Los Angeles, 2:03AM
4 years ago
Moonlight spilled over the mahogany table, the Big Dipper dumping glittering, black stars and a scarce light source into the living room. It struck frames at glaring angles and the curtains fluttered in the cool, night-kissed breeze. Silence blanketed the old home. To anyone else, the scene might have been unsettling, even unnerving. Not to the detective. To him, it was home. Dimitri was a shadow on the couch, hunched over and rubbing his weary eyes, an old Western novel lying beside him in place of his wife. He glanced at the clock for the 14th time. 2AM. She was supposed to be home 5 hours ago. Just like last night, when she supposed to be home early, Dimitri thought, remembering she'd clocked in about this time too.
He sighed and sunk into the cushions, resting his head back, thinking he should be mad or upset but finding nothing. Maybe some disappointment mixed into the weariness, but he wasn't angry per say. He was just tired. Maybe he was more zen-like than he liked to give himself credit for. Dimitri exhaled and closed his eyes, lulling toward sleep without being conscious of it; it wasn't until someone brushed his cheek that he roused himself awake, not even realizing he'd slipped under. "Dimitri?" they quietly probed. The voice was as light and soft as the person's touch. Dimitri opened his eyes to find the door creaked open, the side lamp on, and mirroring, brown eyes in the dark staring back. Rose.
"You're home," he said hoarsely, his voice rough with sleep. Man, he'd really clocked out. Zero sleep will do that to you.
Her eyebrows were knitted together, perplexed. "What are you doing down here?"
"I was waiting for you," Dimitri said quietly. "You were supposed to be home at 9, so I..." he trailed off before closing his eyes again, deeming his rationale moot. It wasn't like it mattered. Not anymore.
Rose stared at her husband for a heartbeat longer before glancing around, noticing acute details sprinkled around their suburban home, as per her CIA instincts. Unlit candles were on the side tables. The kitchen, the next room over, had clearly been in use, and there were two places set up on the tablecloth where a ghostly pair feasted on a nonexistent dinner. The glossy plates glowed white. A pang of hurt twisted in Rose's stomach as realization came into play. Guilt was a nasty thing, and she could feel it splay across her face, lips parting in shock. "You stayed up for me?" He stayed quiet, answering the question in his own way. She sighed under her breath, deflating in defeat. "Oh, Dimitri." That was all she said. That was all she could say.
Dimitri was slow to gather himself and stand from the sofa, still saying little as he trotted toward the staircase, running a hand along his 5 o'clock shadow. Rose was rooted in the same place, looking helplessly after him. Normally she could read him like an open, anti-social book, but not tonight. They weren't harmonized tonight. "Can we talk about this?" Rose asked. Her voice was small. It was a sincere plea and a far cry from her usual brashness.
Dimitri stopped at the foot of the staircase and gave her the benefit of the doubt, glancing back. "Talk about what, Roza?"
"This. This whole... mess. I know you're upset, comrade."
"I'm not."
"Yes you-"
"No," he cut off simply. "I'm not. I'm just.. tired." Shadows danced across her face, but the lamp was enough of a light source to highlight her worry, not buying it. He combed through his hair. Okay, maybe he was a little upset- but zen master or no, who wouldn't be? "Fine," he said softly. "I suppose I'm not thrilled, but it's hard to be when I have to guess your every move. What were you doing out there?"
"Working. Doing my job."
"And what exactly does that mean?"
"You know I can't tell you," she said quietly.
"No," he said thickly. "Of course not."
"Dimitri-"
"Roza," he intervened again, worn down. "I know. I know you can't tell me, and I can sympathize if your work keeps you late, but it's the middle of the night and half the time I don't even know if you're going to come home. You might know you're safe and secure, but I don't. I can't expect my own wife home."
"I'm sorry. I am. It's- it's just the job."
"Right. Well, I'm glad you have your priorities straight."
"Dimitri," she said, stopping him again, at a loss for words and an argument, but hating to see him walk away still mad. She was just as afraid that her trigger-happy temper was going to rear its ugly head. "What do you want me to say?"
He paused and assessed her. Her willowy figure was adorned in a sleek, black dress, highlighting her curves. Her hair was down and wavy, and she was wearing light makeup, something she'd never be caught dead in at a casual, homey brunch. It was the job. He knew the CIA required undercover missions- he just wished he saw more of his wife than they did, and not this exotic barbie doll, but the Rose that boxed in sweats and teased his duster and tackled him from behind on quiet, Thursday nights. He missed her terribly. If only this Rose could deliver that memo to the old one. He paused and gazed over her body again, trying to smile, but knowing his sad gaze deceived him. The fact was, it didn't matter what she said. Actions would always speak louder than words. "Nothing," he said quietly. "You look pretty, Rose." The 6'7" detective ascended the stairs.
Rose's arms were crossed as she beat back the tears beading behind her eyelashes. She bit the inside of her cheek, upset, before swinging the heels in her hands and knocking aside the lamp, shattering the glass. Heedless of the collateral damage, she sunk into the sofa and put her head in her hands.
