by Anderson, S
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, so help you God?”
“I do.”
Commander Justice is a tagalong advisor to the Secretary of Defense. He’s seated at a microphone, ready to pounce as soon as I’m sworn in. “Ms. Vincent—”
“Agent,” I say, correcting a mistake he’s made from the moment I met him three years ago. I’ve never bothered pointing it out, but then I’ve never had the opportunity to go toe-to-toe with him in front of the council.
The old man blusters, and I clarify for him. “My name, my title… my rank is Agent. You’re Commander Justice and I’m Agent Vincent. I’ve earned my rank, Commander. Please use it when you address me.”
His jaw flexes. “Agent Vincent,” he grounds out, “please inform the council what your instructions for Operation Usurp were.”
Operation Usurp. Who comes up with these names?
I sit in a chair facing the seven council members. An empty glass sits next to a jug of water in front of me on the table. I don’t pour myself any. I don’t anticipate staying that long.
“I received instructions seventy-five hours ago that I was to fly to Qatar and help Agent Faher, codename: Ace, with the eradication of President Pishkar.”
Commander Justice waves his hand as if I am a well that has suddenly stopped producing oil and he can coax more from me with just his will. “And what were the terms of the eradication?”
“Death by lethal overdose of cyanide to induce what would appear to be a natural heart attack.”
Minister Kulzkoff of Russia sits forward in his seat. His voice is thick with his accent as he asks, “You are aware as to why those were the terms set by the council, are you not, Agent Vincent?
I nod. “Yes sir. It was believed that though Pishkar should not be allowed to take office, no formal threat should be perceived as to avoid upsetting the peace treaty.”
“Exactly,” Commander Justice interjects. “You’ve created a goddamn incident with the need for an adversary.”
“Worse,” Minister Kulzkoff says. “You have made him a martyr. He is a monster and now he has followers who will likely take his place!”
I once again think about the boy on the bus, remembering the sheer terror on the faces of all the students that surrounded me last night. “No one will believe him a martyr.”
It’s a bold statement, and it strikes the room like a sonic boom, reverberating in whispered arguments all around the table.
Commander Justice looks ready to fillet me from head-to-toe.
Minister Kulzkoff continues, “Agent Vincent, this is not the first time you have been under review for rash decisions while on assignment. Your actions not only present further issue now with the situation, but Agent Faher was injured in the shooting.”
Damn. I was worried he'd been standing too close. “How bad was he hurt?”
I haven’t had a chance to check in with anything. No report of the actual shooting has made it to the national news. I was afraid Ace was hit by the bullet, too, and this confirmation digs at my insides.
“It’s a superficial injury,” the minister says. “But it is evidence that you take too many liberties while in the field. I will not dispute that you always get the job done, but I will go on record as stating that you need to be disciplined for your insubordinate behavior.”
“I second that,” Commander Justice says.
“You’re not on the council, Jim,” Secretary Williams of the U.S. says. He glances up at me through his black-rimmed glasses. Secretary Williams has held his office since a few years before I was recruited. He’s the only member of the council who’s been here from the beginning. He holds up an electronic tablet that he’s been focused on since I walked into the room. “I just received this report from NATO. Local findings from Doha are pointing the finger of this thing to one source.”
He stares at me until every eye in the room turns my way.
“I’m guessing you’re referring to DMG?” I say.
Secretary Williams smiles. He tosses the report as well as his glasses on to the table in front of him, easing back in his chair. Instantly, the tension evaporates from the room. “How did you do that, Agent Vincent?”
“I don’t understand,” Minister Kulzkoff interrupts. “How can DMG be implicated in this? We haven’t had any reports of their movements in months. The last we had indicated they were moving further east.”
“Because I used a rifle supplied by DMG intended for Saudi rebels,” I explain.
“And where did you get that?” Commander Justice asks.
“That will be all, Jim,” Secretary Williams says, tapping Justice on the shoulder, dismissing him without waiting on my response.
