PROLOGUE | Initiative
Most would think it unusual for Sheryl Crow to come blaring out of the back kitchen window of a diner in the doldrums of Santa Monica, particularly at the crack of dawn. Most would also think it unusual to see a Led Zeppelin-and-panty clad female dancing with wild abandon on the counter.
Then again, when was the last time you visited a diner in the doldrums of Santa Monica?
There was still three hours until opening time, but for once, Maggie Malone was awake, alert and perkier than the average person of sound mind and able body should be. Early morning radio was her friend. Coffee was her friend. Today was going to be a good-
Three rapid thumps could be heard on the plexiglass door of the diner, causing Maggie to freeze mid-groove. That couldn't be Val already, could it? Was the wall clock slow? Wouldn't he come around the back?
These questions were all given ample time to brew before Maggie realised that she was still standing on the counter. Still in her underwear. Spatula-microphone still in hand.
The speed at which she dived from the counter and into the back kitchen was astronomical and very nearly neck-breaking. For once, she was dumbfounded about what to do – the young woman, who was usually exceedingly quick to think on her feet, was drawing a total blank. Plus, as her luck would have it, she couldn't locate her pants.
Sliding down the greasy tiled kitchen wall, the brunette attempted to breathe steadily but a number of life-threatening theories raced through her mind; serial killer, hitman, rapist, ghost – though, she was pretty sure that ghosts couldn't knock. If it was one of Val's friends, then that was it for her sleeping in the diner. Considering everything Val was tied up in, that was it for Maggie, period.
Maggie's eyes wandered to the large ring of keys hanging on the wall – a prison master type affair. What if she took her chances? What if they had gone away already? What if-?
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
"Oh, if this is about my student loans, I am so fu-!" she winced into her hands. Exhaling, Maggie decided there was not much use in staying hidden. She had to grow a pair, face the music, whatever the hell it was. Her current behaviour was not that of the hospitality usually administered by Smiling Biker's Diner.
Still pantsless, Maggie donned her tennis shoes and bright red apron, reaching and flicking the off switch on the stereo as she passed it. She headed out to the front, ring of keys in hand. As the blinds were still drawn, she could not see who exactly was her caller. Pulling the door open, a heady stream of early morning sunlight illuminated the visitor.
"Morning."
That was all he said as he brushed past her, taking a seat at the counter. He was of dimunitive height, slim build and was cursed with a receding hairline. He wore the kind of expression that alluded to him dealing with children daily, but his suit was too sharp for childcare, his eyes too steely to be a social worker.
She hoped to God he wasn't staring at her Captain America underpants.
Maggie swivelled, making sure the front of her was the only thing visible at all times. The apron was long enough to cover to about knee length, but she was obtusely self conscious about the exposure of her thighs from the back. She was the kind of kid who would have worn dungarees to the beach. Public displays of flesh were not something she took great comfort in.
She managed to shuffle behind the counter safely, glancing towards the mysterious patron a couple of times. He never regarded her – he seemed to be surveying the wall clock.
"Uuh," Maggie tried, "We usually open at eight, so-"
"Coffee. Black, please," he said nonchalantly.
Her lips parted in an attempt to retort, and she might have done so, until she realised that this man may very well be carrying a gun. Tilting her head slightly, her suspicions were almost confirmed as she saw the cut of his suit was somewhat deformed at the waist. Lumpy – the shape of a holster was almost unmistakable.
That didn't mean she wasn't toeing the line of peeing her pants to throwing a minute bitch fit.
Without turning her head, Maggie reached back for the glass jug filled with cooled coffee with one hand and with the other, she fetched a clean white mug. Transferring liquids in a single swift movement, she pushed the cup towards the suited stranger.
He stared at it for a moment then, chilled blue eyes flicking upwards, he pierced her with a stare. It was depreciating, yet tinged with sympathy. Maggie matched it, though hers was lacking in the sympathy department.
"Think you could warm this up for me a little?" he asked, voice level and quiet, though it rang throughout the room.
"Not until you tell me," Maggie said, barely keeping her voice from shaking, "what you think you're doing here."
He smirked, instantly sparking annoyance within her. It was that kind of taunting half-smile that withheld vital information, information that definitely concerned her – she was sure of it. That smirk knew too much, and Maggie didn't like people knowing too much.
"I'll trade ya."
Maggie huffed through her nostrils, grabbing his mug and the coffee jug, stomping into the back kitchen. It was only after she had turned around that she remembered the pants, or lack thereof, issue. Shit.
