He finally called.

“Hi, sweetie. You feeling better?”

All Mira could formulate was, “Uh, yeah. Much better.”

Her father's voice came through the car's speakers. “Good. Just in time. My flight's just about ready to board out of Tokyo. I've got some business in San Francisco for the next two days so I'm hoping the jet lag clears up for D.C.” The car filled with his wheezing laughter. “I don't know what it is... I must be getting older or something.”

Like most interactions with her father, this one was bittersweet, the current conversation supplying both a sense of relief and an added stressor. His calming influence was welcomed. But could she really invite him into the hornet's nest that her life had become?

In the end it wouldn’t matter. If he got the slightest hint that she might be in some sort of trouble he’d only be there faster. Better to keep quiet and keep her father from worrying about her any more than he usually did.

“Well, I can't wait,” Mira said, turning onto a rain-soaked Connecticut Avenue.

Could she warn him? How the hell could she warn him? And about what exactly?

“Yes, I want to see you in person,” he said. “To make sure you're telling me the truth.”

“What truth?”

“That you're supposedly happy and healthy.”

“Of course it's the truth,” she said, hating herself even as the words left her mouth. A happy and healthy person would've done much better than that. She tried again, scrounging up every ounce of zen and serotonin from within her frightened and withered shell of a mind. “Dad, I'm working my dream job, right in the heart of Washington. The senator loves me. I have the best Dad in the world, and he's coming to see me soon. So what's the problem?”

“That's what I'd like to know.”

Mira eyed a potential parking space. “Hmm,” she said under her breath, slowing down the car.

“Exactly. You virtually cut off all contact with me in the last two weeks. I know what that means.”

She signaled, came to a stop, asked, “What does it mean?” and then skillfully backed into a parallel parking spot.

“Mira, it's a simple formula.”

She cut her engine, the power draining away from her car and matching her own lifeless mood.

“Don't worry,” he said. “I'll fix you up.”

She believed him.

“FroYo. Maybe some opera.”

“Some opera?” Mira chuckled. “Since when do you like opera?”

“Well, it's for you,” he said.

“Since when do I like opera?”

“We'll both like it,” he said before a brief pause. “Or not. But at least we'll hate it together. It'll be good for us. I was actually invited to some Kabuki theater when I was in Osaka. Now that was very, very impressive.”

Mira searched the bottoms of cup-holders for some surprise meter money. “It's too bad you won't be here a day earlier. You'll miss the Embassy Row Ball.”

“Yeah,” he said disinterestedly. “I've been to that enough times.”

“Not with me you haven’t.”

“Oh. Yes, that would be interesting. Too bad, indeed. Which embassy?”

“Tanzania,” she said while counting quarters.

“Tanzania... Why Tanzania?”

“Because I can translate Swahili. I guess the ambassador wants me to work the room a little bit.”

“That's great,” he said. “Good for you, Mira.”

“And because banda likikushinda, jenga kibanda.”

He laughed. “I think I remember that one... Is that about the shack and the palace? If you can't build a palace?”

“If you can't build a hut...”

“Build a shack. Right. ” He laughed again. “Well, it sounds like fun.”

“Yeah, hopefully.” Mira wondered what the chances were of something catastrophic happening to her at the embassy. Could there really be some nefarious plot to trap her inside the belly of the beast?

“Anyway, I just wanted to check in,” said her father, suddenly sounding distracted. Mira could hear a Japanese announcement in the background, a boarding call for United Airlines 872. “I'll see you the day after the Ball, okay? And then you can fill me in on everything.”

How much she'd fill him in on depended on what was uncovered at the Ball. Hopefully, they'd enjoy a relatively quiet, if not blissfully naive, weekend together.

“Sounds good,” Mira said as she looked up through her windshield to the top floors of the DARC Ops building. She and her father shared an “I love you” before Mira ended her call and stepped out into the rain.

* * *

The receptionist had offered her tea or coffee, but Mira's aggravation didn’t need any additional kindling. The dumpster fire had enough oily rags. She wanted to see Jackson and find out what the hell was going on with the case.

“Of course, of course,” said the girl. “I'll let him know immediately.”

She was in a rush to get things over with here today. These visits to Jackson's headquarters were becoming increasingly difficult to hide. And they were also taking a mental toll, an escalating paranoia with each eighteen floor elevator trip to the high security compound which masqueraded as an his personal office. Window dressing, like the piles of golf magazines, a sweet little receptionist, and the randomly hung clichéd motivation posters, screamed out a certain devious inauthenticity to even the most casual of waiting room patrons. A carefully concocted attempt at conveying normalcy. Hey, look at us, we're just your run of the mill law firm. Our associates don't actually kill people or anything.

