Love Me Better

by Smart, Kit

  Knife Fight accepts the gun, checks that the safety is on and holsters it. Taking the knife he slides it open to its fullest length and nods at the flimsy three centimeters of blade left in the sheath of the box cutter. “It takes a very special kind of idiot to pull off what you just did.”

  I shrug because he has me there. “Idiocy, is my calling card.”

  This earns me a bark of laughter that follows me on my lonely path to the M.P.s, their waiting vehicle and whatever I am in trouble for, with the director.

  3

  Seri

  “Am I in trouble?” I consider the two pristine chairs in front of the director’s desk. My clothing is more than a little filthy from SERE training, so I elect to stand.

  “Straight to the point as usual Cadet Hunt.” The director finishes signing the document in front of him and hands it off to his assistant, before leaning back in his chair and looking me over.

  “I see no reason to obfuscate.”

  “You’re in training to become a spy. obfuscation is literally the job.” The director murmurs as he eyes my dirty, paint splattered person.

  “I’m in training to become an analyst.” I correct him.

  “That’s not entirely up to you Hunt. The agency will use you as it sees fit.” He nods at my clothes. “How was SERE?”

  “Fine.” I say for want of anything pithy coming to mind, and because he wasn’t really asking. What do you want? “Unfinished.” I add as it occurs to me, somewhat belatedly, that being yanked from the exercise might mean having to repeat it at a future date. Can’t say I’m looking forward to that. There are only so many times a person needs to be waterboarded in life.

  “I understand that you’ve performed well enough to merit a passing score.” The director tells me reading my thoughts on my face.

  “News travels fast.” I wonder who he’d gotten the information from. Knife Fight? It occurs to me out of the blue, that his informant may have been the M.P.s and I grimace. “I didn’t mean to shoot the M.P..”

  “You didn’t mean to shoot the M.P.?” The director’s tone tells me more clearly than words what he thinks of not meaning to shoot somebody.

  “That is, I meant to shoot him, but I didn’t know he was an M.P. when I shot him.” That sounds worse. Shouldn’t have said that.

  The director lets the silence settle between us in a way that supports my conclusion that shooting someone without knowing who they are, is in no way better than shooting someone you didn’t mean to shoot.

  Thus my desire to become an analyst and not a field agent. I tell him silently.

  “I thought he was an enemy agent.” Okay. Maybe shut up now Hunt?

  “Impetuous.” He says it without inflection, and I suddenly felt that impetuous is a very bad thing to be.

  “Is there a particular reason you wanted to see me sir?”Let’s change the topic.

  The director lets the silence hang between us for another second before answering. “You’re being pulled from training—” He holds up a hand to waylay my knee jerk protest. “For a mission.”

  “Why?!” The question is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Your organizational and event planning skills are needed.”

  “My organizational and event planning skills?” All of the training I’ve done and I get yanked for my organizational and event planning skills? “Does the agency need a party planner?” Oh my god. Shut. Up. Hunt. Madly, I try to rephrase the question before the realization that the entire course of inquiry is useless catches up to me. “What’s the mission?” I am an Idiot.

  “I don’t know.” He gives the answer I should have seen coming. That’s the secret in secret agent I suppose.

  “Is this permanent?” I blurt as my mind refuses to pick up on the lesson of a moment ago, and instead goes careening off in the direction of the possibility that I would, perhaps, never complete my training. Surely that isn’t a thing right? I mean, there’s training for a reason. Agents don’t just get sent out into the field untrained. Right?

  The director doesn’t deign to respond. Instead, he picks up a file from his desk and offers it to me. “You’ll find all you need to know at this point in time, in here.”

  I open the file. A single piece of paper stares up at me. “It’s just a set of coordinates and a shopping list.”

  “You’ll be told the rest of what you need to know when you get there.” The director tells me as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Which it kind of is. You know, when you’re accustomed to this kind of thing.

  “Yes sir.” I tuck the folder under my arm. “Is there anything else sir?”

  “No. Cadet Hunt, that will be all.”

  “Thank you sir.” I turn to leave. As I walk toward the door, I am already trying to figure out how to get all of the items on the list and make it to the designated location on time.

  “Good luck Hunt.”

  “Thank you sir.” I reply almost automatically as I try instinctively to decipher whether the ominous tone I hear in his voice is real or imagined. Has to be imagined. I decide. Because surely the sort of mission that requires a wardrobe of formal evening wear, office wear and riding clothes can’t be that dangerous. Particularly not when you were selected for your organizational and event planning skills.

  “Oh and Hunt?”

  “Yes sir?” I turn back to face him.

  “Good job today.” I take in his calm expression and total lack of tone.

  “Thank you sir.” I turn and stride out of his office completely reassured that the ominous tone has been entirely a product of my adrenalin spiked imagination and that whatever I was being sent to do is almost certainly benign.

  After all, You don’t send a knife to a gunfight.

  Right?

  4

  Seri

  The massive estate, complete with three-story red brick and white stone manor house branching gracefully out into two separate wings that overlook a central fountain and circular drive is so unexpected that I actually have to pull my car onto the verge so that I can recheck the coordinates I’d entered into my GPS against the ones in the file I had been given by the director.

