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“—AND I WAS SO NERVOUS when Higgins didn’t bring me back to Renley like I thought. He started taking me down to the Oratory instead. At first I thought they were marching me down there to tell Jason that I was on academic probation. I thought he was going to kick my ass, you know? But hell no. Jason seemed to be expecting me.”
The car swerved sharply around a slow-moving semi, and Tristan kept talking.
“So anyway, I get to his office and we immediately leave again. He takes me to this set of secret doors in the training room wall. It’s amazing that none of us have accidently hit the levers, to be honest. The amount of blade-throwing we do in there. Anyway, we headed down the tunnel to the same office that you went to, and Masters and Wainwright were waiting for me. Said that they wanted to offer me a position on their staff. Said that I would start immediately. Slid a contract across the table for me to read over and sign.”
For the first time, he paused to take a breath.
“I couldn’t believe it! I said yes, of course, and asked if I could go and tell all my friends, but Masters said no. Said that from the moment I was recruited until I was officially sanctioned to return to Guilder grounds to continue my intermittent schooling, I was to maintain strict radio silence. Not tell anyone where I was. Not contact anyone back at Guilder. Like he wanted to make absolutely sure I would believe him, he dissolved my cellphone, right in front of me. The phone’s huge! Super creepy, by the way—how he can do that. Not to mention I lost all of my contact numbers...”
He swerved again, exiting off the freeway and flying up a residential lane.
“As if I would dare disobey Masters anyway, right? Well, I know we kind of shirked his rules when it came to curfew and open rebellion and stuff, but that’s different. So anyway, I’m sitting there—no dial up internet, no cellphone, no car—alone in this empty room. A room that I think has to be part of some kind of safe house, by the way. When all of a sudden, these two guys come in with a bunch of boxes. They tell me it’s all my stuff. Said this was my home now. Said that my car was parked out front.”
Right on cue, he pulled to a stop in front of a beautiful, three-story townhouse. It was nestled right between a ritzy London neighborhood and a beautiful little park. The kind with whispering trees, scattered picnic benches, and little street lamps lighting the way.
For a second all Simon could do was stare. Then he realized that Tristan had gotten out of the car already, and he hurried to follow suit.
“My point is, the whole thing was rather jarring, and when I found out that they were finally bringing you on board I asked Jason if I could be there to help smooth the transition. They were going to partner us up anyway, and since we were both going to be living in the same house they said yes. And speaking of...” he stepped back and gestured to the house, “what do you think?”
What could Simon think? It was what had to be a several-million-pound house right in the heart of rich London. It was absolutely perfect. Beth was going to love it!
He paused for a moment. Would Beth even get to see it? He hadn’t even had a chance to say good-bye to her. He shook his head and focused on the moment, absorbing the fact that he was part of the PC now. He looked around his new surroundings.
The walls were made of that old red brick that you saw in children’s books, covered in flowering ivy that stretched up into the sky. Two wide windows looked out over the park on the bottom floor, while another larger window looked over it from the top. The one on top was complete with its own miniature balcony.
The house number was 2142. 2-1-4-2. That was going to be their new home.
My new home.
Simon blinked up at it for a moment before he dropped his eyes back to the street, lost in deep thought. Then, without a hint of warning his fist flew out and struck his friend in the face.
“OW!” Tristan staggered backwards, catching himself on the gilded railing as he clutched at his face in shock. “What the hell was that for?!”
“You left me.”
Simon’s voice was as quiet as Tristan’s was loud. A startling contrast, and one that made Tristan walk tentatively back with a rather startled look on his face.
“Simon, I didn’t—”
“We said we were going to do this together, and then you...” Simon’s voice trailed off as the weeks of depressive abandonment piled heavy upon him. “I was the only one left, Tristan. The only one left sitting at that table.”
A vague part of him knew this wasn’t his friend’s fault. A vague part of him new he was simply finding a target on which to focus his rage. But being aware of that had never made much of a difference with Simon.
Tristan’s eyes grew wide with shock, and he slowly lowered his hand. “Simon, I didn’t have a choice. They took my cellphone. I was here with trainers watching me day and night; it’s not like I could sneak out and tell you. Besides...” He trailed off uncertainly.
“What?” Simon challenged. “Besides what?”
Tristan lowered his eyes with a helpless shrug. “I figured Jason would’ve told you.”
“He didn’t,” Simon snapped. Then his voice gentled to softer tones as he accepted the fact that he was indeed arguing with the wrong person. “He didn’t.”
The two teenagers locked eyes, and all the fight rushed out of Simon in one fell swoop.