Mira waited impatiently as the young lady behind the desk worked the phone. The call ended with her quietly saying, “Of course,” and her hanging up before smiling professionally at Mira. She was a wonderfully gifted smiler. “He's ready for you. Would you like me to show you the way?”

No. She knew it well enough.

The door at the end of the hall was wide open. The preview offered a glimpse of Jackson in his usual spot, on his throne at a large cherry wood desk, his hands pressed together so that his fingers met in a steeple. It didn’t take long for him to notice Mira, his eyes abandoning a conversation with a blonde woman and darting up over her shoulder to watch Mira's falsely confident stroll.

“Mira! Wonderful.”

“Hi, Mira,” came the low voice of the blonde woman who now faced the doorway. She wore annoyingly bright red lipstick, her hair pulled back tight, almost militantly so.

“This is Annica,” said Jackson.

Mira nodded politely.

“She's a seasoned journalist at the Washington Post, and a good friend to us here at DARC Ops.”

Good friends, indeed. The way her legs, those long toned legs of hers, stretched out from her short skirt, the extra open button of her blouse, her sophisticated stripper aura... Every aspect of her attractiveness threatened and inflamed little bits of Mira's ego, the hot embers burning up her insides. It made her question for the thousandth time why the fuck she’d pushed Jackson away in the parking lot.

He was smiling.“Please, have a seat.”

It was amazing, Jackson acting like nothing happened. It was the first time they’d seen each other since she’d pushed him away. It must have been part of his military training, compartmentalizing emotions. The loose calm over his face. The control in his voice. Even his posture at his desk held a stone cold alpha veneer. It made her feel hollow.

“I can't wait to hear your story,” Annica said through a slightly infuriating grin.

Was she really the best he could come up with? Couldn’t Jackson find someone who'd take her seriously? This Annica person seemed more fitted for the camera than printed word. A trashy weather girl maybe. Someone to hang around sporting events with a microphone and a smile plastered on for the drunks of football stadiums.

“Jackson and I went through the gist of it,” she said. “And he filled me in on your, uh... On the sensitivity of the whole thing. Sensitivity? Well you know what I mean.” She giggled and rolled her eyes at herself.

Mira checked Jackson's reaction. A complacent smile.

“Anyway,” Annica continued. “I just want to give you my personal assurance that this is strictly confidential, and until you OK my final draft, it stays between the three of us.. Okay? Does that sound fair?”

Mira checked Jackson again. “I guess so?”

“It's a reciprocal relationship,” he said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mira saw Annica's blonde head nodding to Jackson, her legs uncrossing, and then crossing the opposite way as she sat back into her chair.

“Built on trust, like a partnership,” he said. “We've done it plenty of times before.”

“Absolutely,” said Annica. “We go way back. Don't worry.”

Jackson cleared his throat. “So, we'll get your story out there to start shaping public opinion. Because the first thing Langhorne will do, if he can even do anything, is come out swinging through the media. Just like what we're doing here, only through the Post's competitors. It'll be an information war.”

Annica seemed to try on a sympathetic look. “It might get ugly.”

“I don't care,” said Mira. “I've got nothing to hide.”

“Good,” said Jackson. “More importantly, it'll be a safeguard for you. The more people that know about your story, and the more attention you get, the harder it will be for them to target you.”

“Target me? Like...try to kill me?” Mira saw Annica glance at Jackson, waiting for his response.

“That won't happen.” His voice was calm and cool. Detached, almost.

“You sure?”

“It protects you from any kind of targeting. Character assassination, let's say.”

She knew he was lying, that there was a real possibility of her getting snuffed out, shot through a pop-bottle silencer and then left to bleed out in a dumpster somewhere. But what the hell was he supposed to say in response to her question?

“We won't let that happen, Mira,” said Jackson, for once sounding like the man she'd come to know. Her protector. His voice filled the room with such a firm timbre, that she suddenly felt silly for worrying about his detachment from her case—and more importantly, from her.

And then it was gone again and Jackson returned to his business persona. “Okay. So let's get started?”

Annica chuckled quietly as she took out a notepad and audio recorder from her purse. Mira wasn't sure what was so funny.

“So thanks again for doing this,” said Annica, sounding as phony as ever.

“No problem.”

