A/N: Continued thanks for reading! I am a bit behind on replies - and I will get there soon :)
SECTION THREE
After that, things were good. Rick started to enjoy his job. He liked coming to work. He began to understand his teammates' understated and perplexing sense of humor. When they poisoned one of the other translators, Rick figured it couldn't be so bad. When they shoved him into a briefing to secure them a mission in Paris, he figured what the hell. A little French couldn't hurt anyone.
He put up with their antics, tolerated their orders, and sat on a cramped flight to France with them thinking that it was okay because things weredifferent. They had saved his life; he was one of them.
Then, things weren't different at all.
"Wait, so you all get to go to dinner and I have to stay here?" Rick asked. His stomach panged – the airline food had been damn near inedible and he was starving.
"You have to pay your dues, kid," Simms said.
"I took a bullet in my leg!" Rick protested. "Isn't that enough?"
"Hardly," Casey said derisively. "We saved your life. That means you owe us. By staying here while we enjoy a succulent meal."
"At least this way you won't gain any weight," Michael said. "Fay always says this is less the city of lights and more the city of an extra fifteen pounds."
Simms groaned. Casey shook his head. Michael shrugged.
And Rick stayed in alone.
-o-
It wasn't that his team didn't like him, it was that they still didn't know how what to do with him, Rick decided. They didn't want him to die, but they didn't seem convinced that he had a viable place on the team beyond sitting in a motel room running translations. They allowed him to come along, but Rick got the distinct impression that he was being treated like the tag-along little brother that mommy forced the older boys to humor.
Rick could train; he could obey. He could assert himself; he could plot. None of it mattered.
He was still Rick, the new guy. Rick, the kid. Rick, the guy in the desk they couldn't get rid of but who wasn't supposed to die.
Rick.
To be fair, he didn't always know what he was doing. When the French stormed the motel room, he'd been woefully taken off guard, and he'd been more or less ineffectual except for offering a few translations during a firefight. But given that the suspect hadn't responded and had ended up dead, Rick supposed that didn't mean much.
Still, as they searched the suspect's apartment for a clue, it was Rick who considered the guitar. It was propped up neatly in the corner and when Rick shook it, he could hear the suspicious shifting.
"Hey guys," he said, moving back toward the living room where the French correspondent was sulking. "I think I found something."
"I didn't know you played," Michael mused, nodding at the guitar.
"I don't," Rick said. "But these guys wouldn't either. They use things like guitars to hide things." He paused, flipping it over. "If we can just find a way to pry it open…"
Casey reached out. "May I?"
Rick handed it over. "I think if we get a knife into that seam—"
Casey lifted the guitar, studying it for a second before smashing it on the table, leaving it in pieces with the small notebook spilling out.
"Well that's one way of doing it," Rick said.
"Fast and efficient," Casey said. "Never waste time."
Rick felt his cheeks flush.
"Don't worry, kid," Simms said, slapping him on the back. "You'll figure it out someday."
Rick just wanted to know when.
-o-
When they tracked their man to an apartment complex, Rick was ready for action. But when the lights went out, his orders were simple: "Stay here and coordinate with the French."
"But the French are doing nothing!" Rick protested.
Michael shrugged, halfway up the stairs. "Then no problem."
Rick's heart was pounding, his frustrating mounting. "But—"
"Those are your orders, Martinez," Michael snapped, disappearing up the stairs.
On the ground floor, Rick's shoulders slumped. Luc looked at him, apologetic. "Now you see why you Americans have such a bad reputation," he said. "So conceited."
Rick glowered but couldn't disagree.
-o-
The team came back, bedraggled and worse for wear. Michael had a black eye and Carson had a sprained ankle and Casey just looked pissed off when they shoved the suspect at Luc.
"Impressive," Luc said. "You are by far the most intelligent, good looking and brave operatives your country has to offer."
Rick paused his sulking long enough to make a face.
Luc grinned. "Spread those compliments amongst yourselves," he said, then glanced at Rick. "Except you. You get no credit for standing there ineffectually."
With that, Luc turned, smirking.
Rick glared after him. Then he glared at his teammates. "I could have helped," he said.
"Being a spy isn't just about the adventures, Martinez," Michael said.
"You all got to go," Rick pouted.
"We have experience," Casey said.
"Well, to get experience you have to let me finish missions!"
Carson slapped him on the shoulder. "We all pay our dues," he said. "One way or another."
"Besides," Michael said. "We'll let you make the call to Higgins."
Rick furrowed his brow. "He's not going to be happy we went against French authority."
"I know," Michael said. "You sat here safely while we chased a terrorist. This is the least you can do."
Rick gaped, but Carson and Casey just stared at him in total agreement.
Because apparently the ODS was the best the Agency had to offer.
They were also the most infuriating, difficult and incomprehensible.
Sighing, Rick snatched the phone from Michael. "Next time, I vote to go after the terrorist, too."
Michael chuckled. "Sure," he said. "Next time."
-o-
Back in the States, it felt good to sit down at his desk. He was running his fingers over the familiar top when Michael promptly walked up to him and ran a device over him.
"What are you doing?" Rick asked.
"Checking for bugs," Michael replied.
"We already went through the CIA scanner," Rick protested, glaring as Michael started moving the thing over his head as if he could be harboring a bug in his hair.
"That piece of ineffectual crap?" Casey asked. "We always run our own sweeps. Especially after a tussle with foreign agents."'
"Luc wouldn't bug us."
Carson scoffed. "Spies can be awesome and friendly, but they're still spies," he said. "You can't trust them, no matter how good they are at chitchat."
"Besides," Casey said. "We bugged him. So I'd expect no less."
Michael didn't move. "Cell phone, Martinez," he ordered. "Then we'll go through the bag."
Reluctant, Rick pulled out his cell phone, offering it up. Michael plucked it from his grasp, scanning readily as the machine beeped. "We have a winner," he said.
Rick frowned. "What?"
"Your phone," Michael said, holding it out. "It's been tapped."
Rick looked at the phone forlornly. "It's brand new."
Michael shrugged. "That's the breaks."
"Consider it another part of the initiation process," Carson said. "Another rite of passage to check off your list."
Rick dropped the phone into the cup of stale coffee on his desk. Another rite of passage. The problem was, he'd passed through more rites than he could count and he was still no closer to being one of them, to belonging.
They took him along, protected him, but didn't let him in. He was on the team, but he wasn't part of the team. He was the new guy. Always the new guy. If a ruined cell phone could change that, Rick would be all for it. Hell, he'd taken a bullet for the cause.
But it didn't matter.
Watching his teammates shift through the luggage, it didn't seem like it might ever matter.
-o-
That night, Rick stayed late. Adele's fluctuating interest had slowed him down, and he still wanted to finish the paperwork on the mission before the formal debriefing tomorrow.
Still, it was hard to focus. Even with the quiet and solitude, Rick found himself distracted. He traced the grooves on his desk with his pen, trying to look for a pattern in the odd design even while the blank spaces glared at him.
Frowning, he glanced around for a drink, seeing the old coffee and his ruined phone. He couldn't believe he'd been bugged.
But maybe that was the problem.
