Arthur landed with a crash, left ankle crunching as it rolled outwards, white hot pain racing straight up his calf. Still running on adrenaline, he got up, limping the short distance to the car, thanking every god he could think of, and at least one devil, for the invention of plated armor exteriors as he threw the automatic transmission into gear and tore off, leaving the hail of gunfire behind him as he drove.
“They’re too far behind to follow you. Proceed to the planned extraction point,” Syler’s voice came to him over the car’s speakers. “I’ve got medical on site. That landing looked painful from here.”
“Can confirm,” he grunted, trying to even out his breathing. The graze wound on his left bicep was bleeding sluggishly. “I’m going to be optimistic and call it a sprain.”
“If you say so,” Syler responded tightly.
---
It wasn’t a sprain. He was out of the field until at least New Years.
“Fractured fibula,” the doctor confirmed, reviewing the x-rays. Pierce, apparently. Arthur already hated him, good drugs or not. “Clean, and minimal damage to the surrounding joint and ligaments. You’re very lucky.” Funny, he didn’t feel lucky. “Six weeks non-weight bearing in the boot, then we’ll start physical therapy. You’ll be up and about in time for Christmas.” Oh joy. He glared at his left leg, betrayed.
“Keep your leg elevated as much as possible. I’d say try to stay active, but I know how you agents are so just don’t overdo it,” Pierce continued, trying for levity and missing by a mile. He resisted the urge to glare at the man. “I’ve forwarded my notes to Director Boothman. She’s expecting you for debriefing this afternoon. As you’re able, of course.”
Arthur grunted, heaving himself off of the exam table, already hating every moment of the next few months as his ankle throbbed in perfect time with his pulse. His left bicep stung as he limped his way to the exit, eager to escape the medical ward even if it meant facing down Jeanette’s most unimpressed look.
Syler was waiting in the hall. Arthur groaned. “Not now. My pride can’t take it.”
“Well forgive me for checking up on you.” He fell into step besides Arthur, slowing his pace without comment. “Besides, the Director wants us both. At least you’ll have company in facing her displeasure.”
“Small mercies.” They arrived at the elevator and headed for the top floor, progress slow. Arthur glanced over at his handler. Today’s ensemble was a particular blight. Somehow, the man had not only discovered the existence of a pair of checkered plaid trousers and matching suit jacket, but purchased them. The entire brown and green tweed number would’ve been less offensive to his sensibilities if it weren’t a size too big in the torso and slightly too long in the inseam. Possibly also if he wasn’t in a shit mood to begin with. On a more generous day, he might have found it cute. “Have you ever considered a tailor?”
“Never,” Syler responded brightly. “One of the many upsides to being a computer nerd is that no one expects me to have any concept of fashion whatsoever. It saves so much time. Besides, it’s vintage.”
Arthur blinked. “Vintage?”
“Yeah, online thrift stores. So convenient.”
“I’m introducing you to mine before Thompson retires,” he announced. “You can thank me later.” The elevator door chimed, admitting them to the Director’s floor. Arthur crutched out slowly, his handler beside him scanning over a tablet with the mission report from Mexico.
“Mm, well, I suppose you do have time on your hands now.” Arthur glared at him as he held open the door to the Director’s waiting room. “You can plot it all out during the meeting.”
---
“That could have gone worse,” Syler commented as they returned to the operations bullpen. Arthur had followed him for lack of anywhere better to be. Going home to wallow just didn’t appeal right now, no matter how much he hurt. Syler unlocked his office door, wherein Arthur gratefully dropped onto the couch, stretching out with a groan. The other man tutted, tucking a pillow under his ankle before returning to his desk. “Get some rest, Dufault. You’ve earned it.” He turned to look back at his agent.
Arthur was already asleep. He sighed, moving to cover the man with the throw tossed over the back of the sofa. Only fair, he thought. It had been his gift.
Sixteen
Arthur woke to the sensation of a hand carding through his hair. He turned to nuzzle into the palm, content, blinking his eyes open only when the hand retreated. “That’s nice,” he drawled, voice sleep rough.
