died. Don’t. Don’t turn around, please?”

  Slowly Mitch relaxed, but his hand still held hers.

  “Like I said, I’m not good at letting people in. I want to try to be better. I care about you, and that scares me. The last man I cared about…” Irene searched for words to explain herself, to make him understand that deep down she was afraid of failing not just at this mission, but with him.

  Mitch slowly rotated until he could slide his arms around her. She blinked away the urge to cry. Tears had no place here. They served no purpose.

  “I know about your ex.” He lifted his hand and stroked her cheek. “He was a piece of shit, and you deserve better than that, Irene.”

  A knot lodged in her throat. There was more she should say, but she’d reached the end of her ability to speak.

  “I care about you, too. It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that.” He kissed her forehead and she leaned into him.

  She’d fought these feelings for so long, but she couldn’t keep at it. They were destroying each other when what they really needed was hope.

  …

  Friday. Security Summit Safe House, United Kingdom.

  Noah climbed the stairs sideways while everyone else on their floor went down. One of the few perks about being a core member of the summit was first crack at the food when it was delivered.

  He rounded the landing and stared up the last flight. Lillian was behind that door.

  Invisible fingers crept down his spine. They hadn’t yet spoken about last night. She’d been so tired it was all he could do to get her up and out this morning.

  He should have kept it in his pants.

  Noah saw a break in the foot traffic and darted up the stairs. He crossed to her room and put his mouth right up against the jamb.

  “It’s me,” he said.

  Lillian opened the door and stood back. She’d pulled her short wisps of hair up into a spiky ponytail and changed into more comfortable clothing. He stepped inside and she took the tray from him, shoved a bunch of odds and ends aside, and set the tray down on the bed.

  He closed the door and twisted the lock.

  “Everything okay?” He peered at her, looking for any signs of stress. It hadn’t been an easy day.

  Lillian shoved her arms under his and squeezed him tight. He froze, holding his breath, and stared down at the top of her head. He hadn’t known what he was walking back into, how she’d receive him. Bit by bit the uncertainty faded away. He folded his arms around her and took an easier breath.

  “Now that you’re here? Yeah,” she mumbled against his chest.

  “Food took a while to get here. Any more thoughts on today?”

  “I’m so annoyed with myself.” Lillian let go of him and began pacing the room. “It took me most of the day to realize these people, they aren’t
angry with me—they’re scared. Which means, what do we not know?”

  “Has anyone shared information?”

  “Nothing substantial. Table scraps. It’s like they’re waiting for one of them to go in big, you know? So instead of getting much done, all we’ve really accomplished is figuring out who is more scared than the others.” Lillian dropped to the floor at the foot of the bed, her gaze drifting to the muted TV.

  “That tells us something. Whoever is scared has something to hide or lose.” Noah picked up the tray and carried it to where she sat.

  “You think?” She took the tray from him and set it on the ground.

  “If one of your clients behaved the way these people are, what would you do?” He sat down next to her, legs stretched out, the food between them.

  “Dig into them. Find out their secrets.”

  “Which we have, for the most part.” Noah gestured to the binder. “What we need isn’t in that binder, though. What are we doing with that, by the way?”

  “There’s a secure case under the bed. When it’s not with me I leave it in there. It’s thumbprint activated with like three methods to destroy the guts of the binder if someone tries to open it without my thumb.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s thorough.”

  “Right?” She chuckled. “Back to secret mining. What do we do?”

  “Phone a friend.”

  “Who?” Lillian opened and closed her mouth.

  He wished this room could be their safe space, but they had to operate as though someone were listening. They had at least discussed and decided on that point this morning.

  Noah held an invisible pen and bobbed his hand in the air.

  Lillian nodded and reached blindly behind her, on top of the bed. She pulled a notebook and pen into her lab and scribbled away.

  AC, RS?

  Noah shook his head. Those two teams were off the grid and wouldn’t make contact until the end of the summit, at least. That only left one option. Irene and Mitch would be plugged in, gathering every detail they could.

  Lillian nodded and set the paper and pen aside.

  “Hungry?” Noah lifted one of the dishes and pried off the plastic lid. They’d rated one of the pre-plated trays instead of spooning it out of serving dishes.

  “I think I’m too nervous to be hungry, which means I likely need to eat.”

  “That’s the spirit.” He set the white ceramic bowl back on its plate and passed it over to Lillian.

  “What is up with this mushy, green stuff with every meal?”

  “It’s peas.” He pointed at the pad of paper.

  “Mashed peas?”

  “Mushy peas is what I think they call it.” He scribbled away below her line.

  “Why was it served with breakfast? This is so weird. I mean, it’s got more flavor than any peas I’ve ever eaten. It’s just weird.” She peered over his shoulder.

  I’ll take a walk, ping them w/ intel request. Tomorrow-M should know more.

  Lillian nodded and gave him a thumbs-up. Noah ripped the page off and dug in his pocket for the lighter he’d liberated from one of the guards on duty earlier. In moments the flames ate through the paper, nearly singeing Noah’s fingertips. He blew out the last bits and left it on the tray. The important parts were gone, erased for all eternity.

  “Eat.” Noah handed Lillian a spoon.

  “What kind of all-in-one monstrosity did we get this time?”

  “Shepherd’s pie.”

  “Oh, well, that’s not so bad. Whatever that thing was at lunch? I never want to eat that again.”

  Noah chuckled and pulled his food into his lap. Lillian un-muted the TV and they both stared at the anchor unfolding a story about children’s safety jackets on playgrounds. After a few moments he tuned the story out.

