Dangerous Minds: A Cyrus Cooper Thriller: Book One

by Xander Weaver

7:46 a.m.

  The town car rolled through city traffic making good time despite the storm. Though Cyrus’s eyes followed the windswept streaks of rain as they moved laterally across his window, his mind was focused on the words of the man sitting beside him. He’d returned from Virginia late the night before and managed only a few short hours of sleep before his mentor and training officer had arrived, unannounced, at his front door.

  “Get dressed,” he had said. “A suit and tie, and make it quick. We have a flight to catch.”

  Thirty minutes later, a helicopter picked them up from a small airstrip in Baltimore, Maryland. The destination, he soon found, was Hennings, South Carolina. There, a town car was waiting to deliver him to his ultimate destination.

  “Gertrude Waterford,” Greg Boone explained. “Does the name ring any bells?”

  Boone was about fifty-years old, though no one would guess it to look at him. At six-foot nothing and nearly two hundred pounds, he looked every bit as fit and capable as any of the men in the Field Operations division. But Boone was cut from an entirely different cloth. He was the Coalition’s senior agent and head of clandestine operations. He ultimately oversaw all manner of field operations, both overt and covert. He had also been responsible for Cyrus’s recruitment and training only a year earlier.

  “Never heard of her,” Cyrus admitted. “Are we talking target or asset?” His tone was matter of fact, even though the implications of questions were anything but.

  “Asset,” Boone said with emphatic certainty. “You’ll be responsible for her protection.”

  That brought Cyrus’s attention away from the murky morning darkness outside his window. “Protection? That’s a new one. Since when?”

  Boone shrugged. “This comes directly from Monica. Gertrude is a high value asset. Some funny things have been happening around her lately, and it’s enough to make us think someone’s been trying to take her out and make it look like an accident.”

  “Still, how is this Coalition work? Aren’t there private security firms that specialize in this type of thing?”

  “You know there are,” Boone answered, clearly frustrated. “But there are…extenuating circumstances in this case.”

  Uh huh, here we go…

  “Are you really going to be a dick and make me ask what you’re not telling me?” Cyrus said, giving Boone a sharp sideways glance.

  He could see Boone working the wording around in his head and realized the explanation was going to be a doozy.

  “Miss Waterford was approached through official channels and refused protection,” Boone explained. “Whenever necessary, she contracts with the Aragon Group. Since private protection will only make our work more difficult, you’ll be providing protection…covertly.”

  Rolling his eyes, Cyrus took a deep breath and leaned back against the headrest. “I know I’m going to regret asking this,” he said without opening his eyes, “but how am I supposed to covertly protect a woman’s life?”

  Thinking about his own question for just a moment, Cyrus suddenly sat up with a jolt and turned to Boone, anxiety written all over his face. “You don’t expect me to sleep with this woman—do you?”

  Boone’s lips pulled into a tight line as he strained to retain his composure. Still, Cyrus could see more than amusement in the man’s eyes. He didn’t know what it was, but Boone looked ready to burst.

  “If that’s what it takes to get the job done,” Boone said in a calm, collected tone. “Then you are expected to do what needs to be done. Standard mission parameters, kid. Whatever it takes.”

  Pulling a sheet from a closed folder in his lap, Boone turned it around and held up an 8x10 color photo. It was a press photo, a headshot of an elderly woman with thick glasses and more wrinkles than a Shar-Pei.

  “Meet Gertrude Waterford,” he said with a wide grin. “And if you think that’s what it’ll take to get her to accept you, more power to you.”

  With a laugh, Cyrus took the photo and glared at his friend. “You’re a dick,” he grumbled.

  But to his credit, he then took a closer look at the photograph. Cyrus was the youngest agent ever to join the covert intelligence agency known only as the ‘Coalition’. They routinely ran undercover infiltration operations all around the globe. With a fraction of the manpower of the CIA, or even the NSA, it was easy for the group to stay off governmental radar and free from restrictive political red tape. They were a small but effective group that ran tight operations, often with significant and far-reaching effects—though few even knew of their existence.

