Mama once told me that if you want to see if someone trusts you, ask them what they make for a living. No one is more tight-lipped than about anythingt and I guess that means I'm one of the most tight lipped people on the planet. In a secret organization like UNCLE, I'm the keeper of the most secret of secrets. You see, I handle the payroll.

Most of my fellow workers don't have a clue as to how I spend my days. If they did, they'd be a lot nicer to me. It's not that they are mean or anything, but there are times when I get tired of being treated like a second class citizen simply because my skin isn't white. I'm a good, decent person from a long line of good, decent people, but folks take one look at me and assume I'm lazy, a born criminal, or mentally deficient in some way.

I graduated at the top of my class from Howard and thought that perhaps having a degree would mean my life might be a bit easier because of it. Let's just say that the job offers weren't exactly pouring in. I took whatever I could get my hands on. School had been expensive and my folks worked two jobs just to make ends meet. I was determined to help them as best I could. So, I washed clothes, I swept floors, I did whatever came my way.

Then one day, this little old man approached me, weaving a tale of opportunity that I really couldn't believe at first. But it was true and all it took was my signature on a piece of paper and a vow of silence. Well, not exactly a church kind of vow, but I learned the importance of keeping my mouth shut and my eyes open.

Before the ink was dry, I was working for UNCLE and bringing home the kind of money I'd only dreamed of. I could have moved into my own place, but by living at home, it meant there were more hands to help out with my younger brothers and sisters and the chance to save more for their own college funds. There's something about having siblings that makes you less selfish, I think, although some would argue the point. I see my job as a way to help them succeed. Having younger brothers and sisters also taught me the value of knowing when to keep my mouth quiet and leave secrets lay.

Anyhow, before long, I'd worked my way up the ladder and landed one of the most prestigious but under-appreciated, jobs at UNCLE. I was doing payroll and suddenly I knew everyone's most private secret. I knew how much money everyone made from Mr. Waverly down to the lowest mail room clerk. I could not believe how much they paid the Section Two agents. Those guys were sitting pretty on Easy Street. I could have retired on what they made in a month. Talk about being over-paid, but that wasn't my job. I just made out the checks and kept my mouth shut. I knew everyone's social security numbers, their deductions, and charities. Yet no one would look twice at me if they passed me in the hall.

Well, that's not exactly true. Some of my fellow employees do cast a second glance my way, like that nice Mr. Solo. Shame he's white; he looks like he can make a woman feel like a queen. Still, no matter how fine he looks, I was not inclined to go wandering, but if I was… let me explain it this way…

It was one of those horrible New York nights that makes you wonder why anyone with half a mind would ever live in the city. It was cold, the wind was mean spirited and the rain was coming down like cats and dogs. I was at the employee exit in the parking garage trying to work up my nerve to make the three-block walk to the bus stop and chewing gum to keep warm when this jazzy little sports car pulled up.

I leaned down and saw Mr. Solo grinning back at me. "Need a lift?"

If it had been anyone else or if the night hadn't been quite so awful, I might have refused, but I knew Mr. Solo could be counted on to be a gentleman and it was a really long walk to the bus stop.

"That would be lovely, thank you." I climbed in carefully, so that my skirt wouldn't hike up my legs anymore than was necessary. My cousin, Randall, has a car similar to this and I'd gotten to sit in it for a few minutes before he chased me out of it. There was something sort of jazzy playing on the radio and the interior of the car was warm and comfortable.

"So, where to, Miss Summers?" I was flattered that he knew my name, but Mr. Solo is like that. Some of the Section Two agents, they look at you as if you were some sort of uninteresting bug, but not Mr. Solo or his partner. Those two, they seemed to know everyone and treated them as equals. It's a refreshing change of pace.

"Oh, just a few blocks up here to the bus stop."

"On a night like this, I would be a cad and a scoundrel to make you wait for a bus. Where do you call home?"

"It's sort of far out. In one of the boroughs."

"Good night to take her out and see what she can do." He patted the dashboard of the car affectionately and we were off, slipping into the stream of traffic just as easy as a hot knife slips through soft butter.

"So how are things in payroll?"

"Not very exciting. How are things in Section Two?"

"With Illya out of town, about the same. No matter what you want to say about him, Illya does keep one hopping." Illya is Mr. Kuryakin, Mr. Solo's partner, and the two of them are thick as thieves most of the time, but every once in awhile, one went left and the other right, like now.

It was interesting to drive with a Section Two. I'd never done it before, but Mr. Solo, his attention was never on one thing for very long. He was always looking in the mirrors or glancing around. We'd been riding for about ten minutes just sort of chatting about nothing when I noticed Mr. Solo was starting to get a little…well, not exactly nervous, but distant. Like there was something bothering him. The speed of the car picked up a little and he seemed to be changing lanes a bit more than was necessary.

"Miss Summers, exactly how much training have you had?"

"You mean as a payroll assistant? Well, there was a six-month mandatory…"

"No, I mean as an employee of UNCLE. Have you had any formal UNCLE training?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"And that would be a no." He grinned pleasantly at me and cleared his throat. "We seem to have acquired a tail; a car has been following us rather single mindedly for the last few miles. In my line of work, that usually means trouble." He pulled a pen out of his pocket and fiddled with it one handed for a minute, then started talking into it. "Open Channel D please."

