6

The sign read, BLAISDELL CONSULTING PARKING ONLY. FOR INQUIRIES, ENTER THROUGH MAIN ENTRANCE ON 10TH STREET. I pulled the rental car in front of the gate to the underground parking deck and pressed the button on the intercom because I didn’t have a badge to wave in front of the card reader.

It buzzed, and a female voice said, “Can I help you?”

“Grolier Recovery Services here to see Kurt Hale.”

I heard her shuffling around for a minute, checking clipboards and probably calling offices, and understood why. Nobody from the outside firms of the Taskforce ever came to the headquarters—but then again, none of the other outside assets were run by Operators.

Truthfully, I very rarely came to the headquarters in Washington, DC, precisely because we wanted to maintain a separation between the cover organization of Blaisdell Consulting and my own firm, Grolier Recovery Services. Just like criminals at a CSI crime scene, every time we touched, we left a little clue behind. Something someone could potentially use to unravel exactly what it was we did. It was the reason I’d conducted a surveillance detection route just to get here. Precautions, precautions, precautions.

Once a year or so, Kurt decided to have me up to headquarters just to get a feel for what had changed. Keep me in the loop with all the other shooters who were running operations. Only a few short years ago I’d still been on active duty, sheep-dipped from an Army Special Mission Unit into the Taskforce. Grolier was the only civilian company that actually conducted missions, an honor not afforded anyone else. Well, I called it an honor, but the truth of the matter was, I got results. Period. As such, I was a little bit of an outlier. All the other civilian companies—aircraft leases, boating companies, trucking firms, whatever we needed for operations—were strictly support.

Without another word from the speaker, the gate rose, and I entered. Jennifer saw all the spaces were numbered and asked where the visitors’ parking was. I chuckled. Unlike me, she’d never been in the military or intelligence community and, as a result, had spent precious little time inside headquarters and truly was a civilian.

I said, “No visitors’ parking in here. The Taskforce never gets visitors. Each space is reserved.”

“So what are we going to do?”

Right next to the glass doors providing entry to the building was a free spot, marked KURT HALE, CEO. I said, “I’m taking the boss’s spot.”

She shook her head and dialed her phone. I parked and heard her say, “We’re here.”

Then: “Okay. Standing by.”

She said, “I didn’t tell him where you parked.”

“He’ll figure it out.”

Thirty seconds later, the glass door opened and a man dressed like he was going to a We Are the Eighties reunion came out. He held it open, waving us in.

I exited the car, saying, “Retro, Kurt’s got you running errands for him now?”

He smiled and said, “Knuckles ain’t around, so I guess it’s me.”

Jennifer said, “Kurt’s not going to mind where we parked, is he?”

“Beats me. I don’t have a parking spot, so power to the people.”

I said, “Where’s Knuckles? You guys are on training cycle.”

We went through the door to an elevator, him waving his card and punching in more numbers, saying, “Yeah, he’s been tasked as a sponsor for a new hire. Leading him around, getting him settled.”

Which was surprising. Knuckles was my second-in-command, so I should have been consulted on any new hires to the team. As the team leader, I wasn’t about to say anything to Retro and decided to just act like I knew what was going on, waiting to see Kurt Hale.

We exited the elevator and walked down a broad hallway, past offices full of people left and right who would glance at us, then turn back to work.

Retro knocked on an oak door, then opened it. Just inside was George Wolffe—the deputy commander of the Taskforce and an old-school CIA paramilitary officer.

He ignored me and said to Jennifer, “Well, well. Koko made the trip too.”

She surprised him with a stone face, saying, “Yes, I did. I am, after all, half owner of GRS. Why wouldn’t I come?”

With his use of her callsign, Jennifer immediately thought he was patronizing her. She was always self-conscious whenever we did anything with people outside of our team, because she knew her position as a female team member was precarious and, in some circles, hated. Jennifer had been inside the headquarters only a couple of times in her entire life, but George certainly knew all about her. First female operator was a hard one to miss, and, unbeknownst to her, he had been the deciding vote to let her try. He meant no harm, actually thinking he was giving her a compliment. He looked at me for support.