“It’s late, Dufault. I’ve ordered us dinner.” Arthur hummed, chasing after his handler’s voice as he came more fully back to wakefulness. He winced, ankle throbbing painfully. Syler passed him a mug and a pill. “Pain meds and I’ll take you home after.”
“You’re spoiling me,” he returned, swallowing the medication and heaving himself up. He managed to sit mostly upright, body refusing to cooperate further, sore and aching approximately everywhere. God, he hated getting old.
“You say that like you weren’t spoiled before,” Syler replied, settling into the recently vacated section of sofa. Arthur shamelessly leaned against him for support, accepting the take away box. It didn’t smell nearly as heavenly as the burger had.
“What is this?” he asked, eyeing the veritable cornucopia of greenery inside of the container, liberally dotted with thinly sliced beef, a small container of soup steaming in one corner. He poked his fork at the salad with suspicion.
“Healthy person food, as suggested by Miranda.”
“She really does hate me.”
“She orders me pad thai. Maybe if you were nicer...” Syler trailed off, digging into his own box. Arthur grunted, refusing to dignify that with a response. They ate in companionable silence, Arthur going loose as the medication kicked in, relaxing deeper into his handler’s side, left leg propped awkwardly on the end of the couch and right foot braced against the floor to keep himself upright.
“Good this is awful,” he groused, stabbing half-heartedly at a piece of arugula.
Syler’s shoulders quaked, mocking him silently. “Not very good at taking things slowly, are you?”
“Can’t stand it,” he agreed. “Haven’t sat still since I left Iowa.”
“Iowa?” Syler repeated, stunned.
“Born and raised. Small town American ideal. Mother was a homemaker; father was a hard nosed asshole whose one and only instance of open approval was when I joined the service,” he paused, setting aside the take away container, grimacing. “I don’t visit much.”
Syler set his own meal aside. “Can’t say that I blame you.”
“And you, sweetheart?” Arthur settled against him more firmly, eyes drifting to the bookshelf of half-finished prototypes and overflowing component bins, wondering at the type of upbringing that lead to that.
“Rural fucking nowhere.”
Arthur’s eyebrows shot up. “I take it you don’t visit much either.”
“Didn’t really fit in,” he agreed.
“Any family?”
“My mother’s dead.”
“Father?”
“Deadbeat.”
“Well don’t we just make a pair,” Arthur remarked, swinging his good leg up onto the couch and stretching back out, head in his handler’s lap, unabashedly vying for another scalp massage. Syler huffed, reaching for his tablet instead. Arthur pouted winningly until long, thin fingers settled into his hair, scratching lightly.
“You’re shameless,” he noted, pulling open a document Arthur couldn’t quite make out from this angle.
“I’m injured,” he replied, tilting his head to get a better look. “What is that?”
“Latest reports on Pyrona. Tell me what you make of it, will you?” Syler passed him the tablet. Arthur fitted his hand over Syler’s, trapping it on the edge of the tablet, scrolling idly through it as his handler’s free hand carded through his hair.
Arthur’s brow furrowed. “More attacks on financial institutions, mor
e stolen funds, more purchase orders. What are we up to now, eight companies? Nine?”
“Ten, and beyond the encryption surrounding the orders themselves, nothing tying them together or pointing to who made the orders. Also, to be frank, I doubt the companies receiving these orders even realize what’s happened.”
“Explain it to me like I’m five.” Arthur tilted his head, chasing Syler’s fingers for a particular itch. Syler smiled absentmindedly.
“So, a normal security system consists of layered firewalls. Think the walls around a castle, yeah? And advanced security systems often utilize multiple layers of firewalls so that if one is penetrated, it notifies them to investigate before the attacker is all of the way through.”
“I follow.”
“Often, the most valuable information is partitioned off within additional firewalls beyond those that defend the entire system itself and each layer of the wall has a particular key that grants you access. Hacking, in layman’s terms, is just finding a key before the guards show up to escort you out.”