He should believe it. Better still, he should think about it in advance. He never would have thought twice about his phone. If he wanted his team to trust him like a capable agent, he had to start being a capable agent.
Rick made a face, thoughtful. He'd checked his luggage and it'd been clean, but if Luc had bugged him, what else could be bugged? Hell, it was entirely possible that his team had bugged him.
He cocked his head. It was more than possible, it was downright probable. How else would they somehow know about the private conversations he had with his mother?
Determined, Rick bent over, looking underneath. The desk was even dingier underneath, deep scuff marks against the sides from where someone with long legs had tried to stretch out and missed a little. He ran his fingers under the edge, but there was nothing out of the ordinary except an odd string of paperclips mounted with staples underneath.
Perplexed, Rick moved to the drawers. The top drawer had a box of antiquated staples lodged in the back and a set of drawer keys that had no apparent match. The next drawer was equally unimpressive, with a magnet for a local Indian restaurant Rick had never heard of. The one beneath that had the effects from Plotkin's desk and the crossword puzzle.
Rick ran his fingers along the back and then noticed the small corner of paper wedged in the back. He pulled at it, but found it stuck. Upon closer inspection, it wasn't just lodged in the groove, it seemed to be stuck someplace else.
Someplace underneath.
Frowning, Rick tugged, and the paper moved a little, more becoming visible. Then Rick realized it wasn't a scrap, it was a corner. The rest of the paper was still in there.
But how? He pulled all the supplies out and the bottom was clean and smooth – cleaner than the other drawers in fact.
So clean that it didn't seem to fit at all. The color was just slightly off, a muted light gray instead of the worn dark of the rest of the desk.
Rick tried to pick at the metal with his fingers, but even when he did get his nails underneath, it was too heavy to lift. He tried a paperclip next, which confirmed that it was a false bottom, but it still wasn't enough to lift it free.
The scissors were equally unsuccessful and Rick sat back, huffing with frustration. There was something clearly in his desk, but he didn't know how to get it out. He could ask his team, but then he'd be asking his team, which was really not what he wanted to do. Either they were responsible for it or they'd take over and never let Rick in on what was going on.
No, this was Rick's desk. It was his mystery. So he had to solve it himself.
He kept working with the scissors but only succeeded in scratching the back panel badly. Frustrated, he threw the scissors down. The metal wasn't moving. He needed to lift straight up – and prying just put pressure on the wrong points and made his task impossible.
Rick stopped, blinking. He had to pull straight up.
Hurried, he opened the other drawer, grabbing the magnet. When he picked it up, it was heavier than he expected. He gave it a quick look, easily identifying the higher power magnet slapped on behind the cheap takeout advertisement.
Heart pounding, Rick went back to the drawer with the false bottom. Working his jaw, he hesitated, wondering if it could be that easy. Wondering what he'd find. Wondering if this was anything at all.
Wondering if he might finally get some answers. Rick wasn't picky at this point. He take anything.
He lowered the magnet down in the middle. He went slow, and he didn't even have to touch before the metal twitched and went up.
Carefully, Rick lifted, pulling the metal panel free and exposing the space beneath.
Feeling victorious, Rick let himself grin.
One step down.
-o-
A lot left to go.
With the metal gone, Rick was faced with a cluttered mess. Whoever had stripped the desk clean had apparently neglected this part, which seemed weird to Rick. No one left this much stuff in a desk willingly. Whoever had left it behind had most certainly left in a hurry.
Or forgotten about all together.
It was a strange collection of things. There was a page torn from a magazine – titled The Ancient Beauty of the Scottish Highlands – folded and wrinkled on the top. Below it, there a calendar page dated over three years ago. There was a strange assortment of what appeared to be home made confetti that looked suspiciously liked finely cut mission reports. There was one paper airplane, a ticket stub to Munich and several scribbled hand-written pages.
Pausing, Rick picked up the pages. Immediately, he recognized the handwriting. The blocky, left-handed slant was unmistakable, a perfect match for the half finished crossword he'd already found. Which meant this was all from the same person – probably someone who had sat here for a while. Years, if the varying dates on the stubs and articles were any indication.
At first he thought the pages were notes, maybe a list. But when he looked closer, he cocked his head.
Poetry.
Someone had created a fake bottom for poetry.
His mission report forgotten, Rick couldn't help but start reading.
-o-
Rick was no connoisseur of poetry, but he had to admit, what he was reading wasn't exactly Shakespeare. Which was probably a good thing, since Rick had never really understood the Bard.
In all, it was pretty perplexing. At first, Rick thought maybe it was a code. Maybe there was a key and it needed to be deciphered. But as he reread it, he began to wonder if it was really just what it seemed to be: melodramatic, poorly written poetry.
The silent horn, it blows;
a clarion call to unseen war.
The shadowed soldier knows
it's time to head for distant shore.
He hides his name and face;
they wait for him, should he return,
but in some distant place
they're truths no one may ever learn.
His purpose he conceals,
a smile and nod his one disguise.
He holds to his ideals
in spite of all the acts and lies.
He gladly risks his life,
for countrymen that aren't his own -
for in this constant strife,
no better mates he's ever known.
He doesn't flinch or flee
because he knows, that after all,
there's worse fates than to be
A star engraved upon a wall.
Frustrated, Rick rubbed his finger between his eyes. All that time, all that energy, and for poetry.
Sighing, Rick put the papers down and glanced up. It was late – too late. And he hadn't even finished his paperwork.
He glanced at the stack he'd uncovered, then back at his unfinished report. With a sigh, he put the items back in the drawer, carefully replacing the drop bottom. He wasn't sure who it belonged to, but until he knew more, he figured he could keep this as his secret.
Given how many his teammates had, Rick figured it was about time for one of his own.
-o-
After the first few months Rick's been on the job, apprehending a Russian arms dealer in hiding really wouldn't seem all that unusual. But considering that this is Blanke's mission and it involves Casey being stuffed into a car sear for hours on end, Rick probably should have expected disaster.
It wasn't just that Blanke had the intel wrong, that it wasn't the arms dealer looking to get out, but rather that he was arranging transportation for his daughters. It wasn't even that the compound was well fortified even beyond their expectations or that they had to sit around and feel sorry for a man who had facilitated the death of countless people around the world.
It was the fact that they were relying on two headstrong young women to make their plan work. All it would take was a little charm, but that was easier said than done. Blanke was charming but only in an avuncular sort of way. Any pass he might make would be immediately construed as assault and they'd probably all end up dead.
Simms didn't have the patience to woo and Michael appeared quite happy to delegate that task. Try as Rick might, he was fumbling like a fish out of water. He'd trained languages, self defense, world politics – everything. Which meant that he hadn't exactly spent a lot of time dating.
And it showed.
The younger daughter laughed at him. The older almost called security on him. It was only when Rick blurted the truth, that they were there to arrest her father, that she actually listened to him at all.
It was messy; it was a near thing. But somehow, it worked.
-o-
Back home, Rick felt exhausted.
Michael nodded at him. "You pulled through, kid."
Rick scoffed. "I'm not a charmer," he said. "You shouldn't put me in that situation again."
"You're young and attractive," Michael said. "Better than the rest of us anyway."