The old man grudgingly leaves, saluting the council and glaring at me. I catch a glimpse of Claymore in the hallway. He’s twirling his knife but gives me a thumbs-up until the door slams shut again.
Secretary Williams launches into a rapid-fire game of twenty questions after that. “Where was the gun obtained?”
“From Hassan Mohin.”
“Was he made aware of what you would use it for?”
I shake my head. “No, sir.”
“But he knew that you had the gun in your possession?”
I nod. “I obtained it from him yesterday morning.”
Minister Kulzkoff cuts in, asking, “What business did you have with that man yesterday?”
“I knew that he would know I was in the area and would insist I visit. It was best I humor him and not create further complications in the event he tried to locate me during the assassination.”
“Why would he insist on you visiting?” Minister Kulzkoff asks.
Secretary Williams answers for me. “He’s her father.”
I try not to cringe at that truth.
“Will he give anyone this information?” Minister Kulzkoff asks.
I shrug. “I highly doubt it. The secret serves him best if he’s the only one who knows.”
Secretary Williams slips his glasses back on and makes a few notes on his tablet. “I move to strike the disciplinary action suggested by Minister Kulzkoff from Agent Vincent’s record and add a recommendation for an award in exemplary fieldwork.”
“Seconded,” Minister LeFevere, of France says.
“Third,” Minister Himura, of Japan says.
“That’s final,” Secretary Williams announces.
An award in exemplary fieldwork. Five minutes ago I was a disgrace who broke protocol for my own selfish desires. Now I’m being awarded for my quick thinking.
Life’s funny that way.
“If there are no further topics,” Secretary Williams says, glancing around the room. All representatives shake their heads. “I call this meeting adjourned.”
“Agent Vincent,” Secretary Williams says once everyone is dismissed.
I walk over to his side of the table. “Sir?”
He’s speaking to the Minister from South Africa. They shake hands before he turns to me. “You took a big risk with that one.”
“I had anticipated sticking to the original plan until I found the weapons, sir.”
His eyebrows rise. “You mean you set up the entire assassination in less than ten hours?”
“Five to be exact,” I say. “Though I had my escape routes and aliases already in play for either event.”
He takes his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There are days I wonder what we’ll do if we ever lose you, Penelope.”
I’m not sensitive to his statement. I deal in death. My job is war. My own mortality is something I came to terms with long ago. “I’ll try to make sure that day never comes, sir.”
“You do that.” He holds his hand out, and pride swells through me as I shake it. I don’t seek the approval of many people in this world, but this man’s means a lot to me. “I think you’ve earned the weekend off, Agent Vincent. Go get some rest.”
“Sir.”
Rest. There’s no rest for someone like me.
Claymore is waiting in the hall, still twirling his knife. A big cheesy grin is planted on his face. “And there’s the little instigator.”
He pinches my cheek, and I slap his hand away.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask.
“Taking ya?”
“Yeah, you’re buying me a drink,” I inform him as I stop at the front desk. The secretary hands me a secure cell phone.
Claymore throws his arm over my shoulders and walks us to the elevator. “Ah, then we’ll be hitting der Umkleide.”
“der Umkleide?” I repeat. “Sounds like a disease.”
“It’s a bar around the block. Frequented by boys in uniform.”
“Oh, good, something I haven’t seen in ten minutes.”
“Tell the truth,” Claymore says, slamming his empty pint on the bar. He lets out a deep belch before finishing his thought. “You actually just wanted to shoot Faher, didn’t you?”
I laugh, nursing the glass of rum and coke in front of me. “It was a bonus. He’s okay, right? They said it was superficial.”
“Pfft.” He waves a hand and rolls his eyes. “It grazed the tip of his cheek, broke his damn sunglasses. That’s it. It’ll heal into a sexy scar, watch. Something that will make him look the part of a James Bond villain. He’ll change his name from Ace to… pretty boy with sexy scar on his cheek.”