“So what’s so interesting about this encryption?”
“Selective location, for one. It didn’t stand out with Oliveria, because his entire computer network was surrounded with Pyrona’s encryption protocol to prevent remote access, but the others only have discreet Pyrona-style encryption around what, presumably, corresponds to the orders Pyrona has made and they’re positioned as the very last layer of security in the system.”
“Like someone else put them there after the fact,” Arthur concluded. Syler hummed in agreement. “And?”
“The fail safes. So, if you’re authorized to access the system, either your login credentials automatically unlock the door before you even notice it’s there or you run up against it and have to unlock it manually by entering the password. A long password with few attempts before lock out is an effective way to prevent unauthorized breaches. This one though? It’s a constantly changing fifty character key code with a single manual attempt before a self-erase feature takes over system wide. It’s like block chain technology on steroids for the math and accuracy it requires, even for someone who knows what the password is supposed to be.”
Arthur stared up at him blankly. “In English, whiz kid.”
Syler huffed. “Basically, the creator of this is both brilliant and ballsy. I’d be locked out of our systems by an ill-timed sneeze if I used this.”
“Ah, so the companies don’t notice someone added an extra layer since they were always authorized and you can’t hack into it without erasing everything we’re looking for.”
“Precisely.”
“Any common themes to the companies receiving orders?”
“They build things?” Syler shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. Software design, hardware components, an automotive plant, an industrial steel fabricator. They build things. That’s about it.”
“Huh,” Arthur grinned, suddenly cheerful. “Maybe they’re making a death ray!”
“Oh god,” Syler groaned, hand vacating it’s beloved spot in Arthur’s hair to run down his face in exasperation, glasses going askew. “That’s a terrible spy movie cliché. I refuse to even entertain this discussion.”
“Well, you did ask for my input,” he quipped back, grabbing for the other man’s hand, optimistic about a return to gentle scalp massages. His handler fixed him with an entirely long suffering expression, lovely fingers remaining just out of his reach.
“Helpful as it was.” Syler made to get up, gently pressing on the other man’s shoulders until he begrudgingly vacated his lap and sat up. Arthur groaned, body reinvigorating its protests with a vengeance. “Come on, it’s late. Let’s get you home.”
“But we were having such a nice time. Almost a date, even!” Arthur grinned, staunchly undeterred by the hazel eyes rolling heavenward.
“Not in your lifetime, Dufault.” He went to collect his bag and coat, wisely leaving Arthur to his own devices and stubborn pride as the man struggled to get to his feet. They made their way slowly out of the operations branch and up to the parking garage, building all but empty so late on a weekday evening.
Arthur hobbled along slowly, the last twenty-four hours apparently having finally caught up with him, breathing quite heavily by the time they reached the ground floor garage. Syler was suddenly absurdly grateful for his car’s autopilot feature as there was absolutely no chance the other man would’ve deigned to wait while he went to get it. And also—
“Is that a Tesla? Of course you drive a Tesla. You fucking technophile!”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing!” Syler laughed, unable to help himself once he caught sight of the man’s scornful expression. “You know you’re jealous.” The lovely metallic gray Model S glided to a stop in front of the elevator, doors opening with the press of a button.
“I’m no such thing!” The way he immediately limped towards it sort of undermined his point, but Syler wasn’t going to call him on it. The other man sat down heavily into the passenger seat, quiet grunt escaping him as he did. “Haven’t you ever driven a real car? With an actual engine?”
The engineer continued to chuckle, making his way to the driver’s side as his agent shut the door with a huff. “Who needs a dated old combustion engine when just a motor leaves so much room for modifications?”
Arthur treated him with a heartbroken look. “Darling, I’m sorry, but I can’t see you anymore. It’s not me; it’s absolutely you.”
The other man cackled, wicked. “Oh, it has all the standard frills of an agency issued field vehicle. Run flat tires with pressure and temperature controls, armor plated exterior, automated fire extinguishers, and a dedicated interior air supply, all with a direct line to headquarters. Wicked quiet, streamlined for drag reduction, enhanced top speeds. Also, full autopilot capabilities.” He flicked his hands over the controls, inputting the agent’s home address before settling back in the seat, smug. “Oh, and did I mention the built in front and rear guns? I installed those myself in an evening. All that extra room without a pesky engine in the way.”