"But I'm the kind of guy whose fiancée cheats on him," he said.
"It happens," Simms consoled nonchalantly.
"With my brother," Rick clarified.
Michael made a face. "Ouch," he said. "Point taken. But really, I'm not sure who else could have done better. Casey hurts people. I lead."
"What about Simms?" Rick asked.
Simms rolled his eyes. "I'm too old for that nonsense," he said.
"But I'm the translator," Rick protested. "What do you do?"
"He makes sure we have enough common sense to come home alive," Michael said. "Which is a way bigger job than translating. So you'll just have to pull double duty."
Rick gaped a bit.
Casey shrugged. "Consider it a compliment."
"Is it?" Rick asked.
Casey shook his head. "No, but you can consider it one and I won't think too much less of you."
Rick grunted and hunched over his desk, sulking as he got back to work.
-o-
It bothered him. When he worked late, he looked over the room, at the three other desks, then his own. Four desks.
There were four desks in the office. For four members of the ODS.
Yet there was no talk of the operative who had preceded him. There wasn't even a hint of a mention. This mission had made it clear that the ODS was missing something, and now that Rick was aware of that it seemed glaring. Rick was trying to fit into a round hole like a square peg.
And it wasn't working.
Curious, he opened the drawer. Putting the magnet in place, he lifted, and looked at the stash again. It was more organized now – Rick had sorted the small effects and put them in some kind of order – and it wasn't hard to pick up the stack of poetry.
He gladly risks his life,
for countrymen that aren't his own -
for in this constant strife,
no better mates he's ever known.
Rick didn't totally get that, but he got what mattered most. Risking his life for his teammates – that was the essence of what made a team work. It was what made a team good.
But the last – no better mates he's ever known – Rick wished he could understand. Because the ODS seemed like that kind of team. Seemed like they could be. But they didn't let him in. They didn't let him be one of them. And everything they did was slightly off as a result.
No better mates. But that was British. So maybe it wasn't even a CIA agent at all. But then how did it end up in a desk in Langley? Was that why the poet was fighting for countrymen that aren't his own?
Four desks and one missing piece.
Or maybe it was nothing. Coincidence. His team had stolen the chair, they could have stolen the desk. The dated material was over three years old, and Rick knew for a fact how much could happen in three years. This poetry could belong to anyone.
Though, what it lacked in style it made up for in passion. The block handwriting was intense, scrawled with definitive intention. It had its angst, but it was also a celebration. The man had found purpose, not just in his poetry, but in his job. That was what Rick wanted – or thought he wanted. That was why he'd joined the CIA in the first place. To make a difference, to serve his country, to do the right thing.
That much resonated. Moreover, whoever had written it wasn't a great poet, but he'd had one hell of a team. Rick could have the passion and the ideals and the courage, and he could even have the team, but he would never be part of them the way the poet was.
His team would never let him.
All this and to think, Rick was actually jealous of bad poetry.
Sighing, he put it back in the drawer, lingered at his desk. He'd thought he'd found answers, but there was nothing there but more questions.
Too many questions and never enough answers.
-o-
Setting up Blanke with his own office was one thing; being called down there on a semi consistent basis almost made Rick regret it.
Until he realized that Blanke wasn't just annoying and oblivious. He was actually a veritable fount of information.
And Rick had questions. Lots and lots of questions.
"So you've known the ODS for a while?" Rick asked one day.
"Oh, years!" Blanke said, enthusiastic. "I've been at this Agency as long as Michael." He leaned forward, beaming. "We were in the same class at the Farm. He got recruited pretty quick to the ODS but I spent my time diversifying my career."
If diversifying meant walking circles around the Agency, then maybe Blanke had a point. But that was neither here nor there. Rick kept his focus. "So have they always been like this?"
Blanke looked at him. "You mean, the best?"
"Well, yeah," Rick said. "But, I don't know. They seem like they're barely pulling it together sometimes."
"Ah," Blanke said. Then his expression fell, brow furrowing thoughtfully. "Well, they've had their struggles and some of those have changed them more than others."
"Like what?" Rick prompted.
"Oh, I couldn't go into it," Blanke said. "So much of that stuff is just hearsay and rumor. And the rest…well, they've gotten through it with so much integrity that it seems silly to belabor the point."
Of all the times for the man to start learning discretion. "So there is a reason why they are the way they are?"
"I couldn't even begin to tell you," Blanke said. "Most of it is classified anyway. Top secret, if you know what I mean. Plus, Michael has threatened me within an inch of my life if I tell anyone. Especially you."
Rick made a face. "Wait, why would they warn you not to tell me?"
"Michael Dorset is a paranoid bastard," Blanke said, eyebrows raised. "Haven't you noticed?"
It was probably no surprise to anyone that Rick had.
-o-
Sofia Voukalof was difficult. She was opinionated and proud and independent. She valued her ideals and was willing to die for what she believed in.
In a lot of ways, she was just like the ODS.
Which was why she was so difficult to work with.
The mission was up and down, with body doubles and subterfuge, and Rick thought more than once that the whole thing was going to blow up in their faces. Possibly literally.
But Sofia cast her vote and became the next president of her country.
That was how it should be, he thought. People doing the right thing and getting rewarded for it. Justice and freedom prevailing.
It made him feel good.
But at home, he still sat at his desk and watched his teammates work in silence. They could help change the world, it seemed, but Rick wondered if they would ever change themselves.
-o-
After the adrenaline faded and they filed their mission reports, life went back to normal. Michael read best sellers. Carson doodled. Casey clicked at his computer.
Rick sat at his desk, wondering how this was the same team he always saw in action. Reclined in his chair and reading, Michael didn't elicit the same intensity and trust as he did in the field, the kind he used to convince Sofia to trust them and leave her well established entourage behind. Hunched over, reading email, Casey looked more like an office lackey than a human weapon. As for Carson, with his sloppy appearance and tired features, he looked like he was probably sleeping with his eyes open.
Then he snored.
Rick frowned. This couldn't be how it always had been. He'd seen them in action, he knew what they could do. But it was like someone had sucked the soul right out of them and left them like this.
Tepid, anal, paranoid and boring.
Not to mention reclusive.
Fidgeting in his seat, Rick felt his nerves fray, and an errant line of poetry slipped into his head.
He doesn't flinch or flee
because he knows, that after all,
there's worse fates than to be
A star engraved upon a wall.
He looked at Michael, at Casey, at Carson again. They were alive; they were field worthy. They got missions done – remarkable missions, even. Still, Rick wondered if they'd already lost the thing that made them great – whatever that was.
Shifting again, Rick leaned his elbows against his desk and started to plan.
-o-
The ODS was secretive, and few people seemed to know much about them other than their antics and their reclusiveness. Men who served in the ODS apparently weren't big on friends.
Fortunately, Rick didn't need a friend. Not when he had an ex-wife to consult.
When he knocked, he wasn't sure what quite to expect. He and Fay were on speaking terms, but their relationship had been awkwardly professional ever since their truncated fling. Rick had effectively ditched her to run off with her paranoid ex, so he was pretty certain that all offers to couple up were off the table.
