Prologue

"It's cold," he whispered. He crouched low to the ground, rubbing his hands over the soft winter soil. It felt good on his skin, it felt nice. It reminded him of her.

"Director, we have to go." A man behind him said. He was a young man, his voice afflicted with youth as he folded his hands behind his back. A long black trench coat, perfectly hiding the holster by his chest, and a bowler hat hiding his short shaggy blonde hair.

"A moment longer, Agent Washington. I'm sure you can understand." He said, his voice gravelly and quiet. The young agent grimaced, glancing from side to side in uncertainty, before discreetly nodding at the Director.

"Yes, sir," he said before turning and walking to the black car parked next to the park.

The Director watched him go. Neither speaking nor blinking as the cold wind blew next to him. He glanced at his feet, they felt oddly cold. Dead. He didn't know why he came here, to a place of forgotten memories. Did he expect to be warmed in the presence of her last moments? Or to gain strength to move on?

He didn't know and he couldn't find the answer. He screwed his hat onto his head, a small black hat she had given him on a summer weekend and lightly walked towards the parked car.

He pulled the door free and slipped inside. Agent Washington was already seated at the front, his hands gripping the steering wheel to stare back at him. "Director?" He asked, there was uncertainty in his eyes. "I expected that you'd take longer."

The Director smiled at him, "No more time can be taken Agent Washington. Now, please take us to headquarters." Washington started the engine and lightly pressed on the gas. He glanced back at the Director as they exited the park, seamlessly entering oncoming traffic with grace.

"Sir," Washington said, he sounded uncomfortable, "I'm sorry for your loss." He sounded sorrowful. As though it was his fault that she had died.

"No," The Director said quickly, too quickly, "I do not seek forgiveness Agent Washington. I seek to hold the only treasure I ever knew, nothing else." Washington was silent as they continued on their way.

The drive was peaceful, the city was calm. World War I was at its peak and soon it would end. As the Director of CIA Special Operations Division; Codenamed: FREELANCER, the Director was privy to certain information. That included the fact that several hundred paratroopers were being dropped behind German lines.

The Director estimated the time till everything ended. Till the war on the horizon ended and the war on the streets to begin. With the economic strain of maintaining the troops, the disorder and anxiety of full scale warfare and lack of jobs arising, it was only a matter of time until organized crime took a firm hold onto the city.

The black CIA company car strode into an underground parking garage of a tall non-descript building at the center of the City. Agent Washington exchanged his identification card with the guard on duty and the man saluted crisply. Washington nodded his head, said a quiet, "Keep up the good work, soldier," before driving the car onwards.

It amused the Director to think that Agent Washington still saw everything as strictly military. He would soon learn that the CIA, Project Freelancer in general, was so much more different than the army.

The car stopped and the Director exited the car. Washington stopped the engine, rigged the steering wheel with a jammer in its hinges, before stepping out of the car with his dominant leg first.

Perhaps the newly minted Agent was already broken into the job. The Director didn't pay the action anymore mind and entered an elevator, he clicked the thirtieth floor and waited patiently to arrive at his destination. Washington staying absolutely quiet from where he sat. The Director wasn't much of a talker.

A ding sounded and the both of them stepped out onto the hallway. There were rows of office desks lining the length of the room, agents busily moving back and forth between them with stacks of papers and an overwhelming sense of urgency. The Director raised an eyebrow, watching the wanton chaos for all of a minute before striding towards his office.

Agent Washington said his goodbyes before heading to his desk, where he noticed a gray-haired woman was currently riffling through his paperwork. The Director returned it with a nod and just before he reached the door he felt a familiar presence behind him. The smell of roses and cherries, the smell of her, drifting into his nose.

"Sir!" Agent Carolina said, "There has been an increase in activity from the Mafia on this side of town. Agent Connecticut and Florida were engaged with Mafia men in the factory on the west side of town. They were packing some serious heat, Sir." The Director wondered if 'serious heat' was correct terminology, but nodded his head regardless.

"Understood Agent Carolina," she saluted him. Her eyes were filled with trust, somewhere deep down inside he felt himself long to meet that trust. But not yet, one day they can be happy again. As a family.

She dropped her hand and walked towards her desk, another Agent was standing there. He had the flair of a typical american army officer. Short hair, a scar running down his eye, a true GI through and through. But his one remaining eye shined of philosophical intelligence, one that when directed with the redheaded woman, was brimming with adoration.

He'd do well, the Director thought, to watch his back from now on. He pushed open his door and stepped through, eyeing the several pieces of doctorates and awards he had won from his studies as a scientist.

He tapped them all once with his finger, knocking off dust that accumulated from years of merely hanging up on a wall. He turned and strode to his mahogany wood desk, the surface of which was adorned with a neat stack of papers and a roll of pens and pencils. Sitting at the front of a desk was a small picture, framed in a simple white design. He brushed his finger against the image, imagining it actually touching skin and feeling the light feel of hair.

He retracted his hand and sat on his chair. A deep sigh left his mouth as he laced his fingers together over his table. The papers on his desk were several police reports, notices from the CIA and FBI, as well as other requests for him to sign. Just another day in the office.

Another day of being the Director. Yes, there was much work to be done.