“You make up the names of the missions, don’t you?”
He shoots me a look as the bartender refreshes his drink, and I wave him on.
“What’s next on your plate?” I ask, knowing he won’t tell me too much detail. I won’t tell him anything about my missions, either. It’s part of our training.
“I have a dignitary luncheon tomorrow in London. You?”
Dignitaries, politicians… bodyguard work. Ugh. When our governments tell us to take a break, what they mean is we’ll be contacting you soon with the name of a figurehead to babysit.
“So far I’m—” My phone beeps in my hand. “Never mind.” I check, seeing a familiar name. “Looks like I have dinner in New York.”
“Ah, the Big Apple. I was just there this morning.”
I choke on my drink. “Really? Then why the hell are you here in Germany?”
“Some bitch blew up a dictator’s head and needed escorting to a meeting.”
I slap his arm and he laughs. “They flew you all the way to Germany just to escort me to the meeting?”
“Aye. That’s the American tax dollar at work.”
“What were you doing in New York?”
His sight tracks a couple of young dudes who walk up to the bar. They’re fresh—still wearing their uniforms like pride patches and not just clothes. A decade ago, I might have tried to flirt with them. Now I just feel like their mother.
I look back to Claymore and see a glimmer in his eyes I don’t think he meant to show me. He shakes his head. “Believe it or not, I might have a life, and I might have been living it.”
“I don’t believe it. A life for us is like a unicorn.”
I finish my drink and remind him he’s covering the bill.
He salutes in response.
I’m not going to waste the night sleeping in a hotel here. Might as well hop on the first plane heading to New York.
“You gonna be okay if I ditch you?” I ask.
He grabs his chest, pretending to die. I kiss his cheek as he remains 'dead' on the bar. “Don’t drive back to your hotel tonight, okay?”
“You only want to keep me alive so you can kill me one day.”
I shrug one shoulder as I walk away. I stroll past the boys at the other end of the bar. One smiles at me as I pass.
“Mein Freund ist einsam. Halten Sie ihm Gesellschaft? Sein Name ist Coogan.” I point to Claymore and wave when he glares at me. The boys nod and agree to go over and talk to him.
Claymore holds up two fingers—his country’s version of flipping me off— as I exit the bar.
I send a text to my commanding officer, letting him know I will be reporting for security detail tomorrow night. I’m not even ten steps from the bar before my phone rings.
I answer, knowing who it is without looking. “Vincent.”
“How long will it take you to get here?”
No hello, no how are you… against my will, I smile. “Roughly eight hours once I get to the airport and on a plane. I kind of stink. I might have to stop and buy clothes… take a shower…”
He sighs dramatically. “But I’m bored right now.”
“I’m sure you can find a way to entertain yourself.”
“Or you can take my family’s private jet and get here sooner.”
“Or you can be patient and anticipate my arrival.”
“Fine,” he says. “But the longer I wait, the more obnoxious I get.”
“Bring it on.”
The line goes dead, and I smile at the screen. Maybe some time off will do me good.
God knows I have some tension that needs to be purged.
And I know just the man to help me take care of it.
2
Marko Veltriv.
The only son of Alexandra and Roman Veltriv, a wealthy aristocratic couple in Russia. Marko’s father had ties with the Soviet government and continues as a state figurehead today. As such, he’s invited to all events involving Russian dignitaries around the world, as is his son. Marko has been groomed his whole life for political office, but at the age of twenty-five, he’s more interested in personal than political affairs.
Enter me. The U.S. government’s favorite deep-throat assassin who they have moonlight as a bodyguard to the political celebrities they wish to keep tied to their interests. When Marko does take office, it’s anticipated that he’ll help to further bridge U.S.-Russian contacts and keep us from a second Cold War. They trust me with keeping him attached.
Little do they realize how hands on I am with my job.