  Fingers crossed that I am not lost.

  Once I’ve confirmed the coordinates are correct, I edge my car towards the massive wrought iron and brick gates. All my remaining doubts are appeased by the twin engraved brass placards mounted on one of the massive red brick pillars. The uppermost placard says simply Andersley in an appropriately staid font that speaks of ancient lineages and centuries of tradition. That would be the estate name then.

  I examine the slightly newer looking brass placard below: Courage After Fire. Modern font, smaller size. Still discreet. Am I stepping into some sort of Downton Abbey / John La Carré mashup? I wonder as I lean out my window to press the call button on the intercom beside the gate. There are several options button-wise and I run my finger along them until I find the one for Courage After Fire.

  I press the button as I give the estate another look.

  Just so long as I am not walking into ‘Pride, Prejudice and Zombies’ I suppose.

  “Yes?”

  “Serilda Hunt to see Owen Bishop-MacQuoide.”

  “Ah, yes. I see that we are expecting you Ms. Hunt. Please proceed through the gates onto the main drive. Drive past the main house until you come to the main stable block. It’s a large quadrangular building of gold colored stone. There is a clock tower over the main entrance. You may park there. Someone will be out front to meet you.”

  Main stables? I feel my eyebrows reach for my hairline. “Exactly how many stables are there?” I ask, but the voice on the other side of the intercom is already gone. With a shrug I gaze along the length of the drive beyond the now slowly opening gates. With what seems like kilometres of rolling fields and stone walls and nothing resembling a stable to be seen in front of me I find myself curiously reluctant to enter. Mysterious top secret mission? Isolated country estate? />
  “It’s like the beginning of a horror movie.” I mutter as I pull the car through the gates. “All we need is some sort of an omen or some kind of foreshadowing.” I press on the accelerator only to have to slam my foot down on the break a moment later as a large ginger cat saunters out onto the road.

  Heart pounding, I sit there gripping the steering wheel and watch in disbelief as the cat looks negligently over at me in that way that cats do, and then sits himself down right in the middle of the drive, and begins to clean his paws.

  As omens and foreshadowing go, it could definitely be much worse. I mean, what could a large ginger cat possibly signify that was evil? A ginger in my future?

  “I’m not afraid of gingers.” I tell the cat.

  Seri

  Trepidation gone, compliments of the ginger tom cat, I take in the amazing spectacle that is Andersley with a much lighter heart and can’t help but grin as I make my way to the ‘main stables’ and my meeting with the man with the hyphenated name.

  Definitely some sort of upper class snob with a name like that. I decide with a grimace as memories of holidays with my aristocratic grandmother flash through my mind’s eye.

  Doubtless, you’d recognize the name Bishop-MacQuoide, if you’d spent more time with that contingent of the family.

  Pulling up to the front of the impressively massive main stables, I bark with startled laughter when I catch sight of the tall red headed woman who comes striding out of the cover provided by the main entrance of the stables.

  I try to reign in my amusement as I grab my bag and swing my legs out of the car, but it is to no avail, and I am still smiling a bit too widely when I offer her my hand. “Serilda Hunt.”

  The woman offers me a perplexed smile in return as she takes my hand. “Amory Quinn. Welcome to the NSU.” She raises an eyebrow at me.

  “I met a cat.” I explain. “In the drive. A massive ginger cat that had me thinking of omens and foreshadowing.”

  Understanding flashes over Amory’s face and she throws back her head and laughs. “That’s more apt than you know.” She tells me with a slightly mysterious look and a wink. “Now, let me show you around.” She gestures toward the stable block. “This is HQ.” With one perfectly manicured forefinger she points at the brass placard to the side of the main door. “Officially, we are Courage After Fire, a not for profit organization that runs therapeutic programs and services for military veterans returning from war. That’s our cover.” She nods down at me. “However, it is also a real organization and that’s our—yours and my—Area of Responsibility. As your second in command, I will be briefing you on our current status of operations and showing you the facilities we have under development.

  Unofficially,” Amory pushes open one of the imposing green doors of the main entrance. “We’re the NSU.” She slants me a look to see if I’ve caught the acronym. I suppose I would be checking too if I were saddled with a cadet who has yet to complete training as my boss. I think inanely as the puzzle pieces of the mission fall into place. My experience as a field coordinator for Doctors Without Borders; a non-profit with a medical slant to run as a cover story; pulling me from training; it all began to resemble something like sense. “No. Such. Unit. Got it.” I nod to confirm to Amory that I understand the designation

  “Good.” Amory returns my nod with a decisively charming nod of her own. “The Chief—” She casts me a peculiarly amused little grin. “Owen Bishop-MacQuoide, will brief you on the status of the NSU—insofar as much as you need to be briefed when we’re done here.”

  I wasn’t sure what the weird little smile she was giving me was about but I instinctively liked Amory. I think this could work.