But the mission with Sofia had meant something to Fay, and she'd been genuinely excited when they came home and Sofia became president. He could only hope that that goodwill would be extended to him still.
Cautious, he poked his head inside.
For a second, she eyed him. Then, she smiled. "Come on in," she said. "I was just finishing up the last of the paperwork on your mission before we file it as a total success."
Rick eased in, sitting down with a grin. "We didn't do the hard work," he said. "Sofia won that election. We just made sure she stayed alive long enough for it."
"Well, in a place like that, such things are easier said than done," she said. She paused. "It was really good work, you know. Things like that, they make a difference."
"I know," Rick said.
She studied him. "So why are you here anyway? It better not be an errand for Michael," she said, shaking her head. "He can come and do his own dirty work. Sending you doesn't help."
Rick laughed, though he couldn't blame her. "No," he said. "Michael didn't send me."
She looked surprised.
He shrugged. "But I did sort of want to talk about Michael."
At that, she groaned. "And that's not an awkward thing," she said. "Generally ex-husbands are off topic for colleagues."
"I don't want to ask you about him as your husband," he said readily. "Just – as a team. I mean, the ODS."
She lifted her eyebrows.
Rick sighed, trying to stop his fumbling. "I've been with the ODS for a while now," he said. "And I don't know. I can't figure them out."
She snorted. "Welcome to the club," she said. "I was married to Michael and I still can't figure them out half the time."
"It's just, like, I know I'm part of the team," he said. "I know they trust me to get the job done, but they don't totally trust me with everything. They're always holding back."
"They're a secretive bunch," Fay admitted. "That was always part of the problem. He told them more than he told me. They were their own little circle of trust."
"But that's the thing," Rick said. "I'm not quite in the circle either. Or maybe I'm inside it and they're around me, so I never know completely what's going on."
"Well, they take time," she said. "It's been just the three of them for three years now."
"So there was a fourth member?" Rick pressed. "Before me?"
Fay's eyes skittered away and her jaw worked for a moment. "Yeah," she said, trying to sound casual.
"Did they leave?"
Gathering a breath, Fay made a face. "It's a long story," she said.
"Well, I'm all ears," he said.
Her smile turned a little sad. "I don't think it's really my story to tell," she said.
"Wait, so you're keeping secrets, too, now?" he asked.
"Hey, I told you on day one," she said. "We all keep secrets in here. There can't be any recrimination for that."
Rick was starting to feel desperate. "I just can't figure them out," he said. "Are they as good as they seem? What are they holding back? Why won't they trust me?"
She sighed and was quiet for a long moment. "The ODS is… complicated," she said. "They are the best, but they're not as good as they once were. A lot has changed, most of it not for the better."
"That's it?" Rick asked. "That's all you can tell me?"
Her expression softened. "I can also tell you that they accept you more than you think," she said.
Rick was dubious.
"If they didn't want you here, you wouldn't still be here," she said. "But they're better with you. They won't admit it, but they need you."
Back in the office, none of them looked up when he entered. He settled back in his desk, watching them. They didn't look like they needed him.
But they certainly needed something.
-o-
When an operative was compromised in China, Casey organized the mission and had the ODS flying out before Rick even had a chance to ask why.
Then he met Linda.
Casey glared at her. "I see you're still stupid enough to sleep with your operatives."
She didn't back down but smirked at him instead. "What, you thought you were the only one?" she asked coyly. Then she looked at the rest of the ODS. "But you should know me well enough that I'm not into groups."
"We're here to bring you home," Michael interjected.
"That's nice," Linda replied. "But I'm here to stay."
Really, Rick should have expected that. Only the ODS could have a rescue operation turn into something else on a dime.
A rescue operation in a dangerous country with a compromised asset.
Only the ODS.
-o-
If Rick should have expected that their little in and out mission would turn into an all out affair, he never could have expected that Casey and Linda used to be…
"You banged her?" Carson asked bluntly, back on the street.
Casey shook his head, rolling his eyes. "Everyone has needs."
"She didn't seem like a one night stand," Carson said.
"We were stationed together for two years," Casey said. "It was convenient. She was creative and willing and had a pleasant proclivity to work with her clothes off that suited me. Then, we weren't stationed together. It became inconvenient."
Rick tried to wrap his mind around some of that, but then got an unsettling mental image of Casey without his clothes on and all other rational thought ceased.
"Well, you know," Carson said, leaning close. "Now that you're back together again for this mission, it might be convenient…"
"Then by all means, go for it," Casey said. "But I will warn you, she has a nasty right hook and she's not afraid to use it."
With that, he stalked in front of him. Carson grinned, Michael made a face.
Rick just considered being sick.
-o-
It was a weird thing, seeing his team interact with others. Not just assets or people in their protection. But actual people that they had presumably once cared about. Sure, there was Fay, but given her ready frustration with Michael she seemed to be the exception that proved the rule.
And the rule, to this point, had been that the ODS was an insular, exclusive group. They didn't have friends; they didn't have families. They didn't even discuss their personal lives with each other. Everything was a need-to-know. Especially details of who they were, what they liked, and who they loved.
But Linda.,
True, Casey tried to hide it. He was gruffer than usual, his manner basically unprofessionally cold. He chided Linda about everything, and showed no compassion to her, her situation or her dead asset-turned-lover. If this was Casey's way of hiding his latent jealousy, it was pretty damn effective.
Yet, Linda knew him. The shopkeeper knew them. There was familiarity and affection, even if Casey staunchly refused to return it.
It was clear, though, that Casey hadn't always been that way. There had been a time when he'd cared about people, when he'd opened himself up. He'd called his relationship with Linda convenient, but Rick was pretty sure it had been anything but.
It made Rick wonder when the human weapon had started to become less human and more weapon – and how long it would be until there was nothing sentimental left at all.
-o-
Linda called it the two percent. She came by, gloating, calling Casey out on the feelings he wasn't showing.
"You said it yourself," she said, smirking. "I took two percent off your game. Two percent? For you? That's saying a lot."
Rocking back in his chair, Rick propped his feet up on his desk and grinned. It was a thought. Casey, functioning at less than 100 percent.
Casey lifted his eyebrows indifferently. "That's why I ended it."
Linda inclined her head. "So the reason you saved my life back there?"
"Part of the mission imperative," Casey replied.
Carson snorted.
Michael rolled his eyes. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
Casey looked indignant. "What? You mean you think I managed to take down a dirty police cell mostly on my own after being handcuffed and simultaneously protecting another imprisoned operative while functioning at somewhere less then 100 percent?" he asked. "Honestly, I don't know if I should be flattered or offended."
"Just admit it," Carson joked. "You have a heart."
"I can attest to it," Linda said. "A very virile one."
Rick's smile faded, the negative imagery coming back.
Casey sighed. "If you're all done making jokes, now…"
"No jokes, Casey," Linda said. "I just came by to say I love you, too."
Michael looked amused and Carson was all but laughing. Rick felt his own heart skip a beat as he watched for Casey's reaction.
There should have been humor. Maybe embarrassment. There should have been something.
Instead, Casey looked at her, eyes unwavering, face composed. "I made a mistake back then," he said. "I gave you two percent. It's not one I intend to repeat."
