The Truth of a Liar

by Cassie Graham

  When the time came to interview…it was brutal. Once I got all of my security clearance, they put me through physical, psychological, and intelligence tests. The process was lengthy and drawn-out. It took a year to get a position and even now, I still haven’t actually gone out in the field. I’m stuck in Cyber Security until they find a case for me. Whatever that means.

  The Federal Bureau of Investigation’s headquarters is based in Washington, D.C., but I wasn’t lucky enough to be stationed there. Beginners go to some crap hole in Podunk, Nowhere, and that’s where you stay until you have enough time under your belt. Not like it matters that I live in some lively city. I never actually have time for a social life. Unless you count the mindless one-night-stands. I’m either home, which is one mile from the office or actually at the office. I was a proud workaholic.

  Things tend to get real incredibly fast around here. They prefer us to be available at any given moment. Thankfully for me, Stellen, Delaware isn’t a big city, so even if I am out and about, getting back to the agency isn’t a huge feat.

  “Hawthorne,” assistant director Logan grunts out while walking past my desk in a brisk, uptight manner.

  “Yes, sir?”

  He continues walking to his office, so I follow close behind waiting for the instructions he’s probably going to give me. He’s the type of guy who only talks to you when he has something important to say. He doesn’t shoot the breeze or talk around the water cooler, he tells you what you need to know, then retreats to his office to do whatever it is he does in there.

  The door to his office closes behind us and Logan sits down at his desk. “We’ve got a case for you.” My heart crashes in my chest. “Hunter and a small team I’ve assembled will assist you. It’s a simple in-and-out deal. Go get the scumbags and make it back alive,” he says it like it’s easy, but no matter the situation, there’s always danger. “Here’s the information.” He hands me the case file. “Hunter has already been briefed and will be ready to go as soon as you are.”

  My heart rate spikes and my body hums in anticipation. “Thank you, sir. I’ll get dressed and find Hunter.” With a curt nod from Logan, he dismisses me. Turning on my heel, I walk to the locker room in the back of the building.

  Curious eyes of my colleagues follow me as I pass by the rows of desks. Some have a look of inquisitiveness while others look downright bothered. It’s a dog-eat-dog world and unless you get the go-ahead from the assistant director, you’re stuck in this window-less building, pushing paper and finding hackers online. Being in the FBI is beneficial, but sometimes boring.

  I find Hunter sitting on the long bench in the middle of the locker room when I walk in. “Hawthorne, did Logan give you the deets?” he asks in his thick British accent.

  Turning the numbers to the combination on my lock, I nod. “Yeah. I’m going to go through the file now. Anything interesting?”

  Hunter opens his own manila folder, scans over the contents and shrugs. “Seems like a fairly easy case. Drug smuggling. Rubbish, if you ask me. They brought it over from Florida. Our team’s ready to assemble now.”

  Drug smuggling is considered low key in my world, never thought that would be the case, but since the paraphilia crossed into our state, we get called in to clean up the mess.

  “Okay, give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”

  Standing with one hand on his hip, Hunter combs his other through his thick black hair. “Don’t worry, Rookie, it’ll be as easy as pie.”

  I narrow my eyes and watch as he saunters out of the door. Hunter is a seasoned agent even though he’s quite young. He got into the organization at an early age and has more missions under his belt than a lot of the older agents here. He’s thirty but looked up to by a lot of people.

  I unbutton pearl snaps on my black shirt and hang it loosely on a hanger. I then, slip my bulletproof vest over my head, tightening the sides and adjust it so it sits right above my pants. Sliding my arms into my white button up shirt, I clumsily attempt to knot the black tie around my neck. My nerves are jazzed up and I’m bouncing in my shoes. I didn’t actually think my first mission would come so soon.

  “Hawthorne,” Hunter snaps, swinging the door open, peeking his head in. “Blimey, I’m growing old out here. Let’s get the hell outta dodge.”

  I crack a smile and slam my locker shut. “All right, all right. Get off my ass, will ya?”