"Go ahead, Mr. Solo." It was Mr. Waverly and I found myself sitting up a little straighter in my seat. This was the man himself, the one who made it all happen.

"I was on my way home and have attracted some avian attention."

"Were you able to deliver your parcel, Mr. Solo?"

"En route."

"Estimation of success?"

Mr. Solo glanced over at me and smiled. It was both comforting and a bit unnerving at the same time. "That is going to depend upon the delivery system, sir."

"Mr. Solo, it is imperative that the package makes it to its destination. I don't need to remind you that you are…"

"Expendable, yes sir, I am aware of that. Unfortunately, my current partner isn't."

"Mr. Solo…"

"She's one of us, sir, and I have every confidence that we can rely on her…"

"Just see to it, Mr. Solo."

Mr. Solo reached into another jacket pocket and pulled out a money clip of bills. Now, I'm payroll, I know how much this man makes, but the sight of those twenties and fifties made my heart do a little dance. He made more in a month than I did in half a year. Of course, people weren't constantly trying to kill me either.

"Congratulations, you've just received a field promotion." He handed the clip to me. There was a small disk on the front with an engraved 'S' in the center. "This is an explosive device. You twist the disc to the left and then to the right. Do you have that?"

"Um, left then right."

"When we stop at the next red light, I want you to get out as quickly and as subtly as you can." He handed me a small object, no bigger than a dime. "Hide that some place safe. You need to get that to 24th and Mulberry." He kept his attention split between his mirrors and the traffic. "Repeat that back to me."

"Get this to 24th and Mulberry."

"By any means possible. Use the money for a taxi or do it on foot, I don't care. Just get it there; do you understand?"

"What about you?"

He smiled at me then, an easy and reckless sort of thing. "Oh, I'm going to be playing with my new friend for awhile, I suspect." He eased the car to a stop. "Go!"

I slipped out of the car the way I used to slip from my bedroom window when I was a teenager, intent upon a rendezvous with my friends. I kept low to the ground, even as wet and nasty as it was, and hid behind a mail box.

It became apparent that our little ruse wasn't a success as the car following us parked and some guys, not very nice looking guys, got out. Hurriedly I pulled the gum from my mouth, wrapped it around the disc and stuck it just inside the lip of the mail box. Let Mama tell me that was a nasty habit now.

I noted the address and nearly cried. I was just a couple of blocks from home. I moved away from the box, crouching this time between a lamp post and a sandwich board, moving as swiftly as I could to put distance between myself and them. At least until I literally bumped into one of them.

"Well, hullo, who do we have here, guv?" His accent was strong, like Mr. Slate's. Before I could even catch my breath in surprise, he had hauled me to my feet and pinned my arms behind me. I knew this move; my brothers used to try it on me. I knew how to slip from it, but for now I played dumb.

"Who are you?"

"No one." It didn't take any faking to make my voice falter or my bottom lip tremble. I was scared as all get out. I hated Mr. Solo for doing this to me and yet a small voice inside my head was singing, joyfully alive. I decided on the truth. "Mr. Solo was just giving me a ride home."

"Maybe we should give you a ride home as well." I didn't like the leer in Mr. British's voice. "And you could pay us for services rendered."

That was it. I stomped back hard, driving my high heel well into the soft upper of his shoe. He howled and let go of me and I was gone. You see, Mr. Solo had stopped just a few blocks from my parent's home and I knew these streets in the dark like the back of my hand. Within one breath I was gone. Another, I was laying low, motionless amid a tangle of pipes and metal. They ran past me, but I didn't move. It was cold and windy, my shoulders ached from Mr. Brit's less than gentle grasp and I had to pee like a mad dog, but I held rock still. Sure enough, a moment later they returned, still searching for me. Twice they looked straight at me, but they never, ever saw me. They'd obviously never played Hide and Seek the way we did.

I waited for a long time until it was certain they had left and then, using the back way, I retrieved the disk and scurried home. It took just a phone call to my cousin, and the promise of gas money to get him to drive over and take me to 24th and Mulberry.

It was a rough neighborhood and I was glad to have him with me, but not as glad as I was to see Mr. Solo standing there. He looked a little messed up, his cheek was bruised and his lip cut, but he still smiled when he saw me.

"Are you all right, Miss Summers?"

I handed him the disk and smiled back. "I got to crawl through the gutter and garbage with these idiots chasing me. It was like a Three Stooges movie, only without the laughs. I don't know why you guys do this."

He shrugged his shoulder, winced and smiled even more. "It's a living."

When I got back to work the next day, it seemed like everyone knew my name and what I'd done. Huh, I'd been handling their paychecks for years and they never paid me any mind. Get into a bit of trouble with Mr. Solo and it's all over the building. Guys are like that I guess, especially Section Twos. Mr. Solo took me to a really nice restaurant. I was nervous, me not being white and all, but no one even looked twice at me. I guess Mr. Solo has that type of reputation or something. And while it was exciting and all, I was happy when people started ignoring me again, letting me get back to normal.

I never again took my job for granted though, nor did I even once think the Section Two agents were over paid. It only took me a few minutes of being roughly handled, of looking at guns in the street light and of realizing that my life could end at any second to know not only do those guys earn their money, but they are way under paid. And I should know… I'm the one who makes out their checks.