Truth be told, fate had led me to Marko’s path long before the first time I was assigned to protect him. The appointment was simply a cherry on top of a delicious pie.
After getting to New York, I check into a hotel across town and take a much-needed shower. I waste the afternoon away, knowing how it’ll get to Marko to have to wait for me to arrive. I enter the Gansevoort hotel at five on the dot. The hotel is one of those impossibly modern and chic locations that makes me want to buy an antique sofa and sit on it in the middle of the lobby. Everything is cold and sleek. Gunmetal is somehow a paint color splashed on every surface.
I flash my badge to the woman at the counter. “Veltriv?”
She doesn’t even have to look at her fancy touchscreen computer. A cheesy smile pulls her lips. “Mr. Veltriv has booked floors nine through fourteen. He’s currently on the roof, enjoying our pool, privately.”
Of course he is.
I thank her and stroll to the elevator. I don’t know if it’s the decade of working as a covert agent, or just my personal taste, but I can’t imagine having to be so extravagant. I stay in motels with the letters missing from the signs. I use aliases and pay by the hour.
Marko rents out half the goddamn building.
Modest is not one of his middle names.
An aria from some opera I don’t know is blaring through the loudspeakers when I step off the elevator. His usual bodyguard, Sven, is standing by the pool. The Norse god nods to me when I reach the door.
“Enjoy your night off,” I tell him as he holds it open for me.
“A soldier never has a night off,” he says a second before he leaves.
“Don’t I know it,” I say to his retreating form.
The sound of water splashing draws my attention to the pool. Marko’s arm darts above the surface and back under, over and over so fast it’s just a blur. He works his way to one side and flips around to head back the other way.
I take off my jacket and unlace my boots, kicking them off as I plunk down on an ottoman near the bar. It’s fully stocked, and I can see a dozen empty glas
ses that I have no doubt Marko drank from. One of Sven’s many talents is mixing drinks.
“You look tired.”
I’m so absorbed in casing the place that I flinch at the sound of Marko’s voice. “You’re all wet.”
Marko is the kind of guy you don’t just call pretty—he’s that he-can’t-be-human-because-they-aren’t-made-like-that kind of good looking. Tall, built, black hair and bright blue eyes… he really is too good to be true.
He climbs out of the pool, water running down his chest and arms. My eyes linger on his legs as he struts toward me. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t think… he just leaps on top of me. I fall back, my clothes sticking to my skin as the fabric absorbs him.
His smile is bright white. Even his teeth are perfect. “Now you’re all wet, too.”
“You do know that this is the only outfit I have with me, right?”
He shrugs a shoulder, running his pointy nose along my jaw. “You have whatever you want when I’m around, my dear. Just say the word.”
He bites the skin below my ear, and I hiss.
“Do you have your goody bag?”
I feel his smile grow wider against the side of my neck. “Of course.”
I run my fingers through his soaked, curly hair. “So I’m assuming just a night of normal fucking isn’t really in the cards?”
He turns his head, pressing a soft kiss to my wrist. “I’m yours, Penelope. However you want me.”
The sincerity in his eyes takes me back a few steps.
“I thought you were going to be obnoxious?”
“I was. I am. But your eyes…” He leans in so close my eyelashes brush against his when I blink. “What troubles you, my dear?”
Troubles me? I just completed an exemplary mission. I killed a bad guy and got away. I’m sky-fucking high.
He keeps staring, and little by little, words wiggle into my mind.
“You ever feel like you’re on a hamster wheel?”
He nods as the back of his hand caresses my cheek.
I close my eyes and give over to the feel of his touch. “When I was a kid… I wanted to be a princess.”
I hear laughter in his voice when he says, “you are a princess, Penelope.”
“No,” I say, opening my eyes. I make a face that’s meant to be seductive and teasing, but I feel like it probably comes off as empty-headed bimbo. “I wanted to be the girl in the tower that the prince saved.”