  Hunter chuckles closing the door, muttering a curse word under his breath. I can’t help but make a face at his use of British terms. It’s comical to listen to him rattle off random words from his home country.

  Strapping my Glock in my side holster, I make my way out into the hall. The jacket I have for raids irritates my neck, and I nervously scratch where it touches my skin.

  Hunter and our team are already in the black van outside waiting to leave. Giving a ‘hello’ to the rest of the team, Dolton, Fallon, Evans, Asher and Kline. Hunter starts the engine and we venture to a small city right outside of Stellen. Kline sneezes in the backseat as Dolton makes a fart noise, the rest of the guys laughing at their antics. I’d like to tell you men grow up and don’t make fart jokes, but that would be a lie.

  “Mind if I…?” I ask, moving my hand to the radio, shoving the CD in the player.

  Hunter grumbles. “Eighties music…I’ll never understand your American culture. You all obsess over music that has long worn out its welcome.”

  “Speak for yourself,” I say, pushing the button to track five. “Just enjoy it and shut up.”

  Hunter adjusts in his seat, pulling at the seatbelt, but says nothing.

  “You know,” Fallon speaks up, pushing his brown hair under his hat. “Eighties music in America is like your coveted techno in England.”

  “What?” Hunter scoffs. “No. No way.”

  Fallon shrugs. “Whatever, man.”

  A-ha’s Take On Me bleeds through the speakers and I bob my head to the tune, blocking out the ongoing conversation.

  “Weren’t you born in the late eighties?” Hunter quips, turning to me when we stop at a red light.

  “Yeah, and?” The guys let out silent laughter. I turn with a hard stare and shove at Kline’s foot. “What?”

  Hunter shakes his head. “All of that music is daft. You were born in the wrong era mate.”

  I give him a hard look but don’t retort. Dolton rattles the back of my seat and I grind my teeth. They are all a good ten years older than me, but you wouldn’t know it by the way they act sometimes. Most times it’s funny and I laugh. But we are on our way to a drug bust for Christ’s sake.

  The air shifts in the vehicle as we get closer to the house. They all go from not being able to shut their traps to dead silent in a matter of seconds. Home after magnificent home, I wonder how in the hell something so ugly could taint a place so beautiful. Liam pulls in to a home with an extravagant iron gate. The long, paved driveway is open and wide, colorful flowers lining the sides, leading us to a circular driveway. One expensive black SUV sits in front while a white foreign car is parked on the side of the house.

  I do a double take at my paperwork when we stop in front of the large colonial two-story house. With red window shutters and a blue door, it looks like the perfect family home. “Not exactly what I expected,” I mumble.

  Hunter pulls to the side of the house and shifts the van into park. “High end drug smuggling, apparently,” he says, adjusting his tie. “Bloody hell, maybe we’re in the wrong business, eh?” He winks.

  Shaking my head, I do a quick checklist. Gun, badge, and vest. Two visible exits. One on each side of the house. Four windows on the second story. The information in the packet gave an in depth description of the grounds, so I have a good lay of the land, but actually being here is more than a little daunting. I never really thought I’d get my first assignment so quickly.

  Quietly opening our doors, the seven of us step out of the vehicle and make our way to the front of the van. “So, listen fellas,” I say, getting a
good look at all six guys. Some of us seasoned operatives and others still new, like myself. Liam and I are the only two not in SWAT gear, and that’s simply because when you’re leading a group of men into a possible hostile situation, you need to have at least two guys who look like everyday people. We’re the icebreakers, if you will. “Keep your head up. Don’t break protocol and stay safe.” I have to remind myself the same.

  Wide-eyed and ready, we all scatter around the grounds, hoping to eliminate the possibility of an escape. Asher hops the gate to the backyard as Evans follows to station himself at the other side. Fallon positions himself on the side back by the gate, while Kline and Dolton disappear somewhere in the backyard. Within seconds, the entire house is surrounded.

  “Don’t worry.” Hunter gives me a side-glance with a sly smile, and rings the doorbell. “I’ll protect you.”

