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Thank God I still “officially” worked for K19. Somehow, we’d managed to cut through the typical bureaucratic red tape and got shit done. Something that wasn’t as true for my coalition counterparts.
In the last several weeks—in my official capacity as the US task force’s commanding officer for the UN Coalition Against Human Trafficking—I’d assembled a team of some of the best agents I’d ever worked with.
“You’re really stickin’ it to ol’ Money,” said Doc, laughing. “You’ll be happy to hear I got a call from him.”
“Why would that make me happy?”
“Because he’s pissed you poached Tank, Blackjack, and Atticus.”
“None of them worked for him.”
Doc laughed again. Harder. “You’re right, but now, he’s in hot water with the NRO since the UN told them he was the one who recommended not just you but your whole team. And since the Security Council trumps the NSA and NRO, at least officially, they couldn’t say no to letting them go.”
Doc was right; hearing McTiernan was getting bitched at was the icing on the cake for me. The real prize, though, was the combined capabilities of the guys I’d be working with.
“You’re doing good work, Ares. You’re the right man for the job.”
“I appreciate you saying so, Doc.”
“Listen, I also got a call from Z Alexander.”
“I heard the UK team suffered a tough one last night.”
“I made a recommendation to Marchand that this would be a good opportunity for the US and UK task forces to launch their first joint investigation,” said Merrigan.
Henri “Baissier” Marchand was the French ambassador to the United Nations and the man I reported to in my role as a coalition CO.
“Did he agree?”
“What do you think?” Doc said with a grin.
Two days later,I flew into London Heathrow Airport. The following morning, I had a meeting scheduled at the SIS Building at Vauxhall Cross at zero nine hundred. As a former special agent in charge, then as a deputy director, I’d visited the chief of MI6’s office more than once. Z Alexander was a stand-up guy, one who, like Doc and Merrigan, I respected very much. More, I enjoyed working with him.
The doorto his office was open when I approached, and I heard a woman’s voice.
“He’s ridiculous. I mean, have you seen him? He’s a walking, talking cover model for a romance book,” said the person I guessed was the UK task force CO, whom Z and I were scheduled to meet with.
I didn’t wait to hear his response. Instead, I stalked into his office despite the protests of his secretary, ordering me to stop.
Comments like those were something I’d heard most of my life, coupled with things like “Greek god” and “Adonis.” Worse was the comparison to the model whose likeness had been used for the Marvel comic book character Ares. True, it had been the fodder used when I was given my code name. However, the initial sketches had been drawn for the release of an issue that came out twenty years before I was born.
I cleared my throat, which was unnecessary for Z, who watched me walk in and didn’t bother masking his amusement at my hearing what the woman I’d be working with had to say about me.
“Good morning,” I said, taking a seat in the empty chair before it was offered. “You must be Margeaux.” I looked her up and down, letting my gaze linger too long on her ample cleavage.
While my intention had been to make her feel as ill at ease as her inappropriate comments made me, the stirring I felt in my groin was as surprising as it was unwelcome.
She folded her arms, covering her breasts, and raised her chin. Her eyes bored into mine when I finally looked up at her face. “Point taken,” she muttered.
I smirked. Good on her for not pretending she hadn’t classified me as a piece of meat, as they say.
Z cleared his throat like I had when I walked in.
“Hello, Ares,” he said. “Welcome back to SIS.” I shook his extended hand. “May I present Margeaux Jordan, code name Nemesis.”
I nodded in appreciation. The Greek goddess so named was the personification of divine retribution, punishment, and justice.How fitting.“Officer Jordan,” I said, extending my hand. “Philip Kappas.”
“Ares,” she said, shaking it. “God of war.”