Linda's smile fell just a little and she worked her jaw. She nodded, holding his gaze. "I know," she said, simple and soft. Then she leaned over, giving him a small kiss on the cheek. "It's your loss."
When she walked out, Carson snickered, and Casey got back to work. Michael shook his head, but Rick watched her go. She didn't look back. Casey didn't watch her.
He began to wonder if it wasn't just Casey's loss. If it wasn't even just Linda's. If maybe it was all of theirs.
-o-
Alone in the office, Rick couldn't stop thinking about it.
Two percent.
What did Casey do with that two percent? Did he smile? Did he joke? Did he talk about himself?
Linda had gotten that two percent, but what had he given the ODS so that they trusted him like they did? What percent had they all given once – and how much were they keeping back now?
Because they wanted to pretend that they were at 100 percent. Hell, they trained and they planned and they executed with a frightening attention to detail and precision. But they were missing something.
And whatever it was, was a whole lot more than two percent.
Most of the time, they could compensate. When one faltered, another could fill the void. They were entirely functional, but Rick had to wonder what they could be if they were operating at peak efficiency.
These revelations regarding Linda only served to justify Rick's growing suspicions that there was something in the ODS' history that he didn't know; something that he probably needed to know. Fay's insights had been vague but hardly had swayed him from that, and he was more determined than ever to figure it out.
After all, this was his team. He put his life on the line for these men. The least he could do was actually know them. He still knew more about his phantom desk buddy than he did the three men who actually shared an office with him.
Fay had been his first idea. Agency files were annoyingly sealed regarding personnel matters, and he hadn't wanted to bother Adele with it just yet. Their relationship was still to tentative to start asking for professional favors, as far as he was concerned. Blanke was only moderately helpful, but then he'd actually have to talk to Blanke, which would likely result in a half day listening to Blanke's colorful rendition of American history.
But what else was there? He was inclined to think his desk buddy had something to do with it, but he had nothing but circumstantial evidence. The dates would work with the amount of time the current team had been together, but that was stretching it pretty thin.
Sighing, he opened the drawer, pulling up the fake bottom once again. He flipped through the tickets and souvenirs, but they yielded few new insights. Frustrated, he picked up the poetry again and started flipping through.
He'd read the pieces a lot now – more than he probably should have. Literature had never been his forte in school, and he was regretting it now. It was all still strangely British, which made him doubt his entire train of thought. Maybe it was a coincidence. Some strange twist of fate. Maybe the ODS had smuggled the damn thing overseas. In all honesty, that wouldn't surprise him.
Then, one of the poems made him stop. Brave companions Brave companions Brave companions Brave companions Brave companions
Brave companions
lead the charge;
three warriors
of certain heart
led by one
who make plans as
he would fine art
one of which
has cleverness always
to impart
last of whom
can easily take
a man apart
lead the charge;
never flinching
from their part
for their cause
give mind and body
soul and heart.
At first, it would be easy to write the poem off as the same melodramatic fluff that happened to fit in verse form. But then Rick really read it. Brave companions was generic enough, but three warriors resonated. One who planned, one with cleverness, one who could take a man apart.
Michael, Casey, Carson.
Three companions. Never flinching. Giving mind and body – heart and soul.
Whoever had written this had known the ODS. More than that, he had been the fourth member of the ODS.
It probably shouldn't have been much of a revelation, but the part that bothered Rick the most was that people didn't leave the ODS. That was never explicitly stated, of course, but the implications were clear. Once Rick had been fully initiated into the group, the notion of ever leaving had been quickly forgotten about. As experienced operatives, Rick didn't doubt that Michael, Casey and Carson had other options – options Higgins would probably happily grant.
But they would never go. Just like Rick would never go. What they did was too important, too singular—
So what had happened to this guy? Where had he gone? Had he betrayed his team? Was that why they didn't trust Rick anymore? Was he living in the shadow of someone who had wronged them?
That would explain the reticence, maybe.
But the poetry didn't sound like the words of a traitor. This guy spoke of nobility and of companionship; he believed this stuff.
Which made Rick wonder how he'd ever fit in with the ODS at all. They were cold and cynical; he was optimistic and buoyant.
Three warriors of certain heart.
Rick had to think it had been true one – just like he had to believe it could be true again.
He just had to figure out how.
-o-
After a leak at an embassy overseas got messy, Higgins wanted answers. When Michael brought in his asset, Higgins wasn't the only one who got what he was looking for.
Ray Bishop.
One of the founding members of the ODS.
Rick knew that his intelligence regarding an embassy leak was very important to their ongoing work at safeguarding national security, but all Rick could think about was how he finally might have found someone to help him figure out just what made the ODS tick.
If only it would ever be that easy.
-o-
At first glance, Ray Bishop was everything a good operative should be. Confident, clever, and capable.
But it all fell apart. He could talk the talk, but he couldn't walk the walk. After a panic attack, Rick was forced to realize that maybe the ODS was the same way. The job just hadn't caught up with them yet.
Maybe they'd given their best, but didn't know how to walk away.
He wondered what his teammates would look like when they fell apart.
Then he thought about the man who'd sat in his desk, thought about the companions he'd described, and he wondered if maybe they already had.
-o-
Still, they pull out the mission. With help from Ray and Higgins, no less. Carson dragged him on a car chase, but finished the job himself.
"Hey!" Rick yelled as he ran to catch up with Carson, who was tying up their mark. "We were supposed to do this together."
Carson kneed the guy in the face, letting him fall to the ground with an oomph. He shrugged. "Easier this way," he said. "Besides, you're still the new kid."
Rick glared at Carson, glared at the man on the ground. Just glared. "How am I ever supposed to become not the new kid if you never let me do any of the work."
Carson grinned, ruffling his hair. "Beats me," he said. "But really, it's not my problem."
-o-
In the end, Ray Bishop wasn't a great spy and he wasn't even a great person. But he was passable at both, and Rick wondered if that made him more like the rest of them than any of them would like to admit. The ODS was a team of misfits who played heroes against their will. Ray was in it for the excitement. Michael was too compulsive to stop. Casey had no other outlet for his skills. Carson seemed to lack the initiative to leave.
Rick wanted to do the right thing, and yet they said he was the weird one.
"I don't know, kid," Ray said, leaned back and shaking his head. "I've seen a lot of spies. And you just don't got it."
The others were watching, drinks in hand, bemused. There was a time he might have been goaded into arguing, but he knew better now. "You're going to mock me?" he asked. "Really?"
Ray shrugged. "Just got to call it like I see it."
Rick turned his eyes to the rest. "And you all agree with him?"
"Who are we to question such infinite wisdom?" Michael asked.
"Plus, he's paying," Carson said, finishing his drink and nodding toward the bar. "I never argue with the man footing the bill."
"The first round," Ray reminded him. He turned a look on Michael. "You've let your team get sloppy. Not exactly a legacy I'm proud of."
Michael snorted. "Are you kidding?" he said. "When I cleared out your desk, I found your liquor stash."
"Yeah, and then I helped him dispose of it," Carson chimed in.
Casey touched his fingers together, watching as electricity sparked.
Rick laughed. "And you think I don't have it," he said, shaking his head.