I said, “Welcome to my world. She hates that damn callsign. I’m thinking of changing it to Fluffy Rabbit or something.”

He stuck out his hand, giving as good as he got, saying, “Well, Koko, I’m sorry your callsign is a talking gorilla. Mine is the Wolf. I didn’t get it for my name.”

She quickly realized her mistake, breaking into a grin and taking his hand. She said, “I didn’t get mine because I look like a gorilla. Knuckles gave it to me.”

He swung the door wide and stepped aside, saying, “I know, I know. We all suffer for our sins.”

We entered a simple office that could’ve been found anywhere in DC, with the exception of the wall adornments. All of them were the last vestiges of some sorry asshole who had tried to kill Americans. A piece of metal from a Hellfire strike, a pressed kaffiyeh tinged with red, three pages of a manifesto describing the end of civilization as we know it, now hanging as a wall plaque in the office of the man who’d prevented just such a thing.

On the phone, Kurt Hale saw us enter and waved us to a couple of seats. He said a few words and then hung up. The air was silent for a moment, until I said, “Well, sir?”

He rubbed a hand through his hair, staring at the phone, lost in thought, then turned to us, switching from whatever was said on the landline to me. He said, “Hey, my favorite team leader. Glad you could come on such short notice. We have a problem.”

I decided to get my issues out first. “What’s up with the new team member? The one Knuckles is in-processing? If I’m the ‘favorite,’ why didn’t I get a say?”

He looked confused, then said, “What are you talking about? She’s not a new member of your team. She’s just new to the Taskforce. That’s not why I asked you to come up.”

And it all became clear. I said, “Knuckles is a sponsor for a female support person?”

He said, “Yeah, but that’s not why you are here.”

Before he could say anything else, Jennifer said, “A CIA case officer?”

He looked wary and said, “Yeah?”

I said, “Named Carly Ramirez?”

Then he got aggravated. “Yes. Carly Ramirez. The same one you read on in Athens. How did you know that?”

I said, “Just a hunch.”

He went from me to Jennifer, then said, “What’s the big deal?”

Jennifer grinned and said, “You know they’re dating, right?”

He said, “Of course I did.” But the reaction on his face betrayed him. He said, “That’s not why I brought her on board . . . She’s the one who helped your fiasco in Greece. She’s a good hire.”

I realized he had no idea what Knuckles had in mind. I said, “Why is an Operator doing the legwork for support staff?”

“Because he knew her, damn it. She was a friend of Decoy, and a friend of his. It made sense. It’s not a fraternization issue. She’s support and he’s an Operator. What’s your point?”

“I’m saying he wants her in on the team. As an Operator. Did he say she could do more than case officer work?”

Carly was an operations officer in the CIA who had crossed paths with us more than once, including having a heated relationship with a Taskforce Operator who had been killed in action. Since then, Knuckles—my 2IC—had taken a shine to her. She probably had no idea what Knuckles had in mind, but then again, neither had Jennifer. It wasn’t that hard to figure out, unless you were Kurt Hale.

Kurt said, “Well, he did say something like that, but we don’t work for the Department of Defense. This isn’t a social experiment.” He glanced at Jennifer and then said, “Understand, I’m not against it, but I’m not doing it just because some female wants to prove her bones.”

Jennifer grinned and said, “Yeah, screw all of that ‘proving yourself’ crap, since she’s handicapped as a female and all. On the other hand, maybe she’ll be worth it on skill alone. Hard to tell.”

Kurt nodded solemnly, completely missing the sarcasm. He said, “I had enough trouble getting you inside.”

I stepped in, saying, “But that was worth it.”

He finally laughed and said, “Yes, it was worth it. If only to keep your ass in line.”

I said, “Can you at least give Knuckles some grief? Make him pay for the subterfuge?”

Jennifer poked me in the ribs and I said, “Okay, okay. Let him live. Why are we here? What’s the forest fire?”

Kurt exhaled, relieved to be off the hot seat.

He said, “I have a mission that—believe it or not—I can’t do with Taskforce assets. I need a cutout, and you’re it.”