  Cyrus had found his way into the Coalition’s sights following an incident he became involved in during his freshman year at Brown University. Boone had worked with Cyrus to resolve the issue, and by the time all was said and done, it had become clear to the powers that be at the Coalition that Cyrus was an ideal fit for their organization. First of all, he was far younger than any of their other operatives. That gave him the unique advantage of anonymity since it is common for people to believe the young to be equally inexperienced, and therefore less threatening.

  But Cyrus’s number one asset was his eidetic memory. He had near perfect recall of everything he saw and heard. It was a genetic gift that allowed him to excel in his academic career, but it had proven even more effective in clandestine operations. That, and his natural ability to remain clearheaded under pressure, had come in handy nearly as often as his cognitive abilities, making him a true force within the Coalition. As much as his age was an asset in his line of work so, too, was his mind. After a few drinks, Boone had been known to boast that Cyrus was born for this kind of work.

  “I don’t get it,” Cyrus said. He’d committed every detail of the woman’s face to memory and handed the photo back to Boone. “Why can’t you just talk her into accepting a protective detail? Is it really that big of a deal?”

  Looking out the window, Boone nodded as the town car pulled up to the curb. “Trust me. It’s a big deal. No one makes this old broad do anything she doesn’t want to. She had three different assistants last week alone. Each one was fired before the day was out.”

  “Three assistants in one week?”

  Boone grinned and made sure he caught Cyrus’s eye for the last bit. “There was a fourth,” he admitted. “But she quit before lunch. Miss Waterford didn’t get a chance to fire that one.”

  “Sounds like a real charmer,” Cyrus grimaced. He quickly scanned through the last few pages of the report that Boone had handed him after the photograph and was shocked by what he saw. Gertrude Waterford had been nominated for a Nobel Prize in Physics nearly thirty years earlier. For some reason, her current specialty was listed as Applied Neuroscience. Now, at the age of 74, she was working on some sort of unspecified, classified project.

  “There’s a catch,” Boone said with some trepidation. “We couldn’t just pull strings and land you the position as Waterford’s assistant. She insists on vetting each candidate personally. You’ll have to interview for the job. And to get it, you’re going to have to impress the old lady.”

  The hits just keep on coming.

  “I don’t get it,” Cyrus said as he prepared to exit the car. “Waterford’s work is classified. That means all of her assistants need to have some sort of advanced security clearance. That doesn’t come easy. How is she going through these people so quickly?”

  Boone offered a forced smile. “Like you said, she’s a charmer. But you gotta make this work, kid. We need you on the inside. There is no plan B. The woman might be a world class battleaxe, but you’ve got to find a way to make her like you. Well,” he decided, “at least get her to tolerate you.”

  He wanted to ask how he was supposed to do that, but Cyrus knew Boone wouldn’t have the answer. Boone wasn’t exactly a ‘people person’ to start with. Cyrus wished he had more time to study Waterford’s profile. It would hold the key to making a successful approach. But there wasn’t time. He was literally being pointed at the door before getting a shove in the same di
rection.

  “You’ll be meeting with Lacy Osbourne from the D.O.D.,” Boone said. “She’s been stuck doing the background checks on the potential candidates. We’ve backstopped your credentials. You’ve got all the necessary clearances, and you’ll be happy to know that you aced the background checks. Just use your primary legend, and you’ll be set.”

  He took a breather. “Just one small change,” Boone clarified. “This time around, Cyrus Cooper is twenty-six years old. Adding a few years to your resume looks far more credible on paper.”

  “You don’t think it’s possible for a twenty year old to have a top level security clearance?”

  Boone rolled his eyes. “You just like hearing that you’re special. I got news for you kid—it’s not a good kind of special.”

  Cyrus laughed. “You’re getting cranky in your old age.” Then he returned to business. “Lacy Osbourne,” Cyrus repeated. “Check.”