What was he fighting for anyway? There was no fight. No reason left to be depressed, to feel alone. He was here now. Relocated to a pricey house in the middle of London. Partnered up with his best friend as a spy, just like they’d always planned. The same job that his girlfriend was on track to get any day herself. A girlfriend who would be far easier to keep a secret the second that she was living away from Guilder in London, too.
Things were looking up. In fact, the only thing that that seemed to be wrong was the fact that there was a chance he had, once again, broken Tristan’s nose.
“Sorry about that,” he grimaced, studying the steady drip of blood, “reflex.”
Tristan shook his head, relieved they were past their inexplicable quarrel no matter the cost. “Sometimes I think you guys have a bet going. How many times you can break me.”
“Would you be surprised if I won?”
Tristan shot him a glowering look that brightened into an excited smile as he pulled out his keys and pushed open the door. A rush of warm air flooded out to greet them. Air scented with citrus disinfectant and the faintest trace of beer.
“Come on, roomie,” Tristan grinned. “Let’s get you settled in.”
* * *
FOR AS MUCH TIME AS the boys had spent living on the same floor, things turned out to be entirely different now that they were sharing a whole house. And, ironically, not really in a good way.
Tristan had already set his things up in a room, of course. He’d been staying there for the last several weeks. And he had graciously informed Simon that while he might have taken the room with the slightly larger television set, Simon actually had the better view, right over the park. And who didn’t like parks, right?
The rest of the move-in proceeded in a similar fashion. Who got the better bathroom? The superior shelf space. Who was going to take what chair as their ‘regular seat’ in the living room?
The whole thing digressed to the point of lunacy, both nitpicking about little things they couldn’t have cared less about. But there were no bad intentions in any of it. Quite the contrary. It was all for the built-in excuse of spending as much time talking together as possible.
It became instantly clear that Tristan had been just as lonely living in London as Simon had been back at Guilder. The trainers came by three times a week, he said. But they had stayed with him more in the beginning to make sure he didn’t call. More like babysitters, really. And that being said, they didn’t do much in terms of talking to him besides the basic drill sergeant speech.
There was a miniature gym in the basement, equipped with basically everything they could possibly need. Simon was pleased to notice that they officially had to have the biggest turn-of-the-century weapons collection in all of residential London. And as a bonus treat, the back door opened onto a tiny hot tub nestled between the house and the spacious backyard.
The place was huge. A virtual castle. And never once had there been a single mention of payment. It was assumed that until both boys graduated at the end of another two years, their living situation would be provided by the Privy Council. During that time, they were meant to be saving up their super-spy paychecks—just like any other responsible teenage boys. If at the end of that time they wished to purchase the house from the Council, they were free to do so.
After just an hour of talking about it, Simon and Tristan were already seriously considering.
“We should make dinner,” Tristan said suddenly. It was coming up on around six in the evening, and the ‘clubhouse’ feel had overtaken them entirely. “Cook something. Like, a home-cooked meal.”
Although Simon had never cooked a day in his life, he was suddenly convinced that this was an absolutely brilliant idea. Of course they should cook dinner! To christen their new house!
“Yeah, that’s perfect!” he exclaimed. Then, a little less sure, “What do you want to make?”
Tristan had obviously not gotten nearly that far in his planning process. His face screwed up as he considered it, most likely racing back to the few home-cooked meals he could remember from his own parents, before coming up blank.
“I don’t know, um...pizza?”
The idea of pizza was seized upon with fervor, until they both realized they had absolutely no clue how to make it.
“What about spaghetti?” Simon offered diplomatically. There were very few ways they could screw up spaghetti. It was just noodles and sauce, right?
While Tristan looked it up online, Simon ran across the street to a pretentious little market to buy the ingredients. Much to his amusement, the same kind of people who made a habit of turning up their noses at everyone smiled brightly as he passed their way.
This must be a young man of promise, they seemed to say, if he can afford to shop here, at our insufferable little market.
He purchased what he needed quickly, charging it to his new company credit card, and proceeded back across the street to his house. Against some staggering personality-trait-odds, he actually found himself whistling along the way.
Get used to it, Simon, he told himself. It’s like a whole new me.
When he came back, Tristan was already in full swing. He had worked himself up into a frenzy—consumed with the same kind of giddiness that had caused Simon to go full-on Snow White as he whistled his way back across the street. The table was set. The water was already boiling. And two ice-cold beers were sitting out on the counter.
Simon raised his eyebrows when he saw the alcohol, setting his bag down on the counter beside them. “How did you get that past the trainers?” he inquired appreciatively. “I’m assuming they strip-searched you when you got inside. Checking for wires, taps and what have you.”