"Don't- don't," she snapped from the back kitchen. Returning momentarily with a steaming cup of coffee, she saw that he still had that intolerably smarmy grin on his face.
"That's not what I'm here for," he said, taking the coffee from her, "though I'm curious as to why you might think I'm here."
An exasperated expression contorted Maggie's face, brow screwing up in irritation.
"Wh- I don't- how the hell should I even-"
"I have it on good authority," the suit said, "that you have a bit of an eye for these things. The smaller details that make up the bigger picture, I mean."
And in that instant, her stomach dropped. Every inclination that this suit might have been looking for Val and whatever shady operations he used this crummy diner to cover up flew out the window. This guy was certainly an authority, but giving him another once over, Maggie was positive that he wasn't a run-of-the-mill beat cop. There was the hidden arrogance in the way he held himself, the condescending glances yet obtuse curiosity in the way he spoke to her. He was sent to find her, yes, but he had found himself in unchartered waters. He hadn't dealt with something- someone like Maggie Malone before.
Upon the realisation that she had the upper hand here, pants or no pants, Maggie rested both of her own hands on the counter and leaned in a little closer to him. He had cocked his head to the side, giving off some kind of idiotic canine obliviousness, though he was fully aware of the cogs whirring in Maggie's head – and he was somewhat nervous about the outcome.
"Mid-forties, unmarried- w-, no, married to your job. Typically; I can tell that because of the suit. It's a uniform, probably the last suit you'll ever wear. You have a kind of holier-than-thou rise about your top lip, which ensures that you are a figure of authority, possibly... government-related? Affiliated, at least. I mean, you look like you're about to pull a bald eagle out of your pocket and have it squawk Star Spangled Banner, so..."
It was mild, to say the least, but it was all she was willing to divulge. Maggie didn't want to tell him too much just as she didn't want to be proved wrong, so she played the safe field. Apparently, she was correct. An eyebrow quirked.
"Good," he said, "But that wasn't my question. What d'you think I'm here for?"
"Recruitment," she responded immediately with a light shrug of her shoulders, "I mean, it's never happened to me before, but you've made it plain obvious. The only thing I can't figure out is how you figured out that I lived in the back kitchen."
"Lucky guess," he said, and his smile was genuine this time. Warm, even – but it didn't tide Maggie over.
A moment of silence hung between them, Maggie simply blinking at the G man's steaming coffee and the G man simply blinking at Maggie herself.
"So, is it FBI or CIA or wh-?"
But he cut her off, disrupting the once strained flow of their conversation. Just as he did so, he gave one of more glance to the hanging wall clock.
"My name is Agent Coulson and I am a field agent from Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. You're Maggie, not Molly, Malone and you are one of the single most brilliant untrained physical deducers flying under our radar. While this coffee is good and your hospitability even better, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to come with me as this building is about to explode in twenty seven, twenty six, twenty five seconds."
Maggie barely got to choke out a, "What?" before the aforementioned Agent Coulson was dragging her out of Smiling Biker's, a tight vice around her arm that was difficult to even struggle against. He had been trained for this, obviously, moving uncooperative hostages out of soon-to-detonate buildings. They tumbled out of the door as a joined entity, it slamming so hard behind them that Maggie virtually heard the plexiglass crack. The agent moved full speed ahead, making waves across the tarmac towards a shining black SUV, sparkling in the now fully established California sunlight.
"Down!" he yelled before forcing Maggie to the ground – she felt her knees skin in the process, blood beginning to trickle from the minor wounds. She was about to groan in pain before – BOOM! A mushroom of vibrant yellow and amber flames flew skywards, followed closely by an embrace of black smoke. Remains of the tacky Fifties font that made up the neon sign launched left, right and centre, one such charred piece skidding across the tarmac to stop at Maggie's feet.
"What the hell!" she shrieked, grabbing a handful of Coulson's suit with one hand, scrambling to get to her feet, "What the fuck! What the actual living shit? The fucking building's rigged, it's fucking rigged, and you tell me twenty five goddamn seconds before it's set to go off? What is that? What the hell is that?"
Coulson reacted to Maggie's outburst with a classically placid expression, seizing the young woman by both arms and slamming her against the back door of the SUV. His face inches from hers, he regarded the aforementioned expert physical deducer with a look she simply could not figure out.
"It's a good thing you opened the goddamn door."