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“Just water. I’m dehydrated.”
I remove a bottle of overpriced water from the fridge and pour my bourbon from one of the airplane size bottles stacked in the concessions cabinet. “Don’t stress.”
She takes the water bottle from me and angles her eyes. I’ve seen that look. She’s annoyed.
“Look, Bauer doesn’t have high expectations. This isn’t mission critical. Others have attempted this and struck out. If we do too, it’ll be fine. Prior ops found it’s hard to connect with them on their turf. Vacation may be an easier connection, or it may not.”
“I don’t want to fail.” It’s a quiet admission. And it’s one I couldn’t possibly comprehend more. Failure is a wound that quietly destroys if you let it.
“We’ll do our best. They aren’t getting in until late. Do you want to go down for dinner or do room service?”
“Let’s order in. I feel grimy after traveling. Do you mind if I snag a shower?”
“No problem. Pick out what you want for dinner, and I’ll take care of it. You take the en suite bathroom, and I’ll take the one right here.” I gesture to the full bathroom off the hall.
She hesitates, chewing her lip. “You’re the senior officer. Shouldn’t you take the better bathroom?”
“Do I look like someone who cares which bathroom he takes?”
My question earns a small smile. She’s been tense all day. I don’t have a good read on why. I hope with food and a shower she’ll settle down. Working together as equals is a new dynamic for us, and it’s her first case. If she’s got nerves or this is weird for her, we’ve got to work through it.
For me, this baby op is a holiday. Bauer wasn’t wrong about that. The missions I’ve been covering will never make the news and will remain highly classified for the rest of my life. It’s exhausting work, the kind of work that eventually ends in either death or a desk job promotion. I’ll miss the thrill associated with a high-risk op, but at this stage in my life, studying the intel and developing strategic plans appeals more now than it did years ago. This baby op won’t factor into my promotion, but if we score a win, it won’t hurt. It’s time for the promotion Bauer has been dangling like a carrot for the past two years to come to fruition.
By the time she emerges from the bedroom, hair wet, pale skin flushed pink from the heat of the shower, her room service soup is lukewarm. Loose sweater pants hug her narrow waist and flow out loosely from her hips. Judging from the tiny tank top and the shearling slippers on her feet, the shower helped her settle in. She lifts the metal cover over her soup and arranges the utensils. “You already ate?”
“Yes.” I didn’t wait for the bathing princess because I ordered a filet and had no intention of eating it cold.
I kick my legs up on the sofa, sitting back against it so I can see her at the small table. She looks so different now than she did at fifteen, and it’s not just the fact that her wet, dyed hair carries a sheen of black. The gawky teenager is gone. Beneath porcelain skin, the muscle tone in her arms and shoulders underscores her dedication to her cause. And just like when she was in college, she’s seemingly oblivious to how clothes wrap around her tight body in a telltale…Stop it.
“We should review our backgrounds,” she says as she stirs the soup.
“Already did that.” We spent hours back at base drilling each other. “What I’m curious about is what’s going on here.”
She rips a piece of bread off and holds it over her soup, then drops it into the bowl.
“What do you mean?”
I cross one ankle over the other. There’s no need for this to be confrontational, but we’re a team. We need to be in sync. “You seem a little off. Tense. Is it nerves? ’Cause it’s your first case? Or is it something else?” She was probably as surprised as I was to find us working together. “You okay working with me?”
“It’s not you.” She dips her spoon into the soup, as if that answer is sufficient.
“Well, I’m not wrong, am I?” Those eyelashes flutter, and she looks my way, but she continues eating. “Are you nervous?”
She dabs her pert, petulant lips with a napkin like the perfect little debutante, fastidiously avoiding my gaze.
I cross my arms behind my head and stare up at the ceiling. I’m probably reading into it. Highly developed observational skills can be a curse. She’s also fresh in the field. Nerves are to be expected. Experience will settle them.
I drop my arms and regroup as she downs her bowl of pinkish tomato bisque.
“How’d you end up in the CIA?” That’s something that’s been bothering me. I watched her over the years singularly pursuing an FBI career. Prepping at the gun range and in the gym. Taking the right classes and pursuing strategic connections. It was pretty clear to anyone paying attention she planned to undermine smuggling networks. Completely understandable, given her abduction.
“Recruited.” She tears off another piece of bread and daintily spreads butter on it.
“Didn’t like the FBI?”
She sets her spoon down, dabs her lips with her napkin, and sets her hands and the napkin in her lap.
“These days, there are some analysts in the field, but it became clear I wasn’t on that path. The CIA offered me an alternate career path, and I took it.”
