Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or any associated Franchise titles or intellectual property belonging to Stephenie Myer. This story has been written for pure enjoyment and no monetary gain is to come of it. Only the plot belongs to me.
So, uh, First FF and here's to hoping you all like it.
Ch1- Dead Man Walking
EPOV
I'm standing in a sterile room, non-descript, much like the places I've spent my most of my adult life. I've stared upon endless sands and heat waves, I've braved the most bone-chilling of tundras, and I've stared death in the face countless times. Each time I've come away alive, but not this time. A navy folder embossed with the Pentagon's logo in gold stares me down, more unnerving than an enemy combatant with nothing to lose. My fists are braced, knuckles white, on the stainless steel table.
I reach forward with hesitance. My fingers twitch as they brush the crisp edges of the folder. Letting out a breath I didn't know I was holding I flip open the cover. A draft of a letter addressed to Chicago, Illinois sits on top.
"To the family of Major Edward Anthony Masen," it begins. I can't bring myself to read any further. I push the off-white letter aside. Below is stack of papers, me, in a sense; my dossier. My mouth is dry as I look at the picture at the top of the page. It's me, age 19, crew cut and cadet uniform. The United States Military logo is printed next to it. My name, age, height, rank, military history is spelled out in front of me.
"KIA- 8/08/2008. Major Masen was killed in action while trying to preserve the life of a fellow teammate. Direct fire from 7.62mm NATO rounds pierced his body armor at the L4 and T3 vertebrae severing the spinal cord and puncturing the heart. Major Masen will be awarded another Congressional Medal of Honor for his bravery and selfless sacrifice in service of his country. Compensation will be paid out to his family for the next 50 years."
That was the report. To the world Edward Masen no longer exists, killed not by NATO rounds, but by the strokes of a keyboard and a piece of paper. Doctored photos of my dead body are clipped to the page in addition to a signed coroner's report. Below the original report, a red line and letters state the termination date of my file. My identity will be acknowledged openly for the next 370 days and then my file will be moved into permanent storage where Edward Anthony Masen will fade into the annals of history.
Below the red line are the beginnings of a new profile. The man staring back is hardened, slightly gaunt with a steely gaze and a head of unruly copper hair. That's me, age 27. The name below is two-thirds familiar. Edward Anthony Cullen. My eyes flicker to the division logo at the top of the new profile. Pentagon Special Task Force: Counter Terrorism. Stamped in bold black lettering beneath is, "Classified: Level S," with an accompanying signature Robert Michael Gates. SECDEF himself had signed this for a level of classified that doesn't even exist.
My pensive thoughts are interrupted as the door suddenly opens and six years of military service kick in. My booted feet kick together and my posture is rigid as I stare straight ahead as a few men walk in. Secretary of Defense Gates and General David Howell Petraeus step through the door with two other black suited men. I had heard stories of the famed general that led Operation Iraqi Freedom; they called him "P4" in Iraq.
"Sir!" I salute as the other men do the same. P4 waves for me to be at ease, I lower my arm and lock my hands behind my back posture still rigid as Gates and Petraeus sit down in the creaking plastic chairs.
"Please, sit Major Masen. Rather I should say Agent Cullen," says the general motioning for me to sit down. Both the general and SECDEF have copies of my file and next assignment open in their hands.
"Thank you sir," I respond before sitting down. The room settles into a silence filled only by shuffling papers. It is a few minutes before the next voice speaks.
"Son, I can't thank you enough on behalf of the United States. You've given your life to military service, and now you've given your identity too," sighs Gates shuffling through my mission history. His gaze is on a mission of mine in Kuwait just after I had been transferred to Delta Force. "Boy, this isn't what we do here. We don't take away the lives of our dedicated service members, but in this day and age we're doing things we never dreamed we would do."
"Let's move on to the assignment shall we?" continues Petraeus shuffling stiffly in his seat. I guess this is his current assignment after having been relieved of his post in Iraq. "Cullen, Edward, you will be assigned to a deep cover post as the chief executive officer of a Seattle based financial firm. A government construct as you have guessed with ties to the Middle East. As you enter into competition with other firms we need you and the analysts assigned to this mission to discern which firms based domestically and abroad are funding terrorist cells across the globe. It is then your prerogative to systematically cut them off. Our eventual goal is to force major terrorist cell, the Volturi, to come to you for funding. As they do so the United States in cooperation with the UN will move to take down this organization or use the information you have gained to levy demands over these groups."