The interview began with what Annica called "background questions," which seemed more like a needless probing for details about Mira's childhood. Like an uninvited therapist, she raced into the raw wounds of Mira's parents' faltering marriage, as well as her sometimes tenuous relationship with her mostly-absent father. And for good measure, she threw in questions about Mira's dead mother. All this while Jackson paced around the room like an orbiting satellite.

And then she asked about Mira's political leanings, which were decidedly neutral because she enjoyed working in Washington. And even if they weren’t, Annica and her newspaper would be the last to know.

What else? Her dating history? Wonderful.

“So just to be clear,” said Annica. “And it's off the record, too, by the way...”

It was difficult for Mira to believe that.

“Just to be clear, um...” Annica was tapping a pen on her bare knee. “There's nothing at all going on with you and any of the senator's employees, right?”

Mira wondered if unrequited love counted. Nah, Chuck wasn’t worth mentioning. Especially not in front of Jackson.

“And what about you and the senator?” Annica asked nonchalantly.

Mira couldn’t hold back the daggers in her eyes. She aimed them right through Annica's skull, to Jackson who stood in the corner of the room. How dare he stay so silent...

“Sorry, I know,” said Annica. “I know it sucks. But it's very, um... It's extremely relevant to the story. And I need to vet your credentials and motivations. My boss would kill me if I just—”

“What do you think they are?” asked Mira.

“Excuse me?” Her pen had stopped its tapping. “Your motivations?”

“Yes.”

“I think...” She trailed off, looking over to Jackson. But Jackson's orbit was too distant, on the dark side of the moon and he was unavailable for comment or for saving his slutty little reporter friend.

Mira kept her eyes on Annica. “Why do you think I'm doing this?”

“I think you're trying to do the right thing, Mira.”

“Which is...?”

Annica paused for a moment. She sighed and then clicked off the recorder. “It's an incredibly difficult thing. You're risking it all, and I appreciate that. And I think the country will, too. I really do.” She went silent again, joining Jackson who was still unavailable for comment.

“What's your motivation?” Mira asked her interviewer.

“The truth,” she said. “And right now that means that I help you. We help you. Jackson and I.”

Jackson had walked back to his desk, a strange look forming on his face. “Excuse me, girls. Can I break in here for a moment?”

“Sure,” said Annica. She sounded relieved.

“Sorry,” he said, looking at his computer screen. “I just realized I have a quick appointment I need to attend. Over the phone. And I need to be in my office. I'm sorry.”

“No, it's no problem,” said Annica. “Don't even worry about it.”

“I won't be long. Twenty minutes.” Jackson pulled his wallet from his back pocket and fished out some cash. “Get some lunch. On me.” He tried handing Mira a twenty.

She couldn’t tell if the gesture was sweet or insulting. Either way, she didn’t want his money. “No, thanks,” she said quietly.

Annica, on the other hand, snatched up the money like a tween daughter getting her weekly allowance. “Thanks, Jack,” she said with a smile. And then she turned to Mira. “Don't worry. It's easier once you get to know him, and when you know how much he makes.”

The transaction seemed disturbingly routine. How much money had he given her over the years? And why?

Mira listened as Jackson followed Annica to the door, uttering a few more niceties and apologies. Behind her was the sound of Jackson shutting the office door with a heavy click, and then his footsteps across the room towards her. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

“A warning would have been nice,” she said, staring at his bare desk.

“About what?”

“About the interrogation.”

He laughed like she'd just said something ridiculous.

“She kept saying we're a team, we're a team. But it felt like I was talking to a detective who was trying to nail me on something.”

“Well that's just her style,” Jackson said, holding his tie to his chest as he sat down across from her. “She's a little gruff sometimes. She's a tough cookie. But you don't have to take it personally.”

“I'm trying not to.”

“Well, try harder.” He stared at her for a moment. “We need this story, Mira.”

“Why do we need her?”

“Because she's our contact. There's nothing you or I can do about that.”

“Really? We can't just go to another paper?”

“It doesn’t work like that.” He opened a filing cabinet and began fingering through some folders.

“It's a huge story. Why wouldn’t someone else want—”

“They'd kill it,” he said. “Dead in the water. It wouldn’t be printed. We need someone with some pull, someone who can survive the editorial meeting. Someone on our side. And that's Annica.” Jackson pulled out a thick manila folder and plopped it on his desk. “The real question is, what’s your actual problem with her?”

Mira didn't exactly know, herself. Sure, there were petty things. A lot of petty things...

Jackson spoke again before she could formulate an answer that didn’t sound as petty as she felt. “Alright, look, I'm sorry. I know it was rough. But she needed background.”

“To discredit me.”