  “Arse,” I whisper, in my best British accent. But in the back of my mind, I’m wondering how can he be so blasé? I’m trying hard to keep my cool and Hunter is making light jokes.

  Yep, it’s official. This is some serious pressure.

  The seconds tick by while my heart pounds in my chest and no one answers the door.

  “Maybe they aren’t here?” Hunter wonders aloud.

  Now that I’m up close to the home, the paint is chipping and the doorknocker has dust accumulating on it. You’d think in an established community like this one, they’d keep it clean.

  I shrug at Hunter, and move my eyes on the land behind us. I don’t want to somehow miss someone escaping. A stray, black cat crosses the driveway and I clutch my gun. A car horn blares somewhere in the distance. A crow…or some sort of bird squawks above us and I look up quickly, squinting toward the sun.

  My heart begins to beat dangerously fast as each minute passes. Something doesn’t feel right. The still of the moment screams in my ears and I know something is about to happen.

  “Rhett! Kingston!” an operative shouts our code-names into my earpiece, but I can also hear him from the backyard. His voice jumps off the walls of the house. I turn in an instant. Ready to run. “Fugitives! Escaping. Back door.”

  Dammit.

  Hunter and I race around the side of the house, our guns drawn. “Asher, go inside and get what we came here for,” Hunter commands. And within seconds I hear him kick in the back door.

  Climbing over the trashcan, Hunter and I catapult ourselves over the high brick wall into the backyard.

  “Maybe it’s not going to be so easy,” Hunter grunts, hitting the ground with a hard thud.

  I don’t have time to smirk before we take off in a sprint. All of the pool chairs are tipped over in a haphazard manner. The barbeque on the porch is open and dirty. Footsteps follow behind me. A dark shadow catches my eye and my breathing speeds up. Hunter and I move to the east. The rest of the team, minus Asher, moves to the west. Corner your subjects. FBI lesson one-oh-one. We’re getting close. Closing in. Christ. Where are they? Empty. The yard is empty.

  I open my mouth but Hunter cuts me off with a hard look. He points to a hidden door under our feet. Weathered and splintering, they creak and moan beneath our weight. How did I miss that? The light breeze is welcoming on my sweaty neck. A drop of moisture slides down my back, causing the unease in my body to multiply.

  The sky is an incredible bright blue today. Nothing like how imagined my first raid would be. Dark, dismal skies and dreary rain. That’s what I envisioned. Instead, the pool on our right sparkles in the cheerful daylight and the trees move with the sway with the wind. My anxious demeanor doesn’t match the scenery.

  We all take a deep breath, getting into position. Hunter struggles to open the heavy door with one hand. It clanks angrily against the wall. Echoes reverberate in the small staircase, sounding too loud. I enter first. Vertigo setting in the moment my foot hits the first step. I have to catch myself from falling face forward. Hunter moves next, followed by Kline, Dolton, Evans and Fallon. It’s deadly quiet. And the space smells of mold. It’s pungent. My eyes water. The dark space makes it difficult to see. I blink again and again, bringing my arm up to my brow and wipe away the perspiration. The shuffling of the men behind me is all that can be heard. That’s it.

  “Light,” Hunter demands in a hushed tone.

  I grab at my flashlight and click it on. My panic begins to ramp up as the light illuminates the dark space with a soft glow. My eyes search every nook and cranny of the small space.

  Movement catches my attention, making me jump slightly. “Back corner, east side.” I point my chin to the right.

  Hunter acknowledges and signals. Splitting us up. We move in formation, just like we planned. Behind a bookcase, two men in their early twenties are crouched, looking frightened. Their nostrils flare, and their eyes move, frantically looking for an escape. The younger one takes a step for the exit, but Hunter steps in, shouting at him to stay down. The man listens, throwing his body on the ground. With limited light, the anxious energy is palpable. You just never know. I don’t think they could get away if they tried. Seven verses two…our odds are good.

  I grab the other man by the upper arm with a firm grasp and tell him to get on his stomach next to his friend. He does as I say.

