The creature of Cathedral Heights could be spotted at daybreak. 5:25 a.m., to be exact, when the quiet mechanical humming of a retracting wrought iron gate signified the emergence of the elusive Langhorne. In a sky-blue BMW it would migrate southeast from its gated community, speeding all the way through Embassy Row, slowing a bit for the ornamental traffic circles of Downtown, and then driving 'round and 'round a single block like a complete asshole. Here, the creature foraged for the most convenient parking space imaginable, lest it be faced with the perils of walking more than 15 feet. When the ritual was finally complete and its territory claimed, the hungry Langhorne would move on to more important matters—the high-fructose, cholesterol, and caffeine of Bluebird cafe, a Greek-owned greasy spoon that had been serving up downtown D.C.'s finest flapjacks since 1959.

Three plates and a heart attack later, the creature would reappear tired and slow-moving. It would make an audible groaning sound when bending over to sit in its BMW. Careful observers would note the slumping movement of the car as it shuddered under the added weight. Careful observers would also know how to slide into traffic behind the creature's car without garnering suspicion. But now, for the over-stuffed and food-sleepy Langhorne, precaution was hardly needed. The tailing itself had become effortless. The creature, whose primary urge had just been satisfied with a double stack of pancakes, seemed content with slower speeds and far less erratic lane changes. Everything was merely routine now, and almost superfluous, like Langhorne's lazy wave to the security guard in the parking booth at the Hart Senate Building. Unfortunately for Jackson, it would take more than a wave.

“Media? What media?” asked the skinhead-looking security guard behind a kiosk at the building's main entrance.

“Action News Network,” said Jackson, making sure to sound bored and bothered.

“What?” The guard winced as his radio came warbling to life in loud burps of static. He promptly twisted down the volume knob at his waist and said, “Never heard of it.”

“It's online only.”

“That's probably why you don't have a pass.”

Jackson reached into his suit-jacket pocket, feeling around as if he’d misplaced something.

“I can't let you in without a pass,” the guard said while reading something on his computer screen. “And why are you using the front entrance?”

“Come on man, can you give me a break?” Jackson checked a different pocket. “It's my first day. Just tell me where I need to go and I'll go.”

“I don't care where you need to go. Just where I need you not to go.”

Jackson finally handed the surly guard a laminated card. “Mark Applewood. ANN. I'm here for the Langhorne donation.”

The guard held the fake press pass, turning it over and over, and then tilting the plastic card in the light to search for its reflective authenticity strip. It was there. Matthias was too good for it not to be. He handed it back to Jackson with a shrug. “Just use the side entrance next time, all right?”

Inside the senate building, Jackson used a few direction placards to find the stairs, and then the second mezzanine, and then the small room with rows of chairs and a temporary stage below an American flagged backdrop. The space had all the makings of a clichéd PR spectacle. It was quickly filling with journalists and their coffees and chatter, their tripoded equipment being hastily erected along the front row. These were supposedly Jackson's people, his colleagues. He was supposed to be among the frenzied scrum, fighting for the best real estate, the best sightlines. But he was happy to stand back. Far back.

His name and face weren’t exactly famous, although his profile had been heating up with publicity in recent years. A blessing and a curse. Sure, it attracted more business. But it also made undercover ops annoyingly complicated at best, and super risky at worst.

The current situation wasn't such a big deal. Low risk. And hardly a reward, aside from seeing Mira. It only called for a fake mustache. Jackson had a whole suitcase of Hollywood-grade facial hair "stickers" to choose from, and a more than willing receptionist to laugh hysterically while applying them. Today it was the thin-strip intellectual plus grungy soul-patch. Something only Mark Applewood would wear. Whenever Jackson donned any of these stickers he'd just assume, no matter which variation his receptionist had picked, that he looked like a pretentious douche bag – especially when she'd disagree and say, “No, no, you look awesome.”

Douche bag or not, he just wanted to be anonymous. Even for just a morning, it felt good not to be known by anyone. It felt good to be a lonely loser like Mark Applewood. Someone with no life and no enemies.