  Cyrus stepped from the town car and into the driving rain. He flipped open an umbrella as he marched up the wide stone steps. A sidewalk led through dense flowerbeds and ended at the wide front porch of the old plantation mansion. As he walked up the short set of steps leading to the front door, Cyrus couldn’t help but marvel at the towering granite columns that supported the roof three stories above. The estate didn’t belong to Waterford, he knew; it was actually owned by some grizzled old senator. Was the location chosen to impress applicants? No. Most likely, Cyrus thought, it was chosen as some less than subtle form of intimidation. She knew important people, thereby implying that she had clout.

  The idea didn’t improve Cyrus’s developing opinion of Gertrude Waterford. She was already trying to assert dominance by pulling such strings for something as trivial as an interview.

  “Sound check?” Cyrus said quietly to himself as he walked across the expansive porch.

  “Reading you loud and clear,” Boone said to him through the tiny two-way communication device that was set deep in Cyrus’s ear canal. “Good luck.”

  A massive pair of dark oak French doors parted as he stepped near. A man in a tuxedo and tails stood beside the open door and greeted him by name before leading him inside.

  Chapter 6

  Hennings, South Carolina

  7:52 a.m.

  Shuffling a stack of folders on the end of the dining room table, Lacy Osbourne realized that her nerves were already shot, and she wasn’t anywhere near 9 a.m.. She glanced at the Cellini Cestello Rolex on her small wrist and contemplated, for the third time, whether she had time to grab a cup of coffee before her next appointment.

  No, she’d better not. The next poor sucker was due to reach the gallows at 8 a.m. on the dot. If she wasn’t there to greet him, he would fail the interview before ever making it through the drawing room door. Not that it mattered, she realized. The first two applicants of the morning had been summarily dismissed before making it past the opening pleasantries.

  She added the pair to the eight interviews conducted—perhaps wrangled was the better description—the day before, and her pool of prospective assistants was in danger of drying up entirely.

  Lacy could already feel the tension headache forming between her temples. At first, she’d found interactions with Gertrude Waterford to be simply frustrating. But the experience had progressed, escalating into the most horrible assignment she’d had in the last ten years; that even included her unfortunate longstanding run as special assistant to an unusually handsy and lecherous Congressman. No, Miss Waterford was her own special kind of hell, Lacy had come to understand. But at least there was light at the end of the long tunnel—her time with the cantankerous old woman would end the minute she was able to locate a suitable assistant for her. At first, it appeared the task was simply beyond her means. Gertrude was relentless, and the single most impatient person Lacy had ever met. While her people skills left much to be desired, the expectations the woman had for her would-be personal assistant defied reason. She had found something unacceptable about each and every applicant, two of them before they’d even managed to speak a word.

  A simple cup of coffee seemed so appealing just then. No, Lacy thought as the wisp of a smile touched her lips. An Irish coffee… That would definitely go further toward curing her woes.

  The sound of a man clearing his throat brought Lacy from her musings. She looked up to find a young man in a suit and tie standing on the opposite side of the wide dining room table. He offered a warm smile, then slipped his folded umbrella beneath one arm and extended his hand. “Missus Osbourne? I’m Cyrus Cooper.”

  Lacy quickly rose and rounded the end of the table to shake his hand. “Mister Cooper! Right on time. That’s fantastic. Can I take your umbrella?”

  With a swift shift of his free hand, Cyrus dropped the umbrella from under his left arm and caught it in his left hand. His motion slowed and the smile on his face darkened as he offered it to her. “The doorman offered to take it, but then said something about how I might prefer to keep it for my own protection.”

  Lacy sputtered, stifling an unexpected laugh. She’d been at the residence for three straight days. In that time she’d rarely heard Hamilton speak, let alone make a joke at his employer’s expense.

  “Don’t worry,” she said as she set the umbrella aside. “I’ll protect you.”