Tristan chuckled. “Believe it or not, it was left here by the previous tenants. A trio of guys who also worked for the Council. Consider it a house-warming gift.”
Simon grinned and popped the tops off both bottles. “Cheers.”
They took a huge swig. Then another. Then another. Swept away with the sudden freedom of two boys branching out for the first time on their own. The independence was catching, and soon one beer became two. Became three.
That was about the time they realized they had left the stove on.
“You’ve got to be more careful,” Tristan said with a bit of a slur. He’d dumped the pasta into the pot where it was quickly congealing into one misshapen lump. “We’re homeowners now, we’ve got to be responsible.” He flicked the heat on high and walked away. “I can’t have you taking any cues from your girlfriend, setting half of London on fire.”
Simon shot him a look and walked forward to stir. “You were the one who turned this thing on, not me. And while we’re at it, you were the one who wanted me to go back to the market and buy you a chef’s hat. So however this meal turns out, it’s on you.”
Tristan rose to the occasion with a flushed grin. “Challenge accepted. And it’s going to be brilliant,” he muttered under his breath, before picking up the sauce and squinting contemplatively at the label. “So do I have to add spices to this, or is it already done?”
“Just dump it in with the water and the noodles,” Simon said authoritatively. “They’ll spice each other.” Tristan nodded and did as he was told.
About two hours later, both the pasta and the idea of dinner had been long forgotten. After the clump of noodles had started to darken around the edges, sunk beneath a layer of murky tomato water, both boys graciously said that they were fine with just beer, and then helped themselves to another. They were already starting on their fifth when the smoke detector began to scream.
For a second, they froze dumbly on the couch. Both of them blinked up at the ceiling, wincing against the repeated screeching ring. Finally, Tristan turned to Simon. “Did you remember to turn the stove off?”
“No...I thought you were turning it off,” Simon hastily replied. Although, to be honest, he was having a hard time remembering.
Tristan was having similar luck, but in a drunken bout of pride he felt the instant need to defend himself. “I told you to do it! It was your solitary job!”
“My job was getting the groceries,” Simon yelled, raising his voice above the alarm so as to be heard. “You wanted to be the one in charge of the meal, remember?”
A cloud of smoke wafted into the room, and Tristan’s face blanched in panic.
“I changed my mind,” he leaned back into the couch. “I don’t want to be in charge.”
The smoke was followed with a sudden deployment of extinguishers, and the next thing the boys knew they were being drenched in a stream of water from the skies.
“What the hell is this?!” Simon cried, following his friend as he darted into the kitchen. The air was full of dark coiling smoke and he ran around, haphazardly opening up windows as Tristan started striking blindly at the stove.
“Simon!” he yelled, cursing violently as bits of scorched pasta flew into the air. “It’s not turning off! The thing is demented or something!”
“Turn the dial!”
Tristan tried, but in his panic the plastic crumbled beneath this hand. He glanced at the fox on his arm guiltily, before shooting a glance over his shoulder. “What if the dial doesn’t work?”
“I don’t know,” Simon cried. “Rip the whole oven out of the wall if you have to!”
By now, the whole lower story of the house was soaked. The top, no doubt, would be soon to follow. Despite their frantic efforts to put out the flames the intricacies of the oven were enough to baffle them, and they were still shouting at each other in front of it, directing a useless stream of water onto it from the sink, when the front door opened unnoticed behind them.
“You were the one who said you know how to use this damn thing!”
“No, I was the one who said I wanted pizza!”
It was hard to say how long they were being watched before they noticed the troop of men standing in the doorway to the kitchen. By the look on the men’s faces, it could have been a while.
The only reason they noticed them at all was that Jason hopped up onto the counter and ripped the batteries out of the smoke alarm. The water system was soon to follow. The house fell into a sudden, ominous silence, leaving both Tristan and Simon looking rather bedraggled and drunk, standing in front of their first home- cooked dinner...
...in front of Royce Masters.
By his side was Francis Wainwright and another mystery man from the Council, both of whom were staring at the boys with a look of equal parts frustration and amusement.
“So,” the mystery man said dryly, “this is them, huh? Our bright hope for the future?”
* * *
THE PASTA CLEARLY HAD to be thrown away. The wet clothes were replaced with new ones. And numerous tooth-brushing followed by breath mints consumed as the boys raced back downstairs to meet their guests, trying desperately to appear as sober as possible.
Not the easiest task. Especially with this crowd.
Jason’s eyes danced with a not-so-hidden smile as both Simon and Tristan took a seat together on the far couch, hastily piling the empty beer bottles beneath the glass coffee table.