His latest enemy, or soon-to-be enemy, was this morning's prey, Langhorne. The charismatic senator would be the star of the show soon, smiling in front of working class nobodies like Mark Applewood and all their hungry cameras. Soon he'd wield around a super-sized cardboard check to the obligatory chorus of oohs and ahhs, and then wave it over Mira's head like a guillotine, his eyes trained on hers, his tight expression urging her to smile god dammit because it's a lot of money. It's the least she could do. Smile. And ignore his illegal dealings with East African warlords.

Where was Mira?

He was hoping to at least say a quick "Hi" to her before the press conference, to offer his support. A friendly face in the crowd. Someone who understood the true weight of the event. He also needed to give her Tansy's latest weapon, a Swiss Army knife USB stick. It contained the code that would systematically dismantle Langhorne's smuggling infrastructure by hijacking its encryption engines. All Mira had to do was plug it into one of his computers and the infection would turn Langhorne's encrypted messages into actual gibberish.

That was the official reason for his coming to the press conference. But computers, USB's and Tansy's tricks were the furthest things from his mind.

Today was all about Mira.

He knew it would be an emotional clusterfuck for her. Her mother's cancer crossing paths with her boss's deceit. Jackson had anticipated Langhorne's PR spectacle to be a tough, miserable, and lonely experience for his special client.

Yes, special. And not just because of her live-decrypting abilities.

Slowly and steadily, she'd made him ignore his better judgment, his personal rule about becoming personally involved with anyone associated with DARC Ops. It happened almost imperceptibly, with each smile and noticeable lip bite, each of her blushes projecting Jackson's thoughts to the bedroom, her wonderfully agonized face foregrounded to his bed sheets.

She was worth a broken rule or two, and he was willing to admit that now. It felt good to admit that.

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” came some guy's annoying voice from the front of the room. “It's the top of the hour. We'll have the senator and Miss Swanson step out for some photos before the senator makes his address. Then we'll bring out the check and you can take additional photos. And then the senator will make his official donation. Please silence all your...”

The voice faded away when Jackson saw her walk in. The look on her face made him feel sick. She was smiling, but it was hollow. It was an expression that gnawed at her face like a slow acid burn.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Senator Langhorne and Miss Swanson.” The announcement sounded upbeat and celebratory, and there was a modest smattering of applause from the gaggle of reporters. Mira even waved a little. But the way her eyes kept darting to the floor...

“Hey, where is everybody?” asked the sweaty senator, his face glistening in the lights. “Daws, tell Martin he's fired. Hey can someone give me a wipe-down here? I'm greasier than a fuckin’ pizza.”

Mira hung in there for the photo op. Tough girl. She followed their rabid instructions, where to look, what to do. She smiled well enough. And when the senator began his speech, she seemed happy to hang back as far as possible.

Jackson wanted to wave, or try some signal for her attention, but thought better of it. What he really wanted to do was run up on the stage and wrap his arm around her, to hold her. “It's gonna be okay,” he'd whisper. “Take his money now, and then we'll finish him off later.”

As Jackson's daydream ran in the back of his mind, Langhorne was making a surprisingly impassioned speech about the ravages of cancer in his family and community, and in his “work family,” nodding to Mira for effect. “It's not every day your friend or family member gets diagnosed,” said the senator, pulling a handkerchief from his suit's breast pocket and then wiping his nose with it. “But when it happens, it's the worst day.” He paused for dramatic weight. And then wiped his nose again. “I didn't know Hope Swanson personally. But I know her story. And I know her daughter.”

What the fuck was he talking about?

“And it's a tragedy. It truly is. Hopefully, with this donation...” Langhorne quickly glanced over his shoulder. “With this check...,” he trailed off again, looking back over his shoulder. “Chuck,” he said off-mic. “Where's the check?” He looked back to the crowd, to the reporters who began murmuring and chuckling like school kids. He forced a smile before looking back to his men in a corner off-stage. “Chuck? Anybody? Come on, you're killing me here.” More laughter from the crowd. More camera flashes. “Well go tell him. Someone get the check for God's sake.” He faced the crowd with another apologetic smile. “Sorry, folks, we seem to be having some technical--”

An applause erupted when some young, nervous intern-looking kid walked in holding the comically huge cardboard check.