“No way.”

“Can you imagine what kind of story she'll come up with?”

“She and I talked at length about the story,” said Jackson, flipping through the contents of the folder. “She believes you. Okay?”

Mira so wasn’t sure about that. She wanted Jackson’s reassurance. She needed it. It bothered her how much she needed it from him.

“She's working for us, Mira. I can assure you of that. But she still has to ask the tough questions. She's got to keep her usual practice, her professionalism.”

“She was hardly being professional.”

“Well I don't know about that. It might be hard for you to see it, but Annica's actually a very good reporter.”

“Yeah. I can see how she gets her leads.”

Jackson looked up from his file and stared at her.

“Though it probably works better on men,” she said.

“What works better on men?”

“Whatever worked on you.”

She didn’t want to go there. The insecurity, the jealousy. She was sick of it. And she was sick of wanting to straddle him and taste his mouth, no matter how aloof and cold he'd been acting. It was a new sensation, a powerlessness. She hated it, almost as much as she hated the walls he'd clearly constructed around his heart since their last meeting, and the ambiguity of their "relationship." It wore on her and made her reckless. Blowing it all up in Jackson's face, and pushing whatever relationship they had to the brink of destruction, seemed like the only way out.

“Okay,” he said, rolling his chair back and standing up. “Fine. If you gotta blow off some steam, go ahead. That's why I had her leave.” He walked over to the corner of the room, to a cozy arrangement of lounge furniture set on a plush circular rug.

“What do you mean?”

“I lied about the meeting.”

“Why?”

“Because you needed a break. Okay? I could see it written all over your face.”

For a split second, Mira felt immensely embarrassed. Had Annica been able to read her as easily as Jackson obviously could? She doubted it. The money grubbing news floozy hadn’t shown anything other than a continuing pit bull attitude when Mira’s discomfort had spiked. She’d thought Jackson had been oblivious to them both. Apparently not. “Why didn’t you step in and defend me? You felt no obligation at all? No reason?”

Jackson sat in a modernly designed chaise lounge. His sigh was audible from across the room.

“Or would you consider that unprofessional?” Mira tossed her purse on his desk and stood.

“I had no idea you needed defending,” said Jackson.

“Yeah, I'd hate for you to look bad in front of your friend,” she said, walking to the small leather couch next to Jackson.

“If anything,” he said. “You were putting her in the hot seat. I almost felt sorry for her.”

She sat with a huff. “That's nice.”

“And we'll be lucky if she comes back.” He kicked his feet up on a coffee table. “You were being hostile, Mira.”

“She was being a bitch.”

“Well,” said Jackson, shaking his head with a smile. “You at least saved the swearing until after she left. Nice restraint. I guess you were both being professional.”

“A professional bitch.”

“Hmm, yes.” He looked legitimately puzzled about why she was upset. Was he used to confrontations with psychotic lovers? Probably.

“I actually didn’t save any swearing,” said Mira. “When she asked for an example of Farsi, maybe if newspapers still believe in fact checking, she'll get the message.”

“What message?”

“I told her to fuck off.”

“Oh,” he said, almost chuckling. “Annica will actually probably love that.”

“I should have said it in English.”

Jackson stood up from his seat and headed to the door. “All right. Maybe we should go for a walk.”

“What?”

“Come on. You need some fresh air or something.”

“I don't need a walk. I'm not some fucking pet.” said Mira, hating the way she trailed after him anyway.

They were in the hallway now. And Mira had no idea where they'd go next. She crossed her arms across her chest, her eyes darting around the room and her fingers tapping swiftly on her arms as Jackson spoke briefly to his personal assistant before turning back to her.

“God, you're a wreck,” he said.

“Fuck you.”

Jackson stopped in the hallway and turned around. “She really upset you. Why?”

It felt surreal, the way his eyebrow twisted up in confusion. This was the guy who was about to risk everything for her, who'd been so generous and protective, and... loving. And now it felt like they weren’t even in the same book, let alone on the same page.

“Look, Jackson...”

“Let’s talk about this later, in private,” he said, turning and walking away from his office.

Mira kept up with him. She didn’t know what to say or do except obey an instinctual drive, a magnetism that kept her following him down the hall. Struggling to match his pace, she became acutely aware of the maddening position she'd fallen into, a lose-lose purgatory where leaving and staying seemed equally impossible.

Jackson turned again, saying, “Don't worry about it. Okay? Maybe we'll just do this another time. It's all good.”