  “Read them their rights, Rhett,” Hunter instructs me, looking proud. “They’re calling uncle.” He turns to Fallon, Dolton, Evans and Kline. “Do a sweep in here and then I need a unit upstairs in the house. Make sure we don’t miss anything. Comb through every inch.”

  My eyes grow heavy as I watch the florescent bulbs flicker overhead. Its strobe light quality nearly soothes me to sleep. You’d think the conference room of a FBI office would have better lighting, but they don’t. I pinch the bridge of my nose and force the yawn threatening in my throat to stay down. If Logan saw me yawn, he’d have my hide.

  “Fifty kilos of cocaine,” Logan admonishes, shaking his head as he flips through the report. We spent hours at the station after the arrest giving our statements and filling out paperwork. It’s standard protocol to go over everything with our superior, but it’s pushing one in the morning and I’m dog-tired.

  “In the floorboards and walls of the home,” Hunter adds.

  “Not to mention the garden of marijuana they had growing on the side of the house.” I point to the pictures in the file.

  “You guys did good,” Logan says, moving his eyes to me. “Not too bad, right?” He lightly punches my shoulder.

  I rub the spot where he made contact on my arm, making a show. Gotta keep the old man in good spirits. “Not too bad. The team was great. We worked great together.”

  “Well, I hope so because I’m assigning you to another case with Evans, Asher and Hunter. We’re relocating you to New York.” He pulls a report out of his briefcase and slams it in front of us. “Rowan Townsend. She’s very well known in the Broadway community, starring in plays for almost six years now.”

  “What’s the problem?” Hunter asks, scanning over the words on the pages.

  “Human trafficking, I’m afraid.”

  Why would human traffickers be targeting a Broadway starlet?

  “Origin?” I ask.

  “It’s a New York based group but they’ve been all over the United States. Been on our radar for a while now, but threats have been coming in, specifically calling her out. This is a detail, boys. You’ll be her personal security until we get this resolved.”

  I nod and flip through the pictures of Rowan. Caramel brown hair, almost golden, and sharp, cutting green eyes. They’re hypnotic, almost turquoise—familiar. Her smile is small but radiant nonetheless. I must have seen her somewhere, maybe on TV or a billboard, because I can’t shake this nagging feeling in my gut.

  “Sir?” I ask. “When do we leave?”

  “Two days. Oh-eight-hundred. Get your affairs in order, I don’t know how long this’ll last.”

  I stand and Hunter does the same. Nodding, we leave Logan’s office.

  “She’s a lovely ol’ bird,” Hunter jibes with u
nmistakable innuendo, strutting to his desk.

  Rowan is in no way old, but I suspect “ol’ bird” is an English thing I don’t understand.

  Blowing air out of my nose, I shake my head, attempting not to laugh. “Keep it in your pants, will ya?”

  THE BRIGHT LIGHTS OF THE marquee above me shine with a vibrancy that forces me to squint. People push and shove past me on the busy street in downtown New York, but I take a second to admire the perfection that sits overhead.

  “Do you ever get tired of seeing your name in lights?” my best friend, Zander, asks sarcastically, standing next to me, staring at the sign with his fingers tucked under the straps of his backpack.

  “Jealous?” I snicker, tearing my eyes away.

  Zander pushes past me into the theater, opening both heavy, carved wooden doors wide, announcing his entrance, “Don’t worry, everyone. Zander is here. No pictures, please.”

  I roll my eyes and trail behind him, hitching my bag higher on my shoulder. The stage is already full with every cast member in the production. Zander and I make our way to the edge of the black floor and sit down. Pulling out a notebook, I wait to take notes for our weekly meeting.

  Zander air kisses every cast member, taking his time. They all smile and shake their heads, already well aware of the spectacle that is Zander.

  Zander may be my best friend and roommate, but the guy is pretty much an embarrassing brother for all intents and purposes. Any chance he can get under my skin, he does. I love him, but I also have a constant urge to give him a twisted nipple.

  Biting on the end of a pen, Andrew Piper, sits down in his prestigious Director’s chair, giving me a pointed look. “Control Zander or we’ll have to cage him for the day.”