"You're a good kid and all," Ray said. "But you aren't like the rest of us. And I'm not sure you ever will be."
The thing was, Rick thought maybe they were right.
He just wasn't sure any of them actually believed that was a bad thing.
-o-
Later, Adele pulled him aside, eyes bright. "Look what I found," she said, holding out the file.
Curious, Rick opened it and gaped. "Is that-?"
"Higgins," she said. "With Ray Bishop."
"They were partnered together?" Rick asked.
"More than that," Adele said. "He was one of the original members of the ODS."
Rick blinked, trying to come to terms with that. "Higgins? But he hates the ODS."
"I know," she said. "So I did a bit of poking and found out that Higgins had a falling out with the ODS."
"Which is why he's gunning for them now," Rick realized, flipping through the rest of the file. There were pictures of Ray, other people he didn't know. Then he saw pictures of Michael, and then of Casey and Simms.
"I know," Adele said. "The file doesn't say what the falling out was, but I can only guess it left a bad taste in his mouth."
"Enough to hold a grudge all these years later," Rick said, seeing his teammates. Smiling. Working. Together. Even in still photographs, they looked more alive. They looked complete, whole.
Then, he came across the last picture in the file. It was newer than the rest. Michael and Casey and Simms were easy to identify – but the fourth man was unknown to him.
He paused, pointing. "Who's this?"
Adele peeked, shrugging. "I don't know," she said. "Must be a former member."
"This isn't that old," Rick said.
"I don't know a lot of the operatives from a few years back," she said. "We had a different pool in Strategic Services."
"But he was definitely a member," Rick surmised, studying him more closely. He was taller, with a day's worth of scruff on his chin. His brown hair was short and spiky, blue eyes bright, his mouth twitching upward in the faintest smile that made him seem eternally amused. He was in a gray suit with a matching vest, a tie slightly lax around his neck.
"This is their personnel file," she said. "It's pretty sparse on details, but the photos are all there."
"But what about identities?" Rick asked, flipping the photo and looking for some kind of ID.
Adele shrugged. "Whatever's there is all I've got," she said.
Rick turned the picture back and looked at it again. Looked at his team, how much different they seemed. Physically maybe not much had changed, but everything about them just seemed different.
Better.
Pressing his lips together, he glanced toward Adele. "Do you think you can find out?" he asked.
"It matters that much to you?" she asked, surprised.
"I know it seems stupid," he said. "But there's something the ODS isn't telling me."
Adele regarded him critically. "We're spies," she said. "There are a lot of things we don't tell people."
"This is different," he insisted. "Something happened to them – something that changed them. If I'm ever going to be a real part of the team, I have to know what that is."
Otherwise he'd always be the odd man out. He'd always be the new guy. He'd always be the kid. He couldn't spend his career being one step behind.
He needed to belong to be effective. He wanted to be part of the team.
He wanted what was in that picture.
Taking the file back, Adele shrugged. "Okay," she said. "I'll see what I can find out."
Rick grinned. "Thanks," he said, pecking her on the cheek.
"Well, don't thank me yet," she said. "Answers are hard to come by in the Agency. Anything I find will likely just make more questions."
She was probably right, but Rick was persistent. He would keep asking questions until they invariably answered themselves.
One way or another.
-o-
At his desk, alone that night, Rick pulled out the poetry. He thought about the man in the photo, the sparkle in his eyes and the trim of his suit. Mentally, he recreated it, seeing the holster on the opposite hip.
A leftie.
The strong block print with the leftward slant.
Coincidence, maybe.
The ticket stubs were from three years ago. The photo had had no date, but the timing made sense. The poetry clearly described the ODS and that had been the most recent picture.
And the poetry – somehow it fit.
The silent horn, it blows;
a clarion call to unseen war.
The shadowed soldier knows
it's time to head for distant shore.
It was probably stupid – he was probably over thinking it – but he couldn't shake it. Just like he could shake the words in verse or the look in the man's eyes.
A shadowed warrior. The ghost haunting his desk.
The missing link.
The soul of the ODS.
Rick didn't know who the man was or why he'd left, but he was pretty sure that when he walked away, he took the best parts of Michael, Casey and Carson with him.
A clarion call to unseen war? A distant shore?
Wherever the man was, Rick didn't know whether to resent him or thank him.
Maybe both.
Inexplicably, he wanted to find out.
Putting the poetry away, he promised himself he would.
-o-
An operative went AWOL in Germany. They went to extract him, but when the man up and killed himself, Rick wanted to stay.
His team was a hard sell.
"It's noble," Michael said. "But we don't have enough background on this mission. Or approval."
"That hasn't stopped us before," Rick said.
"You're responding out of some irrational form of grief," Casey told him. "Nobility is a waste of a virtue."
"The cover's not so bad, though," Carson said, knocking back another drink. "I could do with working at a bar."
"That wouldn't work anyway," Rick said. "We'd need to go in as a possible supplier if we want any chance of making contact."
Carson made a face. "Count me out, then," he said. "If there's no free alcohol, what's the point?"
"The point is that he was close," Rick said. "It wouldn't be too hard to get a cover. If we can convince him to buy, then we've nailed him."
"Gallo was in for years and couldn't nail him," Michael said. "And you think we can do it in weeks?"
"It's ambitious," Rick said. "But we can. I know we can."
They were dubious. Michael exchanged careful looks with the others before pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes on Rick. "Are you sure?" he asked. "We'd be better off walking away."
"We didn't join the CIA to do what was better off," he said. "We joined to do the right thing."
He meant it. He believed it.
For once, that was enough.
Michael nodded. "Okay, then."
Carson groaned. "You're serious?"
"Martinez here seems to think we can do this one," he said. "And I'm inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt this time."
Casey grunted. Carson took another drink. Rick felt his chest swell.
"Besides," Michael said. "If he's wrong, we can always get him transferred to a remote outpost in Antarctica."
Casey grinned. "I can drink to that."
"Hey!" Rick protested.
Carson shoved a drink toward him. "Just drink, kid," he said. "Nothing seems so bad after a pint or two."
-o-
Once the team committed to the mission, it wasn't so hard to work out the details. They'd go in under a familiar brand that had been coopted by the CIA a few years ago. They'd use that cover for automatic credibility, hanging around in the bar until they managed to score a meeting. A little smooth talking, an offer that couldn't be refused, and they'd be able to get in, make the arrest and get out.
"Who will be our undercover man?" Rick asked.
Michael shrugged. "It's a pretty big responsibility," he said. "Normally we have a bit more time to set up the details. This is a cover we'll have to sell more on the fly than normal."
"I can do it," Rick said, nodding seriously. "I'm ready."
Michael lifted his eyebrows. "That's ambitious."
"That's stupid," Casey said.
Rick frowned.
"It's a nuanced thing," Michael explained in conciliation. "None of your missions have been nearly so involved."
"I'm out," Casey said. "I don't have the patience to be a simpering drug dealer."
"And I think I'm better off running point behind the scenes," Michael said. He paused. "That just leaves Carson."
Carson stopped mid drink. Swallowing, he made a face. "No, man," he said. "I'm too old for this kind of crap."