  * * *

  Lacy was a petite woman in her late thirties with delicate features and freckles on her cheeks that had never faded in her adulthood. She wore a dark pantsuit and had long blonde hair draped over one shoulder. The tinge of darkness that had begun to form under her eyes hinted that the long hours and stress of her latest assignment were getting the better of her. Judging by the size of the rock that constituted her wedding ring, Cyrus suspected that she didn’t really need to work and wondered if her most recent undertaking was making her reconsider her position. Then again, Cyrus knew what others didn’t. Lacy Osbourne worked for the Department of Defense, and not for Gertrude Waterford. However, she’d been stuck with this assignment. She would be out the door as soon as the woman’s assistant had been selected.

  “Protect him from what?” a harsh voice snapped from beyond the door to Cyrus’s left.

  Lacy’s eyes went large at the sound of the gravely, but feminine voice. She looked as though she might freeze up in the pressure of the moment. “Ah—Miss Waterford, may I present Mister Cyrus Cooper?”

  Speaking through the same empty door way off to the side, Lacy seemed unsure how to direct the conversation. Still, given her obvious level of intimidation, Cyrus was impressed with her ability to redirect the conversation.

  What could only be described as a disgruntled huff sounded from just beyond the threshold. “Send him away,” Gertrude Waterford snapped. “He’s late. I told you before, I’ll not abide tardiness.”

  While the color left Lacy’s face in the timespan of a breath, Cyrus also noted that the woman wasn’t at all surprised. Still, being dismissed so easily wouldn’t do.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Waterford,” Cyrus said in a respectful but confident tone. “Perhaps you would permit me to properly calibrate your timepieces. In point of fact, I’m actually three minutes early.”

  Cyrus’s words were met with complete and total silence. Lacy’s saucer-shaped eyes shot him a look that announced his grievous error would come with consequences. She looked like she wanted to say something, but the words seemed lodged in her throat.

  Finally the old woman stepped through the doorway and entered the room for the first time. She stood five foot five, maybe five foot six at most. It was difficult to tell with the slight hunch that had settled into her back with the passage of time. But even at seventy-four, she still had a thick head of cotton white hair that fell just short of her shoulders. A broad set of bifocals were perched halfway down her nose, and she glared at Cyrus through sharp, observant eyes. The deep set wrinkles of her face were further exaggerated by the venomous scowl she was casting in his direction.

  “You mean to say that I can’
t tell time?” Gertrude Waterford said in almost a growl. Every word seemed bathed in vitriol.

  Meeting her gaze, Cyrus offered a confident smile and refused to cower in response. “Not at all, Ma’am. But, as I understand it, you’re in need of a personal assistant. Maintaining your schedule, your calendar…these are a must. Therefore, the precision of the timepieces in your home would seem to fall solidly within the parameters of responsibilities for such a position. A position that is currently vacant,” he explained. “Which would explain why your clock is running fast at the moment.”

  Trying to keep his tone affable and professional, he continued, “Not to worry, though. I’m here and I’m more than happy to interview for the position.”

  For several long moments, Gertrude just stared at him. So did Lacy, for that matter.

  “That’s alright,” Gertrude said at last. Her voice had become calm but still lacked anything that even remotely resembled warmth. “This concludes your interview.”

  She turned to Lacy, seemingly making a point of turning away from Cyrus. “What time is the next applicant due?” The harsh tone had returned to her voice.

  Cyrus heard Boone’s voice in the earbud nested deep inside his ear. It allowed Boone to speak to him and was equipped with bone conductive microphone technology that essentially used the wearer’s skeleton as the microphone, picking up every sound in the room. Boone had heard everything that just happened.

  “Dammit,” Boone swore. “We’ve lost her! And in record time, too.”

  Stepping forward, Cyrus cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Miss Waterford. I would appreciate some explanation. What’s the problem here? You haven’t even bothered with an interview.”

  Gertrude turned slowly to face Cyrus. When her eyes fell back upon him, he realized that he was about to suffer the full brunt of the woman’s fury. At the very least he might gain some insight into the discomfort Lacy had suffered through, he reasoned.