September 15, 1998
FOOTSTEPS ECHO ACROSS THE GRAY and white marble floor, the clicking of heels growing increasingly louder. If sitting and waiting in the massive entryway to the Central Intelligence Agency isn’t bad enough, the clack-clack of impending panic is worse. I haven’t been here since I graduated from the Farm and received my credentials almost two years ago.
Fidgeting with my fingers, all I can do is sit and wait. I just don’t know what I’m waiting for.
I work hard.
Really hard.
When you’re a woman in my position, you need to work ten times harder than everyone else. I come in early, and I’m always the last to leave. I’ve been flying under the radar and keeping my nose clean. Why would they summon me here?
This isn’t normal.
“Agent Witt?” a voice from above asks. Looking up, I meet a pair of curious green eyes. A gentleman no older than forty looms over me. He’s dressed the part: plain dark suit with a mundane tie.
“Yes, that’s me,” I answer. He knows who I am; I’m just playing along.
“Please come with me,” he orders, his face impassive.
Deciding he’s not the one to ask, I stand and follow him through the corridor, stepping over the CIA crest. He leads me to a bank of elevators and pushes the up arrow. With a ding, the doors open and we enter. Dark Suit places his security badge in a slot and presses the button for the twelfth floor—a floor normal agents don’t have access to. As the elevator whisks us up, a shiver creeps up my spine. I can’t stand not knowing why I’m here, and it’s eating away at me.
Another ding, and the doors open. Again, I follow him down the dark hall to a door on the end. I’ve never been on this floor, and I’m certain not too many other people have either. Being asked here can only mean two things: you’re either being promoted or fired. I haven’t done anything to warrant being fired, but I’m too new to be promoted. “After you,” he says as he opens the door. Standing taller, I nod and walk through.
Sitting on the other side is my boss, Daniel Frost, and the deputy director, James Hayden.
What the hell? My anxiety level has risen from DEFCON four, a state of relaxed readiness, to DEFCON three, impeding panic. “Take a seat, Deloris,” my boss, Daniel advises, his voice soft and soothing.
“Yes, sir,” I answer, sitting directly across from them.
“Do you know why you’re here?” director Hayden asks, his voice just as calm.
“No, sir.”
Director Hayden looks toward Daniel and nods. “Deloris, don’t think I haven’t noticed your work ethic,” Daniel begins. “You stand out among your peers.”
Not knowing what to say, I blurt out, “Thank you, sir.” My nervousness ticks down a notch, but I don’t think I’m out of the woods yet.
“That being said, we have a job for you.” Daniel glances back toward director Hayden, and says, “A job that requires a certain amount of—”
“What he’s trying to say,” director Hayden says, smiling, “is we’ve hand-picked you for an assignment. We needed someone with your particular set of skills.”
“Skills, sir?” My brow furrows as my head tilts a bit to the right.
“Let me explain the assignment, and I’ll let you ascertain what skills I might be referring to,” the director states, scratching his chin. “Last week, a prominent businessman, one who does a tremendous amount of business with the United States government, was found to be selling arms to Al-Qaeda. Arms that should be going to our troops. We know this from phone taps. Problem is, we don’t have any hard evidence.”
“That’s where you come in,” Daniel continues. “You’re going to infiltrate Black Mountain Ammunition and bring us proof.”
“Black Mountain, sir?” I gasp, my eyes going wide. They’re the leading manufacturer of most of our military weapons. Their main offices are in the central United States, surrounded by nothing—the textbook definition of the middle of nowhere.
“You see why this needs to be dealt with carefully,” the director advises. “They’re sending over empty boxes and claiming they’ve been hijacked. If the press gets wind of this . . . hell, it’ll be a problem.” Running his fingers through his short, gray hair, a line appears between his thick brows. “I know CEO Greystone is profiting off sending arms to Afghanistan, and I want that son of a bitch cuffed and dragged off to Guantanamo.”
“I still don’t understand why you chose me. I’m just as knowledgeable of the Black Mountain as any other agent.”
“Yes,” Daniel jumps in, his eyes boring into mine, “but all those other agents have dicks. We need an agent—a qualified agent—without one.” Biting my lip, I stifle the giggle that threatens to spill from my lungs. Daniel always had a flair for the dramatic. He could have just said he doesn’t just want me to infiltrate the company, but someone’s life.
“Who’s the target, sir?” I ask, knowing the implications. It’s not like I didn’t see this coming. I mean, I joined the CIA and specifically requested to be placed in their clandestine division. I’m what they call a swallow: a female agent employed to seduce people for intelligence purposes.
It’s what they do.
What I do.
I just didn’t think I’d get an assignment this big after only two years of service.
“His name is Ethan Sawyer. He’s an accountant, and we believe he’s hiding the sales under the direction of the company’s CEO, Michael Greystone. You’ll need to hack into his laptop and download the bank information.” The director stands, placing his palms flat on the mahogany table. “Those bank records and routing numbers are our proof, and you need to get them by any means necessary. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” I nod. They’ve made it perfectly clear.
“Here’s your cover story, new identity, and information on Ethan,” Daniel says, passing me a black satchel. Inside is a folder and a manila envelope. “You have until tomorrow afternoon to memorize your background information as well as your target’s. There’s also a plane ticket that’ll take you to Black Mountain’s headquarters in South Dakota.”
Removing the folder, I flip through my new legend. Deloris Clark. Age twenty-five. My skills include secretarial work, and it seems Ethan’s secretary has taken a sudden leave of absence. Daniel has added my credentials to the temp agency Black Mountain works with, and I’ve been hired to take her place until her return. Doesn’t seem too far-fetched. That’s a good sign.
I open the envelope with Ethan’s dossier inside. He was born in Oklahoma in 1966. He’s taller than me, with dark hair and light blue eyes. With another quick peek at his credentials, I shove the papers back in the folder. Placing everything back in the satchel, I glance up to Director Hayden’s scrutinizing gaze. His eyes soften as he asks, “Do you have any questions?”
“No, sir,” I assure him.
I know what I need to do.
“Excellent,” he declares with a grin.
“I’ll walk you out,” Daniel says as he rises.
Picking up the bag, I stand and stride toward the door. “The next time we meet, it’ll be under better circumstances,” the director assures me as I reach for the door knob. I glance back and nod, then continue out the door.
The second the door closes, Daniel places his hand on my shoulder like a big brother would. Firm, yet gentle. “Deloris,” he starts to say, but thinks for a second, “I hand-picked you. You are the most qualified person for this assignment, and someone I completely trust.” He trusts me, but I feel like he doesn’t even know me. We’ve only spoken a handful of times, and it was always curt conversations. He studies me as I think about the implications. I’m disposable, just like every other agent, and I knew this could happen when I joined the unit.
“I’m flattered,” I answer, my impassive look from earlier fading to a smile. “I am the most qualified,” I tease, shrugging out of his hold. Gail, the other female in our unit, is new and wouldn’t be able to handle it if the op went sideways. I’ve always been quick on my feet when shit hits the fan.
His gray eyes soften as he forces a smile. “This should be a piece of cake. In and out in a matter of days. All you need are the passwords.” I’m hopeful he’s right, but I’m reticent. Nothing in my life ever goes smoothly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Go home and pack. A car will come by and pick you up an hour before your flight tomorrow.” The time stamped on my tickets is two-thirty, which gives me plenty of time to study my cover story.
“Thank you, sir.