"You're the smoothest one of us all," Michael argued.
"I'm not a charmer," Carson snipped back. "You know that."
"You're the closest thing we've got," Michael said.
"I hate to agree with anything that suggests Simms has a personality, but I think Michael's right," Casey said.
"I still think I can do it," Rick interjected.
Carson looked at Rick, face dark. "No," he said. "They're right. I'll do it."
Rick's frustrations mounted. "But I can do it!"
"That fact that you have to whine about it like a three year old is more reason that I'm doing it," Carson said.
"Good," Michael said, even as Rick sulked. "It's settled."
"Under one condition, though," Carson said. "The Agency foots the bill for the drink."
"You really want to create an itemized tab for your drinking habit?" Casey asked indignantly.
"Hell, yes," Carson said. "I'm a drug runner and a piss poor music organizer. Alcohol is like oxygen to me. If you want this thing to be a success, I can be worried about my tab."
Michael rolled his eyes. "Spoken like a true American hero."
-o-
Carson was begrudging about his job, but he wasn't bad at it. Rick watched him work and found himself hoping for failure, but Carson did his job just fine. In fact, he was more than fine. Talking to criminals, he fit right in. Cool and easy and utterly believable.
Listening, Rick almost had to gape. "I had no idea he was—" he fumbled, turning red.
Casey smirked. "You had no idea he was any good," he said.
Rick shrugged feebly. "Yeah," he admitted. "I've just never seen him try before, I guess."
"Putting forth the least possible version of yourself is a great way to gain the element of surprise," Casey instructed him. "And some people only perform under pressure."
That was true, Rick figured. For Michael and Casey, he had no doubts.
But for Carson…
Watching him lie and manipulate, schmooze and waffle – he was flawless. Almost like it wasn't a cover at all. Maybe Rick could learn something from Simms after all.
For some reason, he just wasn't sure he wanted to.
-o-
To say things went poorly would be like saying that Michael preferred control or that Casey had some physical skill. An understatement of the grossest and more ludicrous kind.
Gallo wasn't dead; the boss' girlfriend was pregnant by a CIA officer; Rick risked his fledgling relationship with Adele over heroin; Carson drank their entire budget in one day; then the bodyguard had found the bug they'd planted.
And that had just been the start. Then Blanke had gotten apprehended at the airport, Adele had read in German authorities and the boss sent his minions to the meet and kept Carson as collateral. As if that hadn't been enough, the Germans decided to finish the raid anyway, regardless of the risk posed to the ODS' man, effectively sentencing Carson to death.
Without radio contact, Rick felt his stomach churn dangerously as Michael drove them back. He went faster than Rick had ever seen him go before, face pinched and knuckles white on the wheel. The look of determination in his face was only vaguely familiar; Rick remembered it from the vestiges of his consciousness back in Bolivia, although he'd often suspected he'd hallucinated at least some of that.
Now, though, Rick wasn't so sure. Because Michael didn't stop and Casey didn't blink, and they barely even spoke as they got into position, ready to blow the wall and get Carson the hell out.
But when they got there, Carson was waiting for them in the alleyway.
"About damn time," he muttered. "You know they bungled the meet."
Rick was too stunned to speak, and even though Michael found his voice, he sounded unusually breathless. "Yeah," he said. "The Germans screwed us over to make the lesser bust."
"Figures," Carson muttered.
Casey came up, shaking his head. "I can't stand people who accept less than total victory."
It was all well and good to some degree. Because Rick had expected the worst, and this was most definitely not the worst. Which just begged the question: "How are you alive?"
Carson raised his eyebrows. "You don't have to sound so damn disappointed, kid," he said.
Rick's mouth opened, then closed. "I just – it would have been obvious that the set up was on your side."
"Of course it was," Carson said. "Sons of bitches waved a gun in my face and kept talking about pulling the trigger."
Rick shook his head. "So how come they didn't?"
Carson smiled, a little bitter. "I talked my way out of it," he said.
"But how?" Rick asked, still gaping.
Carson rolled his eyes. "I played the victim card," he said. "Made them think I'd been double crossed by my suppliers just as much as they had and then offered to help get revenge while also getting them a bigger score."
Michael nodded in approval. "Keep the mission in play, nice," he said.
"We've talked about a replacement shipment for next week," Carson said. "I promised him double for the price, so we're going to have to work on the kid's girlfriend—"
"Love has to be good for something," Casey said.
Rick's brow furrowed.
"How are we going to catch him in the act, though?" Michael asked. "He's going to be gun shy after this foul up."
"I know," Carson said. "I promised to deliver it to him personally. So if we can get a wire on me and get me back in here with the shipment, we should be good to go."
Michael nodded again. "Not bad."
Carson grinned tiredly. "I've spent too much time around you paranoid bastards for my own good."
That could have been that. The mission in play; the team alive, okay. But Rick couldn't shake it. "I still don't understand why he didn't just kill you," he said. "I've read the file on this guy. He doesn't give second chances."
"You underestimating my ability to play the part?" Carson asked.
"No," Rick said. "I just couldn't imagine any cover would be enough for that situation."
Carson's eyes were weary, his smile cold. "It's not so hard," he said. "I was begging for my life. That kind of desperation didn't have to be faked. Made everything else pretty believable."
He was right, of course. He had to be right. Desperation was a strong asset.
It was also a weakness. Rick supposed it was just good that this time it worked out in their favor.
-o-
Everyone got their happy ending. Gallo and his girlfriend got away. The bad guy was arrested. The Germans got their pride; the CIA got their man. Even Blanke made it back to the United States without further incident. Adele's tenure in Higgins' chair was successful; the ODS had saved the day again.
So Rick couldn't decide why the entire thing sat so poorly with him. There had been fear, of course. That car trip over to find Carson had been one of the scariest moments of his life – maybe even more unnerving than bleeding out in the back of a van, miles from medical help. But Carson had been fine. He'd been more than fine. He'd saved himself and the mission – without any help at all.
That was a good thing. Sometimes defying the odds meant happy endings even when there should be tragedy.
And yet, it bothered him. The explanation had seemed legitimate and still.
Still.
It's not so hard. I was begging for my life. That kind of desperation didn't have to be faked. Made everything else pretty believable.
He could still see Carson's cold, tired eyes. That smile, knowing, futile, regretful. He hadn't been the triumphant hero; he'd been the war-weary survivor, at any cost.
At any cost.
Rick couldn't judge, because Rick didn't know what he'd do in that position. He could say what lies he'd tell if it was his life on the line and no back up in sight. He didn't know.
-o-
Adele pulled him aside the next morning. "Hey," she said. "We got kind of waylaid by that last mission."
Rick smiled grimly. "I know," he said. "I still can't believe we pulled that out."
She laughed. "I know," she said. "Higgins was nearly apoplectic when he found out. But since it ended so well, he couldn't really say anything about it."
"I'm not even sure how it all worked out," Rick admitted. Michael had been vague in the paperwork, and Rick had been too tired to do anything but provide his initials and send the report off.
"Well," she said. "What I was going to say was that we got so involved in that last mission that I never got to tell you what I found out."
Rick felt himself brighten. "The file," he remembered. "Could you identify the fourth operative?"