Gates reaches into his black leather briefcase and removes a large yellow envelope. Same classification level. He slides the envelope over to me which I intercept with my right hand. The top of the crisp package are written personnel files. Gates then turns his attention back to me, "These are the personnel files of the other operatives assigned to this mission. As you are well aware this is a black operation. If you are discovered or your mission compromised, the United States government will disavow and deny the existence of any such operation. Your mission will begin in a month's time. Starting tomorrow, your formal training for this mission will begin. A crash course in business practices, economics, international affairs, and business etiquette and ethics will be administered to you by professors from universities that we have brought in."
I grimace at the thought. It wasn't that I wasn't smart; I had a 4.0 in high school and at West Point. Why I ended up in the Rangers is another issue. General Petraeus notices the look on my face and grins a little, "It'll be like going to college all over again. You'll be doing a week at the Wharton school at UPenn. Then it's off to Georgetown, Johns Hopkins, and Stanford for the next three weeks. You'll do fine Edward, this is so that you don't appear out of place in a boardroom with other business executives."
The meeting continued on as my attention began to waver. I was subconsciously absorbing the information thrown at me, but the isolation of being a dead man is infuriating. Eclipse Investments International, that's the corporation I'll be leading. An investment firm, a whole made up history, along with a recent move onto the larger business scene. Enclosed in the corporate files are doctored CNBC reports to be aired in a few days' time to prove the legitimacy of the company. Family owned it says, or rather, started by my brother, my sister, and I. Emmett and Alice Whitlock nee Cullen, my cover siblings. They will be joining me on my training along with their legitimate spouses, Rosalie Cullen and Jasper Whitlock. I'm still in the briefing room reading, but as soon as I hear the door open I'm on my feet ready to move.
"Sir, I'm here to bring you your clothing as well as arrange for transport to your lodgings for tonight," says a corporal standing at attention with a fresh out of the academy salute.
"At ease soldier, give me a minute to change and we'll be off," I respond as I take the proffered garment bag from him. A crisply pressed Brioni suit emerges from the bag, navy in color with a light blue and white micro checkered shirt and a Hermes tie. A pair of loafers also appear which are sleek, black, and suede. I quickly don my new "uniform" exchanging my camouflage fatigues for the suit. I adjust my white gold cufflinks and emerge into the hallway where the corporal is waiting to lead me to the entrance. Outside a forest green colored Bentley Continental Flying Spur awaits me complete with chauffer. The man introduces himself as Michael and informs me that he will be escorting me to the Ritz Carlton Georgetown.
DC passes in a blur of red brick and monuments built to leaders of generations past. I fiddle with the West Point graduation ring on my right hand as we arrive at the hotel. Before I exit the car the driver passes me an envelope and hands me my brand new buck leather messenger containing all mission pertinent items. I glance quickly at the envelope to read, "open me now," in tidy, feminine scrawl. I slide my finger below the edge of the flap and quickly tear the envelope open. I nod to the bell captain who inquires if I am checking in, and he points me in the direction of the front desk.
The note inside reads, "Bar- right after you check in." I assume this is safe since I had not had contact with anyone else after entering the Pentagon's secure DC compound. White and black marble passes beneath my feet as I walk to the front desk where a pretty blonde woman in her twenties awaited me. After so many years in the military I wasn't entirely sure what to do, but I offered her a crooked smile and inquired after my reservation under Cullen. The name sounded foreign, but not entirely unpleasant on my tongue. Perhaps I was better cut out for the job than I thought.
"Reservation for Cullen, Edward. You'll be staying with us for tonight and tomorrow, correct?" asks the receptionist with a slight blush indicating that perhaps not all of my social skills had gone to waste.
"That's right," I respond and she returns her gaze to the computer screen clacking away at the keyboard before placing a keycard on the black marble countertop.
"You'll be in room 828, Mr. Cullen. Could I have your ID and credit card please?"
I reach into my pocket and retrieve my black Dunhill wallet to hand her a black American Express with gold lettering along with my Washington State driver's license. Soon enough the transaction is complete and I request that my luggage be brought to my room.
Striding across the lobby I spot the entrance to the bar as indicated by the "Degrees: Bar and Lounge" sign. I walk in searching the low armchairs and couches for an idea of whom I should be meeting. Suddenly a head of short, black, and spiky hair pops in to my vision and I am confronted with a warm hug. Hesitantly I hug her back and she leans back on her heels to look me in the eyes with a pout and her hands on her hips.
"Edward! Is that any way to greet your sister?" scolds the little five-foot, energy bound pixie. Then my brain decides to come back from the Twilight Zone and everything clicks. This was Alice Whitlock, my sister.
"Alice! It's great to see you, I'm just a bit tired, long flight and all that jazz," I respond just as enthusiastically.
"It's all right. Let's go sit down. Emmett, Jazzy, and Rose are all here."
