that her head was splitting in half. It also didn’t help
make sense of the image before her. The heavy inner door she’d just
pushed open now had a brand new peephole when seconds before there
wasn’t one.
A tremble started from deep in her belly and
quickly spread through her chest, out to her limbs, and into her
fingers and toes. Even her nails and lashes were shaking! Had she
not paused for that reassuring breath —a breath meant to quiet her
inner critic’s constant mantra of You’re not ready for this… You
can’t do this… — had she not waited that half a second, that
still-smoking hole wouldn’t have been in the door. It would have
been in her head.
And a hell of a lot messier, too.
Her stomach lurched and she nearly
vomited.
Oh, hell.
She wasn’t ready for this. Couldn’t
do this.
This was supposed to be a simple info dump.
She’d sat in with Fletcher on a couple of these exchanges. Meetings
like this usually happened over a secured phone line or in one of
the designated soundproofed rooms at Langley, but a change of
location did not mean a change in protocol. Agents met,
details were transferred, everyone left in one piece to carry out
their part of the mission. Noticeably absent from that protocol:
Agent puts bullet in Rachel Hayford’s perfectly coiffed head.
What the hell had she gotten herself
into?
Thanks, Dougie.
He should be doing this. This was his
job.
Operative word: was.
Before she chased the white rabbit down the
Where’s Fletcher? hole, she refocused her attention on her current
situation.
The outer door was just inches behind her.
She could reach up, turn the knob, and crawl back out to the street
in a matter of moments. And once the urge to piss her pants passed,
and she got her legs under control, and she figured out how to walk
again, she could run like hell and call headquarters from a cab on
her way back to the airport. In a couple of hours, she’d be in the
safety of her little cubicle —well, now her corner office with a
window— in McLean.
Hands shaking, Rachel reached for the knob.
Using the sturdy gold ball for leverage, she hoisted herself to her
feet but stayed down.
Voices floated in from the direction of the
open doorway. She couldn’t make out how many people were inside or
what they were saying. Their tones were too low. Or they could be
yelling. Honestly, she wasn’t sure. Her heartbeat was still
clanging in her head like cathedral bells at high noon.
Back against the door and eyes straight
ahead, Rachel dragged her messenger bag around her body. It took a
couple fumbles before she figured how to operate the flap. Reaching
inside, she located the compact handgun she kept on her at
Fletcher’s insistence.
He’d been adamant about her carrying and
Rachel never understood why. Aside from the early morning jog
around the streets of her gated neighborhood, the most dangerous
thing in her life was working a desk job for the CIA. Why would she need a gun?
“‘Cause you never know when someone’ll try
to blow your brains out,” Fletcher had said.
Truer words were never spoken.
She should go. She was in over her head.
A head she’d very nearly lost just moments
before.
Okay, time to get out of that loop.
But for some reason, she couldn’t. For
goodness’ sake, she’d almost died !
The shaking started up again, a little more
violently this go ‘round. Her loose-fitting jeans felt like
skinnies two sizes too small. The crisp white blouse was plastered
to her back. The blazer? Sweltering.
And about that blazer. Really, Rach? A
blazer?
Why did she wear this outfit? Who was she
fooling? She might as well have emblazoned CIA AGENT across
the back of the navy coat in bright gold lettering. At least then
she wouldn’t feel like a fraud. This sad, sad attempt to carry out
the most remedial covert mission was already headed toward
the land of Charlie Foxtrot.
She was meant to be a two. Fletch’s two. Not the lead on—
“ You need a psych
make sense of the image before her. The heavy inner door she’d just
pushed open now had a brand new peephole when seconds before there
wasn’t one.
A tremble started from deep in her belly and
quickly spread through her chest, out to her limbs, and into her
fingers and toes. Even her nails and lashes were shaking! Had she
not paused for that reassuring breath —a breath meant to quiet her
inner critic’s constant mantra of You’re not ready for this… You
can’t do this… — had she not waited that half a second, that
still-smoking hole wouldn’t have been in the door. It would have
been in her head.
And a hell of a lot messier, too.
Her stomach lurched and she nearly
vomited.
Oh, hell.
She wasn’t ready for this. Couldn’t
do this.
This was supposed to be a simple info dump.
She’d sat in with Fletcher on a couple of these exchanges. Meetings
like this usually happened over a secured phone line or in one of
the designated soundproofed rooms at Langley, but a change of
location did not mean a change in protocol. Agents met,
details were transferred, everyone left in one piece to carry out
their part of the mission. Noticeably absent from that protocol:
Agent puts bullet in Rachel Hayford’s perfectly coiffed head.
What the hell had she gotten herself
into?
Thanks, Dougie.
He should be doing this. This was his
job.
Operative word: was.
Before she chased the white rabbit down the
Where’s Fletcher? hole, she refocused her attention on her current
situation.
The outer door was just inches behind her.
She could reach up, turn the knob, and crawl back out to the street
in a matter of moments. And once the urge to piss her pants passed,
and she got her legs under control, and she figured out how to walk
again, she could run like hell and call headquarters from a cab on
her way back to the airport. In a couple of hours, she’d be in the
safety of her little cubicle —well, now her corner office with a
window— in McLean.
Hands shaking, Rachel reached for the knob.
Using the sturdy gold ball for leverage, she hoisted herself to her
feet but stayed down.
Voices floated in from the direction of the
open doorway. She couldn’t make out how many people were inside or
what they were saying. Their tones were too low. Or they could be
yelling. Honestly, she wasn’t sure. Her heartbeat was still
clanging in her head like cathedral bells at high noon.
Back against the door and eyes straight
ahead, Rachel dragged her messenger bag around her body. It took a
couple fumbles before she figured how to operate the flap. Reaching
inside, she located the compact handgun she kept on her at
Fletcher’s insistence.
He’d been adamant about her carrying and
Rachel never understood why. Aside from the early morning jog
around the streets of her gated neighborhood, the most dangerous
thing in her life was working a desk job for the CIA. Why would she need a gun?
“‘Cause you never know when someone’ll try
to blow your brains out,” Fletcher had said.
Truer words were never spoken.
She should go. She was in over her head.
A head she’d very nearly lost just moments
before.
Okay, time to get out of that loop.
But for some reason, she couldn’t. For
goodness’ sake, she’d almost died !
The shaking started up again, a little more
violently this go ‘round. Her loose-fitting jeans felt like
skinnies two sizes too small. The crisp white blouse was plastered
to her back. The blazer? Sweltering.
And about that blazer. Really, Rach? A
blazer?
Why did she wear this outfit? Who was she
fooling? She might as well have emblazoned CIA AGENT across
the back of the navy coat in bright gold lettering. At least then
she wouldn’t feel like a fraud. This sad, sad attempt to carry out
the most remedial covert mission was already headed toward
the land of Charlie Foxtrot.
She was meant to be a two. Fletch’s two. Not the lead on—
“ You need a psych
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