She had an apologetic look on her face. "I was able to confirm that he was the fourth member of the ODS about three years ago. But everything else in the file was classified."
Rick's brow darkened. "You couldn't even get a name?"
She shrugged. "His file is still active in some way," she said. "If he's still involved in sensitive missions, then his real identity is going to be need to know."
"So that's it?" Rick asked, incredulous. All his poking and prodding, and he was being stopped by red tape.
"Sorry," she said, reaching out to squeeze his arm. "You could just ask them about it."
Rick grunted. "You just got done overseeing a mission with the ODS," he reminded her. "Do you think they're just going to tell me about the mystery man whose file is sealed?"
She winced. "Yeah, I guess not," she said. Then, she hesitated. "I still don't totally get why this matters so much to you. They trust you, you know."
"I do know," Rick said. "And I don't know, I trust them."
"Then who cares?" she pressed. "This is the CIA. After a few years, we all have skeletons in our closets."
Rick sighed, trying to verbalize it. He wasn't sure he totally understood it. But the glaring absence, the missing piece – it bothered him. For all this team was, it wasn't all it should be, and Rick was becoming keenly aware that the most crucial element was missing. Rick was being shoehorned into a void he could never possibly fill, and if he was ever going to figure that out, he had to know who left it – and why.
Then he'd understand why Michael was a heartless, paranoid bastard. Then he'd know why Casey was practically an automaton. Then he'd know why Carson drank his way through every mission.
And then Rick would understand the poetry in the drawer. He'd understand.
"It's not about the skeletons," Rick told her. "It's about the team now. We cut that mission too close in the field."
"That was bad luck."
"Maybe," Rick conceded. "But it was also just the way things are for the ODS. And if I'm going to keep putting my life and my career on the line, I need to know why."
She was quiet for a moment, eyebrows knit together. Finally she nodded. "Okay, then," she said. "If there's anything I can do…"
His expression softened. "Hey, you've been great," he said. "Really, I owe you for looking."
Her eyes twinkled. "Well, Operative Martinez. I might know a few ways you can make it up to me."
Rick grinned back. "I look forward to it."
"Oh," she said, starting to saunter away. "You should."
-o-
Rick stopped by his office before taking off, checking to see if he had any new emails before turning off his computer for the night. The other chairs were empty, and he hesitated. Sighing, he opened the drawer, pulling up the drop bottom.
It was getting to be a habit, an obsessive compulsive comfort mechanism. Looking at the items helped him think; it helped calmed him down. When everything else was a question mark, these were concrete pieces of evidence, tangible answers to questions he couldn't quite fathom yet.
Rick couldn't figure out his team, but he was figuring out more about this man. True, Rick didn't know his name, but that didn't totally matter. He knew the man was a slob – the pages were stained and crumbled. He also clearly liked coffee, if the brown rings smeared onto some of the items was any indication. He had an affinity for melodrama – hell, he probably read Shakespeare if the predictable rhyme structure of the poetry was any indication.
The British thing still didn't make much sense – how did a Brit get on with the CIA – though it would probably explain his tendency toward poetry. Poetry and verse weren't as marginalized overseas.
Looking over the flattened pages, he thought about the man in the photo. His smiles; his eyes. His day-old stubble.
He hides his name and face;
they wait for him, should he return,
but in some distant place
they're truths no one may ever learn.
His purpose he conceals,
a smile and nod his one disguise.
He holds to his ideals
in spite of all the acts and lies.
Acts and lies, just like any spy. They wait for him, should he return…return to where? Back to the ODS? Or maybe back home to England?
Rick wondered briefly if maybe he was a double agent, somehow implanted in the CIA by MI6. That fit with the concealed purpose. But the rest – the respect of the ODS, the willingness to be a star on the wall – those weren't the words of a traitor.
They were the words of a hero.
The kind of spy Rick longed to be.
Which made the question even more pressing: what had happened? And why had it presumably changed the ODS so much?
Questions. Always questions.
Frustrated, Rick put the poem back and resealed the fake bottom.
After all these questions, he was more than ready for answers.
-o-
It was Rick's idea.
"You want to sell false hope to a dying man?" Michael asked, brow wrinkled.
Rick shrugged, a little sheepish. "It would be the easiest way to gain access to him and put the pieces in place," he said. "Everything we've got on this guy says he's desperate."
"Essentially, you want to take advantage of him when he's at his weakest," Casey concluded.
Rick shifted, guilty. "That's bad, isn't it?"
"No," Casey said. "It's genius."
"It's our best chance to make sure that when he dies, the next in line is his good son – not the maniacal would-be dictator with plans to rule with an iron fist," Michael agreed.
Rick hesitated, looking from one teammate to the next. "So…?"
Carson sighed, sitting up. "So, kid," he said. "Looks like you're a heartless bastard just like the rest of us." He offered a grim smile. "Welcome to the club."
-o-
This mission had its ups and downs.
Up: he got to see Adele in an amazing dress.
Down: he had to watch her flirt with a dictator's son.
Up: Michael and Carson got in undercover with no problem.
Down: The body Rick and Casey helped prepared to set up the other son sunk – taking the mission with it.
Up: they found a replacement.
Down: it was a pretty crappy job.
Up: they got the job done. The father died, the son with military goals was disinherited and the younger one took over with the intent to lead fairly.
Down: their success was entirely an accident. The tipoff documents meant to implicate the bad son had actually implicated the good one, but somehow that had worked out because that was the way things were with the ODS.
And after all this time, Rick just had to accept it.
-o-
The ODS received a commendation for their work. It should have been a heady thing, meeting the vice president and receiving applause from his coworkers. Even a message from the president himself.
But back in the office, Rick had trouble being happy. This was what he'd wanted – the career, the honors, the purpose – and yet, it was nothing he'd expected. He'd gone from the mole to the new guy, the protected kid to the trusted teammate. He was one of them. And yet, he wasn't.
He never would be.
He couldn't change his team. Maybe he couldn't even figure them out. Maybe he just had to take the ups with the downs and accept it all. Maybe it was okay this way. Maybe he didn't need answers. Maybe he was looking for skeletons in a closet he had no right to shake. Maybe it was all in his head – maybe it was nothing.
Michael and Casey and Carson – they liked him. They looked after him. They included him – most of the time. Maybe that was what mattered.
After all, Rick helped change a country by lying to a despot. He helped bring a man to power who wanted to sleep around and get drunk. None of these things were perfect, and yet here he was, lauded and praised and honored. Being a spy wasn't about perfection; it was about being good enough.
Rick had to think what he had here with the ODS was good enough.
Lingering at his desk, he read the poetry again.
Brave companions
lead the charge;
never flinching
from their part
Brave companions – the ODS was that, even when they didn't want to be. Lead the charge – the ODS was set on doing the right thing, even when it wasn't in their orders. Never flinching – maybe not never, but most of the time. Enough of the time.
Their part.
Rick had a part in this.
It wasn't what he expected, and he didn't totally understand, but maybe it was good enough.
Putting the poem away, he removed the magnet, putting it back in the drawer above it. No more questions – because there weren't any answers.
And it was time for Rick to really accept that – once and for all.