“There we go,” said Langhorne. “Bam! Right on schedule, am I right?”

The applause died down and the camera flashes sparked to life.

“All right, let's go,” said Langhorne. “Bring it up here. Yeah, right on up here, come on.”

Everyone seemed to enjoy the moment except for the intern holding the check. And Mira, who was obviously now running on autopilot, her smile manufactured and frozen, her eyes sedated. She remained like that throughout the following photo op, her hands lifelessly gripping a piece of cardboard that signified $250,000 in dirty money.

* * *

Jackson lingered after the event, pretending to type notes on his phone while catching snippets of Mira's interviews. They were slightly painful to listen to. The inane questions, her monotonous voice and stock answers. Forced laughter when it was required—like when they'd ask about “that crazy senator.” She'd wring her hands constantly, shifting weight from one leg to the other as if some unknown emergency loomed on the horizon.

Perhaps it did.

After a half dozen interviews, she'd had enough. Jackson followed her out of the room, speed-walking down the hall and around a corner, faster around another corner, and to the end of a short hallway where Mira slammed the palms of her hands against the stairwell door's press-bar.

By the time Jackson entered the stairwell he was already two flights behind, with Mira's angry footsteps echoing from the floor below. He clung onto the middle railing, leaned his head over it and called, “Mira!” His voice blasted against the bare concrete, the sound of her name echoing up and down the length of the building. But it was still drowned out by her thunderous escape.

He took a deep breath and tried again. “Mira! Wait!”

Her steps rumbled to a stop.

And then silence.

“Mira, it's me,” Jackson said before starting his own descent. By the time he reached her at the parking garage level, Mira was crying. A half-soaked, balled up tissue was pressed against her cheek, dabbing up the molten mascara under her eyes. She took one look at him before turning and escaping into the parking garage.

She didn't get very far. Jackson found her to the immediate right of the door, near a dark concrete corner of parking garage. She faced away, shoulders quivering with quiet sobs.

It required no thought, his body immediately moving to hers, pressing up behind and wrapping her in his arms. He felt her fragile frame go limp inside his embrace, leaning her weight back into him, collapsing. “It's gonna be okay,” he whispered. “We got this guy.”

She sniffed and nodded.

“You did well up there,” he said.

She sniffed again, and then slipped out of his arms.

“You were strong, Mira.”

“Thanks,” she said, her back still turned. She pulled out a fresh tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. “Thanks, I'm fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Just being overly dramatic.” When she turned to face him, Jackson was surprised to see a smile forming across her teary, red face.

“Happy to see me?” he asked. “I thought you could, uh...”

She started laughing.

“...thought you could use the support. What's so funny?”

Mira raised her hand to his face, trying to pull off the fake mustache – only his face pulled along with it.

“Ouch!” he cried, batting her hand away.

She laughed even harder. “It looks ridiculous.”

“I know, but it doesn’t just tear off like a Halloween costume.” The pain still fresh, Jackson carefully rubbed his upper lip.

“Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“It's not stuck on here with a piece of gum, you know.”

“I thought it would just tear off like a band-aid.”

“No,” he said. “Disguises need to be a little more durable in my line of work.”

Mira wiped her nose one last time before throwing the wet clump tissues into a garbage bin near the door. “Well,” she sighed and wiped her hands on her slacks. “I survived.” She sniffed again and forced a smile.

“You did great.”

“I was great at just standing there?”

“Under the circumstances, yes.” He felt the urge to be close to her again. Maybe even hold her hand. Would she want that? “And I'm sure you did your mom proud.”

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “She'd be proud if we can stop this gun deal.”

“We will.”

“When? It'll happen in two weeks if we don't do anything. They'll already be preparing to march the refugee recruits down to the Tanzanian border.”

Jackson pulled out the Swiss Army knife keychain from his pocket.

“What's that?”

He pressed a small lever which caused the metal prong of a USB to flip open.

“Oh, another USB.”

“Not just another,” he said, placing it in her palm. “It's the USB to end all USB's.”