  “This building has been converted for administrative purposes.” Amory gestures to the upper story. “We have offices upstairs.” She lowers her hand to indicate the lower level. “With public facilities such as reception rooms on the main floor. The actual equestrian center is housed in a separate building. I’ll take you through there—” Amory consulted her watch. “Tomorrow most likely, as it will be dark before the Chief finishes with you.” Indicating a corner of the building; the one farthest back on the left side; Amory continued. “Your office is located there. It’s attached to the Chief’s. Officially, he’s the figurehead slash director of Courage Under Fire and you’re his executive assistant.” Putting her hands on her hips, Amory rolls her eyes. “Of course, unofficially, you’re in charge and he’s just window dressing. Sexist enough for you?”

  I laugh. “Let’s just say that I’m glad this is a top-secret, under cover type situation.” I answer dryly.

  “That does help.” Amory points to the windows farthest back and to the right. “I’m over there with the Chief’s Second in Command Lachlan Baehr. Same situation. Basically, the boys are running the NSU, while we run Courage Under Fire, and maintain their cover story by making it look as if they are actually running it.”

  “How glamorous.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Doing the work of men and receiving absolutely no credit for it. My actual favorite thing.

  “Well actually,” Amory dips her head in my direction and offers me a grin. “It is rather.” Reaching out, she takes my arm and sweeps me in the direction of a door. “You see, although we are still very much in the process of setting up the actual facilities, there is a whole slew of social events and functions that we have been invited to participate in.” Grasping the door by the handle, she pulls it open with an ease that belays her tall, slender figure. “I’ll brief you on the details of what we have upcoming.” A wry grimace. “Tomorrow.” She gestures for me to proceed her into the building. “And get you up to speed on our current progress in terms of facility construction and the programs we are looking to implement. At which point, you can help us unfuck ourselves as we, none of us, have any experience at this.”

  I laugh at her candor. “Amory Quinn, I have the feeling that we are going to get on like a house on fire.”

  Seri

  By the time we reach the Chief’s door, I have met everyone who is currently in the office. This amounts to a grand total of six people because, as Amory puts it, everyone else is busy doing their ‘other job thing’ in the other building.

  I’m thinking I’m going to call it the Bat Cave.

  I have also learned that both Bishop-MacQuoide and Amory’s boss Lachlan Baehr are of military, rather than agency origin; and are highly decorated, high-profile war veterans, who, have themselves, been wounded in combat. This, Amory informs me, is part of the reason they make such good poster boys for Courage Under Fire. “They look good at events and the veteran lead organization designed to help veterans is an effective angle PR wise.” Amory tells me as she points out the break room. “Definitely better than a dark ops led organization designed to help veterans at any rate. Not to mention, that it is probably reassuring to anyone looking to register for one of our programs.” She adds pragmatically. “Generally, people are looking for someone who’s been where they have aren’t they?”

  I nod my agreement. “While we’re on the subject, how is it working here?”

  Amory catches my meaning immediately. “You mean the inter-agency thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “So far, so good.” She answers breezily and then shrugs. “But you’ll have to assess for yourself. The Chief and Baehr are very different men.”

  “Different?” That sounds ominous. Raven on the front stoop ominous, not ginger cat on the drive ominous.

  Amory raises her hand and knocks on the door. “You’ll see.” She tells me as a gruff “come in” sounds from behind the door. Stepping back from the door she nods at me to go in.

  “You’re not coming?”

  She grins. “As much as I would love to witness your first encounter with the Chief, I have things to do.” Raising a hand as she pivots, she swirls it through the air in a graceful gesture as she strides away. “Places to go, people to meet. Tea to drink.”

  Seri

  As
soon as I open the door and catch sight of the man waiting for me, I know I am in trouble. Like really really deep trouble. The kind of trouble that happens when you know you really like someone because they turn you on both physically and emotionally. Love, or at the very least, lust at first sight trouble.

  “Third ginger of the day.” I have to laugh as I take in the Chief. “There must be something in the water.” Sprawled back in a sleek modern looking arm chair teacup in one hand and half dunked chocolate biscuit in the other, he cocks an eyebrow at me as I step into the room and push the door shut behind me. “Excuse me?”

  The gentle splash of his biscuit giving up the game and falling into his tea distracts me from the muscular legs, narrow hips, broad and equally muscular chest, piercing blue eyes and burnished copper hair in front of me and I eye the ripples in the cup that denote where the biscuit has vanished into the milky depths with a sympathy that springs from experience.

  Staring into the the teacup with a frown, Bishop-MacQuoide sighs. “Is there anything worse than a biscuit drowning in your tea?”

  “Second biscuit on a rescue mission, drowns too?” I offer, and then have to remind myself to breathe when that startles a bark of laughter out of him.

  Have you ever just watched someone move or talk or laugh and been stunned, like, how the fuck is everything you do so freaking hot?

  Yeah, neither had I until I wandered into this office and encountered Owen Bishop-MacQuoide. And so, I have very little idea to what to do with myself when my heart starts to pound madly as the gorgeous man in front of me draws in his legs and, setting the tea cup down on the table in front of him, rises to his feet all in one lithe motion.