THOMAS RESIDENCE, WASHINGTON, DC
The stately redbrick Victorian townhome needed work. It stood wedged between buildings of a similar provenance in the tony neighborhood of Logan Circle, trapped in flux between the White House and the less gentrified sections of the U Street Corridor.
But inside the home, Kadeisha Thomas, the first African American deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency, slept soundly in the queen-sized bed she shared with her king-sized husband, a former pro linebacker. But her sleep was disturbed by something buzzing like a mosquito on steroids. She rolled onto her other side and brushed her hand past her ear as if swatting away the pesky insect. Then, after a beat and with the mosquito still buzzing, she opened one eye. The clock on the nightstand read 4:37. Next to it, the glowing display of her mobile phone cast shadows on the ceiling. She thrust her hand out and picked it up. The name Viking burned brightly into her consciousness.
“It’s zero-dark-there-better-be-bodies-o’clock,” she said. “How many?”
Caleb’s muffled voice crackled through the tiny speaker. “Somewhere between a handful and a baker’s dozen, ma’am. So far, they’ve found nine dead, but there could be more. Three are in custody.”
“Sugar honey iced tea,” she whispered.
“What?”
“It’s an acronym; spell it out.” She swung her legs off the side of the bed and did toe curls in the carpet fibers. “Okay, Viking, give me the bottom line up front.”
He laid it out for her. As he spoke, she climbed out of bed so she wouldn’t wake her husband and ambled to the bathroom, straightening her Alabama Crimson Tide V-neck nightshirt. She perched on the edge of the double sink, listening to his sitrep.
Christ, she thought. What a shit show. “That all of it?”
“More or less.”
“Is it who we thought?”
“Fits the profile, ma’am. No positive IDs on any of the bodies yet, but they’re males, most likely Central or South Asian origin. The three in custody are starting to sing—in Dari,” he added. “We’ll know more soon, ma’am.”
“We better. The president doesn’t like uncertainty.” Then, not quite an afterthought, “How is she?”
“I haven’t spoken to her yet this morning, but she nearly drowned last night. She’s resilient, though. She’ll live.”
“Yes, she is. But need I remind you what sheep-dipped means?”
“No, ma’am, you did that last night.”
“Well, as your superior, let me do it again. It implies a low-profile operator, usually someone separate from the military but actually given a covert assignment as a clandestine intelligence officer with CIA. In Alex’s case, she was sheep-dipped from the FBI because of her military intelligence and operations background. Does that sound familiar, Viking?”
“Yes, ma’am, it rings a bell.”
“That is, after all, how we brought her on board your cross-matrix team.”
“I understand.”
“So, I’ll say it again, Viking, it’s gonna be hard for her to maintain her cover if she keeps blowing shit up and calling attention to herself and the Agency.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll impress upon the local constabulary that their discretion would be appreciated.”
“And while you’re at it, tell Shooter to keep her head down.”
“Of course, ma’am. But in her defense, there wasn’t another option. Wrong place, wrong time.”
Thomas grunted. “Then get her a compass and a watch. There’s no room on the memorial wall for excuses or footnotes next to her star if she gets killed. Tell her to check herself. It’s becoming a habit.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I want you both back at Langley. Vacation’s over.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And Viking…”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You asked for her, I got her for you. Don’t make me regret it. Control your pet shark.”
“’Night, ma’am.”
“Too late for that. I have to go wake Director Avery now so he can brief POTUS,” she said, ending the call.
And Director Avery hates being woken up early even more than I do, she thought as she punched his speed-dial button.