“What? That doesn't even make any sense.” She studied the Swiss Army keychain, pulling out two small blades, scissors, and a bottle opener. “Does the rest of this stuff do anything?”

“Nothing important.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay. So what's on here? Is this the virus Tansy was talking about?”

“The worm,” said Jackson. “I wanted to get this to you as quickly as I could. I need you to plug it into any of his office computers and it'll then start a cascade effect, taking out their encryption systems.”

She looked almost scared.

“Tansy said to tell you he’s also built in a little extra toy, just in case you need help. He’ll keep watch, and you’ll be able to reach him at any time from an infected computer.”

“You want me to do this today?”

“The sooner the better, right?”

Mira glanced down at the USB stick. “Yeah,” she said, slowly wrapping it in her palm and stuffing the device in her pants pocket. She cleared her throat. “No problem. Yeah. I can do this.”

Jackson watched the wheels turn in her head. “Of course you can.”

“No turning back, huh?”

“No. We can't.”

“We?” she asked.

“Yes, we,” said Jackson. “Hundred percent we. We're a team.”

She smiled and patted the pocket with the USB stick. “So, Jackson, how often do you stalk me in disguise?”

“Not as much as I'd like.” Shit, he hadn’t meant that to sound so loaded. Professionally, she needed protection. Counter-surveillance. Something they've already talked about. What remained to be discussed was the personal side, extra-curriculars like spending the night in her apartment, maybe cooking for her, clams and white wine simmering in a cast iron skillet while they slipped into her bedroom to remove each other's disguises.

“Jackson, come here.” A car was winding its way up the parking structure, revving up a ramp on its approach to their level. “Come on, hurry.”

He took a few quick steps to meet her in a darkened corner where they were concealed between a concrete wall and a large, windowless van. When he arrived at her hiding spot, he was surprised to see her holding out her hands for his. Jackson immediately reached for them and clasped on, his fingers intertwining around hers snugly, perfectly. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was grateful for the constant string of car traffic through the garage.

“Thanks for coming,” she said, squeezing his hands gently as his body brushed against hers. “Even if you do look ridiculous.”

Having no desire to be funny or cute, Jackson remained silent. He could focus on nothing but the aching want he felt for her. The sooty parking garage didn’t matter. Nor did the etiquette of client-contractor relations. She squeezed his hands again. She was wearing that perfume again. She looked up at him with those...

Jackson leaned his face down to hers as she met him halfway, angled and flush-fitting, their lips pressing and sliding into place, a warm, wet, and delicious place, and then locking there as a car drove by in some parking garage a thousand miles away. She sucked gently on his bottom lip and Jackson could feel her excitement, her chest heaving against his, the softness of her breasts pushing gently against his torso. He unclasped one of his hands from hers and brought it behind her head, holding her close, and then lowering it behind her soft neck. With his thumb and pinky finger on either side, he could feel her blood throbbing through the arteries connecting her heart and brain—the two things he liked most about her.

Mira's breath had begun speeding up along with Jackson's, their breathing racing together in an exciting crescendo. He could feel her hands wandering around his back under his suit jacket, down around his waist, and behind. He silently willed her to slip a hand in his pants to grab hold of whatever she pleased. It was all for her, if she wanted it.

But she didn’t.

“Fuck,” she said, pulling back from their smoldering kiss. “Sorry.” She sounded breathless.

“Sorry?”

“I don't know what I'm doing,” she said.

“Yes, you do.” And Jackson knew exactly what he was doing. He moved in for another kiss and she took another step back.

Maybe she was right.

“Sorry,” she said again. “There's just so much... going on right now.”

She was right.

“I gotta go,” she said.

“What? Where?”

“I don't know. Back to work.”

“Look, Mira, I'm sorry. I'm the one who's...” He suddenly felt unbelievably awful. “I shouldn’t have, um... And, you're vulnerable.”

“I'm not vulnerable.”

Another car drove by, but this time he didn’t think to hide, let alone engage in anything extra while hiding. Jackson wasn't sure if he'd ever have that chance again.

“I gotta go,” she said, tapping the pocket which held the USB stick. “I've got some homework to do. I'll catch you later okay?”