Glass. Perfect. Of course the table had to be transparent.
“So,” Masters looked similarly amused, “how are we settling in to our new house?”
Both boys blushed with similar guilt, before Tristan leaned forward in a valiant attempt to smooth things over. “It’s wonderful. Thank you. More than we could have...” He trailed off as a soggy glop of crown molding fell on the table between them. “We’ll be more careful with it.”
Masters’ eyes twinkled. “See that you do.”
Then, with no further ado, he leaned back to allow the mystery man on the Council to speak.
“Mr. Wardell, Mr. Kerrigan—my name is Philip Keene. I’m going to be your case manager whilst you’re stationed here in London.”
The boys absorbed the information with equal looks of shock.
“I thought...” Simon swiveled his head around to where Jason was leaning up against the kitchen doorway, looking like he was considering taking a beer for himself, “I thought that Jason was going to—”
“Can’t stay in the nest forever, baby bird,” Jason interrupted with a grin. “Have to fly away eventually.”
“Jason will continue on with your training,” Masters explained. “And he will, of course, be available for any questions or concerns you might have. But whilst you’re away on assignment, you are to direct most of that communication to Mr. Keene.”
Both Simon and Tristan turned immediately to begin sizing up the new man, nervous to see that he was doing the same thing.
Masters interrupted the tension with a chuckle. “As this is to be your first assignment, I expect there will be a slight adjustment period. Every agent goes through it. Like Mr. Archer said...in this job, it’s simply part of growing up.”
Tristan raked his wet hair back from his face as Simon nodded anxiously. He was suddenly as desperate as ever to create a wonderful first impression for the man who was to be his mission supervisor. A task at which he was failing spectacularly thus far.
“Well,” he began without thinking, “we would offer you some dinner, but—”
“Why don’t we just move on to the assignment,” Masters wisely intervened.
Yeah, you drunken idiot, Simon chided himself. Why don’t you keep your stupid mouth shut?
The coffee table was cleared, the plans were laid out, and just a few minutes later Simon and Tristan were staring down at the face of their first target.
“Who is he?” Tristan asked with a frown.
“Mark McAllister,” Keene replied. “He’s a scientist from the States, now living in Munich. Specializes in neuro-manipulation.”
Simon looked up slowly, the alcohol working hard against him. “And by neuro-manipulation you mean...?”
“Memory,” Keene summarized succinctly. “The active manipulation, recall, and suppression of memory.” He pointed down to the blueprints of what looked like an underground laboratory. “According to our source, he’s been working on creating some sort of device—the kind of device that could render a group of people sufficiently helpless to whatever message he tried to instill.”
Francis Wainwright chimed in. “The kind of device that could be disastrous were it ever to fall into the wrong hands.”
Simon nodded quickly, absorbing only about every third word, but eager to catch on. “So what? You want us to kill him? Bring back any pieces of the device?”
Both Wainwright and Masters shared a brief look as Keene stared at Simon intently. Behind him, Jason’s face had clouded with the tiniest frown.
“No,” Keene clarified, “we don’t want you to kill him. We do, however, want you to incarcerate him. There’s a friend of ours waiting for receipt of the prisoner at a black ops facility at the edge of the city. Once you’ve located and subdued McAllister, you’re to drop him off for processing and confinement. And yes,” he added quickly, “if his theories have progressed to something more tangible, we would, of course, like you to recover any such work.”
“And if he,” Tristan paused, eyes flickering around the group, “if he doesn’t come quietly?”
Keene exchanged a look with Jason, before offering a casual smile.
“Get creative.”
Get creative? Did I just hear that right?
At that moment Masters got abruptly to his feet, bringing the impromptu meeting to a close. The others were quick to follow, scrambling behind his long strides as he headed back to the front door.
“All the information you’ll need is inside,” he said as he walked. “The way in, the way out, no less than five possible escape routes if you hit any trouble. If that happens,” he turned around suddenly, “I don’t want you to hesitate to call. This is no time for pride, gentlemen. It may be your first mission, but it’s of the utmost importance. We were told we could expect great things from you.” His eyes flickered to the trails of water dripping from the ceiling. “Don’t let us down.”
With that, he swept out into the cold... followed by his three dark-cloaked companions.
Simon and Tristan stood framed in the doorway behind them, smelling of burnt pasta, looking slightly lost, wondering vaguely how to get smoke stains out of wallpaper.
“Well...” Tristan began as the dark tinted car pulled away into the night.
Simon pulled in a deep breath. “...we have a lot of work to do.”
“Our first freakin’ job.” Tristan grinned.
Simon punched him in the shoulder. “I’ll order the pizza.”