“No,” she said quietly. “It's not.” She couldn’t imagine waiting that long. It needed to be settled. And the look on Jackson's face betrayed his own needs he wasn’t voicing. For the first time, she noticed that he'd begun to look as tired and beaten down as she. Was that what she'd been waiting for? For him to be human?

Why the fuck was she fighting with him?

Jackson turned to face an approaching cluster of voices. Happy employees. Workplace laughter. It sounded so foreign, so far away.

“Jackson,” said Mira, almost in a whisper now.

“It’s okay, really. You don’t have to talk to her. I’ll tell Annica you changed your mind.”

No. Whatever the other woman had done to piss Mira off, it wasn’t Jackson’s fault. She hadn’t paid him a single dime, and yet he was still here, helping her, keeping her safe. Even if it hadn’t been him trailing her personally lately. She’d been the one to brush him off, after all. She couldn’t blame him for keeping his distance a little since she’d pushed him away after his kiss in the parking lot. After she’d rejected anything more than a professional relationship with him. He didn’t deserve her anger for simply trying to help her. Annica might be a total pain in her ass, but if it got the senator’s dirty laundry out in public then Mira would just pull on her big girl panties and suck it up. It was worth it.

“You were right, I fucked it up,” she said. “Before we even got started.”

Jackson moved to a side of the hall and opened one of the doors. “Come on,” he said, holding the door open for Mira. “Come in.”

Mira hurried into the room as if escaping a crime scene.

“Before we got started, huh?” he said, repeating her words as he shut the door behind them.

Mira looked around the room, trying to orientate herself. “Yeah. That day, after the press conference…” After Jackson flipped on a row of bare florescence lights, Mira saw that she'd been ushered into the interrogation-themed statement room, the venue of their first meeting. She looked around at the familiar minimal furnishings, the sad-looking table and the three well-worn chairs, an atmosphere which seemed to request the baring of one's soul. Or at least the baring of something... if Jackson was still interested in anything she had to offer.

“No, that wasn’t your fault,” he said with a deep frown. “I threw myself at you, I shouldn’t have kissed you when you were vulnerable.”

“No you didn’t. I made the first move.”

“And I took the bait,” he said. “And then you changed your mind?”

“I was scared,” Mira said. Jackson’s face was pained. God he couldn’t think she was actually scared of him. Could he? She rushed to correct him. “Not of you, Jackson,” Mira felt blush color her cheeks. “Never of you. Of what’s going on.” She gestured randomly at the room. “About the senator, about all this. I’m not like you”

Jackson’s eyebrows shot up. “You know how often I’m scared, Mira? I get scared too, all the damn time. Especially lately it seems when it comes to you.”

That surprised her. He seemed almost invincible to her. “But you’re a SEAL. You can handle anything. I'm just a translator. An office drone.”

“I'm not just talking about our jobs.”

“I’m sorry, Jackson. About that day. I shouldn’t have run.”

“It’s okay. I don't even care about that.”

She wanted him to care. But more than that, she wanted him to chase her down, tackle her and pin her against his body. She needed him to take control, to circumvent the control her mind held over her body, to push aside the cerebral safeguards so typical of her loveless existence. She’d never felt such a burning arousal for anyone before, and it scared the hell out of her.

Mira looked up at Jackson’s face, hoping to see that it had softened. But it remained stoic. “Then what do you care about?” she asked. “What do you want?”

Jackson didn’t answer. He seemed frozen.

“I don’t know what’s going on anymore,” she said, feeling her mind unravel as she fought against the sting of tears. “You stopped watching me, and... I didn't know what that meant. So I assumed…”

“I didn’t stop watching you,” he said.

“Jackson, I can’t play around with this. Not anymore.”

“I know. Me neither.”

“No, I mean, with you. Jackson, I’ve never felt this way before. With anyone. I think I could really fall for you.” The words spilled out before she could think better of it, before she could even think at all. She watched him swallow, his lips twitching ever so slightly, his eyes suddenly looking away from her. She watched him do everything but say the words back to her. Words she wasn’t expecting to hear back. Words she hadn’t even expected herself to say. Nevertheless, they were the words she'd needed.

And then she made another unplanned move and lunged for the door.

Mira felt two large hands on her waist just as she tried grabbing the door handle. Jackson was holding each side of her hips, pulling her off the ground and drawing her back into the room. She struggled against him, not really meaning it. He wrestled her back with ease, into a bear-hug, slamming her body tightly into his. And holding her there, her back pressed against the front of his body where she could feel his chest heaving. He was breathing hard, like he'd just run somewhere, his warm air caressing Mira's neck. She stopped struggling.