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Sheridan is fast on his feet, but we’re well matched. He’s tough. I could break my hands on his face and he’d still have his fists up, ready for an opening to strike back. After a few rounds, an audience gathers, and two dozen of our fellow agents watch Sheridan and me get to know each other by beating the shit out of each other.
We finish in a draw, and when I shake his hand, I see Henry leaning on the ropes, smiling.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” Sheridan says as we down water and untape our hands. We’d worn headgear and mouthguards, and now his hair is fucked, all sweaty and disheveled. Mine has to look the same, or worse, because it’s longer than his.
I want to take a selfie and send it to Brennan.
“Henry says you’re a decent agent. He wants to move you up. You ready for the big show?”
“Yes, sir. I am.” He doesn’t sound cocky, or like an asshole who thinks the director’s touch is his ticket to fame.
“Hope so. I’ll see you at the White House.” I clap Sheridan on the shoulder before I grab my gym bag and head back to my room.
On the way, my burner phone winds up in my hand, and before I know what I’m doing, I’ve got my texts open and I’m reading over the conversation from last night.
Brennan and I haven’t spoken yet today. Should I text first? Or should I wait and see what he does?
I have only myself to blame for this mental shitstorm.
Earlier, I recorded footage from the driving course of one of our agents making an evasive escape, and it’s bad ass. Tires squealing, rubber burning, the presidential limo rocking and rolling like it never does in real life. He might get a kick out of that.
I send it to Brennan before I can overthink my impulse.
He replies almost immediately.
Brennan: Hi. Are you alone?
My heart jackhammers.
Me: Yes.
Brennan: Can I call you?
Fuck. We’ve blurred a dozen lines here, but I can maybe get away with saying these texts are innocuous and mean nothing. A phone call, though?
What the hell does he want to talk to me about? My behavior? Us? No, there is no us.
I shove my towel against the bottom of my door, as if that will soundproof this shitty little dorm room.
Me:Yes.
The burner rings twenty seconds later.
“Hi,” Brennan says, and, merde, that is the voice I’m hearing in my dreams, isn’t it? My teeth clench, and my free hand closes into a fist, and every part of me squeezes.
“Hey.” I try for casual. I’m sure I fail.
“I need to get out of my head. I’m spinning in circles.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Have you seen the news?”
Every morning, I wake up to some new horror Russia is inflicting. They’ve ramped up their offensive again, most likely thanks to Brennan’s election.
Russia has been moving in Eastern Europe for ten years, but during the last administration, the Russians put their money where their mouth was and invaded Ukraine. There was a lot of noise beforehand about how the Russians were going to steamroll the smaller country, but Ukraine fought to a stalemate.
Unfortunately, Russia isn’t a one-and-done kind of show, and its long-term military objectives are more about subjugation and despair than winning hearts and minds. Russian military tactics punish civilian populations. Line up pictures of Chechnya, Syria, and Ukraine, and you’ll think you’re looking at the same hellscape.