With surprising strength, Alice pulls me towards a table nestled in the far corner of the room. I set my bag down and appraise my present company. Alice had seated herself next to, who I could only assume to be Jasper Whitlock, her husband and my newly minted brother-in-law. He gives me a cheeky grin and nods in greeting. On the next couch sits a blonde bombshell who I could only image was Rosalie my new sister-in-law dressed in a snugly fit red cocktail dress. With his hand clasped firmly in hers was Emmett who, although was a giant of a man: muscle-bound and tall, had quite the boyish face.
Despite the friendly smiles I was being given, an awkward silence permeated the air between the group. I mentally sighed to myself and decided this was going to be a long night.
BPOV
I'm sitting at my desk bathed in the early evening light, looking over the paperwork I'd had been handed this morning. Finally after a year-and-a-half of being chained to a desk in a grey and cubicle crowded International Affairs department, I was finally getting a field job. When the section chief arrived earlier that morning with General Petraeus and Secretary of Defense Gates requesting a meeting with me, I was shocked. After a secure briefing I sat dumbfounded. I was a small town girl from Forks, Washington who by no small measure of luck landed at Georgetown University. I was in the college first, majoring in English, but within months I was entranced by the lure of the School of Foreign Service where my roommate, now close friend was studying. My sophomore year I transferred to the School of Foreign Service.
I had studied abroad my junior year and written my senior thesis on American influence in East Asian politics and its effects on the overall economic stability of the US, and the Pentagon had snapped me up right after graduation as an analyst. I wasn't overwhelmingly thrilled with the job, but it paid the bills. After three years and one promotion I was being sent out into the field. As an analyst I had always wanted this, but I had never expected it.
On top of being in the field they gave me the job of being a handler, an undercover handler. I was a terrible liar, and there was no way in hell I could do this. Then they handed me the file. His file. When I flipped the manila folder open I was confronted with a highly censored stack of documents. Key details of black ops were blacked out along with involved officials. When I looked over his profile, I was spellbound by the picture. The unruly, gorgeous bronze hair complimented by his soul searing emerald eyes were framed by his slightly gaunt cheeks and chiseled jawbone. The man looked like a freaking GOD. Even his name was perfect: Edward. It rolled off my tongue so naturally, like I was born to say it.
Ignoring the other details, my eyes had remained glued to his picture for the remainder of the meeting, with me nodding in agreement with everything the Secretary and General said to me. Despite the slight grin on his face, Edward had a lost, haunted, and vacant look to his eyes. The emerald color of his eyes was dulled with only a slight sheen to them. He seemed…so tortured.
In the end, my job was to be the handler that would report back to Washington on this large-scale operation. I would be working with my bronze haired Adonis. Wait. Back up & pause. Did I really just think of him as mine? There's no way someone like him could like me. Plain old office analyst Bella Dwyer. Well it's going to be field analyst/handler Bella Swan now, but still…
Work must be getting to me. I raise my eyes in the dim light to look at my now cold cup of coffee and decide it's time to call it a day. I can review the intelligence reports tomorrow. As I gather my coat and my purse I steal one last look at the picture on my desk before locking the folder away and leaving to dream of Edward.
EPOV
The night had gone surprisingly well. After the initial awkward silence, Emmett had cracked a highly immature joke earning him a slap upside the head from Rosalie. Recovering from our laughter, Alice had instantaneously flagged the waitress down and ordered a round of tequila shots. From there on out we shared stories and a few too many drinks. Jasper and I were the only ones who nursed a single drink for the rest of the night. By the end of it all, the girls were rather inebriated as was Emmett who had been reduced to telling all the most embarrassing stories about himself without trepidation.
Jasper, as I learned, was a historian, earning his PhD from the University of Virginia, which explained his slight southern drawl. Alice had her master's in international studies and fashion design, which she had applied to writing for Harper's Bazaar. Looking at the two of them I would have never thought they would have matched as a couple, but then again, after the week I've had, anything is possible. Just last week I was still a soldier, a hunter at the top of my game. Today, it's back to boot camp only this time I'll be learning to execute multimillion dollar deals.
In the time before Rosalie had become as intoxicated as her husband I had managed to glean that Emmett seemed to be the only one in the group that had any business experience of some sort. He had been a defense contractor executive before having been drafted into this crazy government plan. Even more surprising had to be the fact that Rosalie plainly stated that despite her supermodel good looks, she was a professional grease monkey and was damn proud of the fact.
For the first time in recent memory I actually felt relaxed. I don't know how long this feeling will last, but for tonight, I feel like I belong again. My unit and I had shared a close bond akin to a family, but now I had the feeling I'd just joined a somewhat less conventional unit. It was difficult to get attached when people around came and went, either due to transfers or in body bags. Disturbing as it is, this unit already felt like family. Maybe this psychotic plan will work after all – even with a dead man walking at the helm.