  He’d learned a little through the day, nothing groundbreaking that was for sure. She was onto something with the fear. He could practically smell it this morning. Was it because they’d all seen how easily an organization like the CIA could be infiltrated? Were they scared that they, too, were harboring the enemy in their midst? What if one of the many aids in attendance was one of SICA’s people? What then? It didn’t leave Noah with any warm, fuzzy feelings.

  Case in point, Jan. According to the others, he’d come to Carol, wanting to help. He’d spearheaded much of the collaborative effort, and yet during the brief period Noah had been in the room, he might have been the most antagonistic.

  What did the German have to hide? What was he afraid of? What about the others?

  “Pretty certain everyone has an opinion about my hair,” Lillian said after a stretch of silence.

  “It doesn’t look bad.” Noah looked at her, his gaze snagging on the spiky tail. “Well, when it’s down.”

  “Jesse always says he can tell when I’m in a groove because I put my hair up.” She lifted her hand and touched her hair.

  “It’ll grow back.”

  “I know. It’s just hair.” She shrugged.

  “I got a tattoo for a job once.” Not something he should talk about, but he wanted to take her mind off things.

  “Of what?” She stared at him, lips parted.

  “A swastika. I needed to be able to show them my colors to get the job. Part of their signing bonus? Laser tattoo removal.”

  “You’re kidding…”

  “Dead serious.” He pulled up his sleeve and showed her his forearm. “See that area that looks like it might be a bruise? That’s it.”

  “So it wasn’t entirely removed?” She ran her fingers over his skin.

  “It was thick and black. It’ll fade over time.”

  “Did it work? For the job, I mean?”

  “Maybe? No one really tells me anything. Contract guy, in the field. The more I know, the more of a liability I am.” He shrugged and took another bite of dinner.

  They veered away from personal questions to the topic of movies, then food. The more he got Lillian to talk, the more she ate. She visibly unwound bit by bit.

  Noah checked the time. He’d jotted down the guard rotation. His best chance of getting off property to contact Mitch and Irene was during that switch.

  “I’d better take this down to the kitchen.” Noah caught Lillian’s eye and nodded at the window.

  “Oh, okay. Coming back here after? Or are you going to try to make friends with Jeff again?”

  “I don’t think he’s my type.”

  That earned a chuckle from Lillian.

  “I’ll probably hit the hay after.” He thumbed at the wall and his bedroom next door.

  “I would feel better if you were here,” she said slowly, eyes on his face.

  Noah swallowed. Those words were beautiful and horrifying.

  “About last night…” His throat closed up, preventing him from saying any more.

  “Can you just—stop right there?” She held up her hand and stared at the ground, her cheeks tinged pink. “In the bigger picture, we have a lot to figure out, you know? Can we not make a big deal about last night?”

  Her words were a strong jab to his jaw. If he’d been standing he’d have staggered back, completely dazed. She lifted her chin, finally meeting his gaze.

  “We’re adults, right? Can we admit that this is a stressful, unique situation and agree that last night happened? There’s nothing to sort out or anything. We did what we did, and that’s okay. If it never happens again, or if it does, whatever. We’re attracted to each other. It’s okay.” She bit her lip.

  Had she practiced that speech? Was she trying to let him down easy? Or was she hiding behind strong words?

  “Okay,” he said after a beat of silence.

  “I’d feel better if you came back here after dropping this at the kitchen.”

  “Then I’ll be back up in a bit.”

  He gathered their dishes, each scraped clean of food, and let himself out of the room. In the hallway he paused to take a deep, long breath. The last time he tried to have a girlfriend who wasn’t part
of a cover, he’d been between deployments. He couldn’t remember much about her. Lillian, on the other hand, was the kind of woman he’d remember until his dying day.

  Chapter Twelve

  Friday. London, United Kingdom.

  Demetrius squeezed his eyes closed and pressed his ear to the bottom of the cup a little harder. The door was made of thin material, but the cup helped amplify the sound. Just because most of his jobs were about killing people didn’t mean that was his only trick. He’d learned the glass-to-a-door trick from his baby mama. It was a wonder the things that crazy woman had taught him before her train completely jumped the track.

  Hector’s people had discovered something but they weren’t sharing it with Demetrius. No, they’d shut him out of this discussion, leaving him out here in what looked like a waiting room of the warehouse they’d come to when their immediate leads dried up.

  The white van had left them a trail, and one of the bodies they’d been gifted had traced back to a company. Medusa, something? He couldn’t make it out enough to give him a lead to go on.

  Whatever these people were planning, it wasn’t good. And the longer they kept him working for them, the more he knew and the less likely it was they’d let his babies go alive. He couldn’t wait for this job to be done and these bastards to stick to their end of the bargain. No, Demetrius had to work both sides. The only problem was he didn’t know who the other side was save for a few pictures.

  It was time Demetrius got to the bottom of this. His babies couldn’t lose both parents.

  …

  Saturday. Security Summit Safe House, United Kingdom.

  Lillian couldn’t believe she was awake, let alone outside, at this hour. The sun had barely tinged the horizon a pale gray. Fog hung low on the grounds, obscuring anything more than a few feet ahead of them.

  Once again she wished they could have this chat with Irene and Mitch in the comfort of their room in the house. The warm sheets, being wrapped up in Noah’s arms. Much better than creeping through an endless sea of grass and fog.

  Noah squeezed her hand again and they crept forward another ten paces, then stopped.