“It has no engine,” Arthur stressed, devastated. “How can you call it a car when it doesn’t have an engine?”
“You’re such a dinosaur,” he laughed, delighted. “You know you want one.”
“You are never, I repeat, never, allowed near my girl. Ever.”
Syler laughed the entire way home.
Seventeen
Syler woke early the next morning with nowhere pressing to be before noon, well rested and energized for once. A glance out the window of his apartment showed the trees were coming into their full autumnal glory, late October settling gently over the neighborhood, sun piercing in a way that promised the sharp chill air of fall. He absolutely adored this time of year.
Resolving that this morning should be relished, he bundled himself up in a well loved forest green pullover with sleeves long enough to fully cover his fingertips. Ruffling his curls into something resembling order was a lost cause and he mentally settled on a trip to the barbershop on his way into the agency. A nice walk to work with a hot thermos of coffee and a haircut before his dark mop of hair declared itself a sovereign power, then a morning ensconced in the ballistics lab testing his new AI drone. Yes, perfect.
He set off, inhaling the crisp fall air, making his way to his barber at a leisurely stroll. The man was just opening up when he arrived, perfectly happy to squeeze him in before his first appointment of the morning. He left the shop half an hour later, fingering the shortened locks that fluttered lightly in the breeze. It was apparently some sort of Elvis-inspired wavy thing left intentionally long that was meant to sharpen his jawline and bring out his cheek bones. He huffed at the ridiculous pompadour styling he’d never bother to replicate himself, just glad he no longer had a shaggy bowl cut suffocating his neck. His barber was the only one who ever managed to reign in the chaos that was his mane, second only to his mother whom he’d inherited it from.
Sipping on the last
of his coffee, he arrived at the entrance to the agency as a company car pulled up. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Dufault was inside. Apparently, on injury leave or not, the man couldn’t stay away.
“Morning Dufault,” he called, waving casually as the man snapped his head around to stare at him. And stare. And stare some more, for good measure. Honestly, was the hair that bad? “Alright there?”
“Fine. You cut your hair.”
“Mhm. It was about to make a bid for freedom otherwise, I suspect.” He held the door open, waiting for the other man to make his way up, suit lines thrown off by the crutches and boot. He grinned, just a bit enchanted with how humanizing the whole scene was. “What are you doing here?”
“I work here,” Arthur grunted, “or so Boothman kindly reminded me when she called me in for a strategies briefing an hour ago.”
“Ah. Good luck with that.” He saw Dufault off at the elevator, heading down to the operations branch, leaving the other man to the Director’s tender mercies.
---
Arthur blinked stupidly, leaned up against a corner of the otherwise empty elevator headed for the top floor. What the hell did that man think he was doing coming in looking like that. It was wrong, is what it was. All fluffy, wind whipped hair and flushed pink cheeks and oversized green jumper, hazel eyes bright in the autumn light. He looked like a college student in need of a warm meal and a cuddle, not the Deputy Director of Operations for covert affairs indulging in casual Friday. Had to be illegal, he concluded, huffing.
It wouldn’t be so bad, he conceded, if the man would give him the time of day. Honestly, Arthur had never worked quite so hard to win someone over.
‘Serves me right, getting attached,’ he groused, making his way to Boothman’s office. Her secretary jumped up, eager to help him with the door, acting for all the world like he was an actual invalid and not a trained assassin. His eyes narrowed, ego ruffled.
“Good morning, Dufault. Stop glaring at my secretary,” Jeanette called, not bothering to look up from her computer as the secretary shut the door to her office, finally leaving him be. He eased himself into one of the visitor’s chairs, setting his bum leg up in the adjoining seat, sighing.
Covert Affairs: Partnership : A Covert Affairs Romance (Book One) Page 8