Dimitri heard the crash, but didn't investigate. There was a collection of broken vases from their accumulative fights, and ultimately, no mystery in the matter. He opted to take the spare bed that night and collapsed into the sheets.
The downside of being a quiet introvert is you spend a lot of time thinking, for better or worse. And Dimitri had been brooding nonstop the last 5 hours. Truthfully, he wanted to rush downstairs and welcome her home and sweep everything under the rug, but he didn't move a muscle. It wasn't because he loved her any less. It was because he loved her that he had to do this. Rose had always driven him mad, but not in this sense, not to the point he was sick to his stomach with worry and resorted to asking torturous "what ifs" in the dwindling hours of the night. He had to do this and jog some sense into her, even if it meant doing something he didn't want to do. Even if it, too, made him ill just to consider.
Sometimes, people have to fall to remember themselves. That's what he would do; if only Rose knew the fall drug them both down.
Feeling the rock-like lump in his duster pocket press against his calf, the box almost heavier than his swimming thoughts, Dimitri dug out the jewelry box. He'd almost forgotten about it in wake of its absent recipient. Opening it, the red velvet parted to reveal a pendant, the blue eye staring back. It was a nazar, a Turkish charm he knew Rose had been eying since their first date. He'd been forced to postpone getting it on account of a wedding ring that had sucked his wallet dry. Better late than never, he had thought. Touching the glass amulet, he felt that slight, sad smile return in spite of himself. Yeah. Too bad "late" doesn't always make it in time. "Happy one year anniversary," he murmured softly to himself, the silver magnolia dust bunnies his only audience as they danced in the moonlight.
Los Angeles, 7:09AM
4 years ago
It was his fourth cigarette in less than an hour. Even for Adrian, that was an impressive and damning feat. After 10 drags, he flicked it to the ground and dug his heel into the mute flame, snuffing it out. Hands pocketed, sunglasses on, the addict was already hungover and annoyed with the world. Welcome to a 7 o'clock Monday morning in the city of angels.
He leaned against his car, perched on one of the higher, more remote outlets of the city, thinking. Thinking was a dangerous thing for Adrian Ivashkov. He generally tried to avoid it. Dimitri, however, was making it a bitch to do that. Daybreak was a nice breather for his aesthetic side, the sun painting the gray buildings and drab asphalt a pearly pink, but sadly, the rest of his head wouldn't stop spinning.
He'd gotten the bad news in the wee hour of the morning with good female company. It was official. Dimitri and Rose had split. Adrian had been so aghast, he'd almost sent his guest home; but drowning in himself, he quickly changed his hyperactive mind and pulled her back and drove up here, all to cling onto a distraction. Because while Adrian Ivashkov was no good at thinking or making sober decisions or keeping a steady relationship, he was good at charming girls and drinking a bottle by himself and distracting his unhinged mind.
Now, though, his female company was asleep and his cigarette pack was empty and he was alone with his chaotic, hungover mind, and he wasn't pleased in any sense of the word. Damn it, USSR, Adrian thought, glaring at the gray tango of cigarette smoke dissipating in the air. This is what I get for setting you up? I'd much rather have fate send me a basket of fruits and roses on my doorstep. Or wine coolers and a nice Hallmark card.
He ground the cigarette harder into the dirt road. Because while it wasn't Adrian's relationship, he had set it up together in good faith and watched it flower just to watch it crumble and take down his two best friends in the process. Happy Monday, he thought bitterly.
"Jet?" a voice croaked. Adrian glanced back to see the redhead and his one-night stand crawl out from the other side of the car, squinting in the sunlight. "Can't we, like, go back to your house or something? It's so bright out here," she whined.
"In a minute. I'm... thinking."
"That doesn't sound like you at all."
"Tell me about it."
The girl looped around and wrapped her arms around him from behind. Strangely, Adrian wasn't aroused or amused by it, giving her a blank look form behind his sunglasses. She seemed to sense it. "What's wrong? You've been so out of it since last night."
"Sunday nights will do that to you," he answered vaguely. He reached for his cigarette pack, his annoyance doubling when he remembered it was empty. Definitely needed to make a CVS run. And drop her off somewhere, too.
"What's wrong?" she asked again, tugging at his jeans.
He exhaled sharply under his breath. "I'm just-" Adrian stopped and struggled to find the right word, increasing his frustrations, with her and the world and deities in general. Suddenly, on the spur of the moment, he turned to her dead-on, demanding, "What does it take for people to be happy?"
The girl grinned lazily. She wasn't one for seriousness. "Not much. Some wine and good company on lonely nights." She tugged at his jeans again, but he remained impassive, stone-faced as the wind combed through his hair.
"Not that. I mean happy, seriously happy."
"I don't know. I guess some people just... find it. And sometimes" -she shrugged- "it just doesn't come." Adrian didn't reply and gazed inward, lost himself. She said some more things, but it fell on deaf ears and he remained silent. Eventually, she tilted her head and begged the simple question, "Jet? Are you listening?"
He wasn't. Adrian was lost in his torrent of thoughts, and though he self-medicated himself to escape that craziness, it was hitting him like a tidal wave and not enough cigarettes could stop the monsoon. Running a hand through his hair, he paced away from her, frustrated, playing like a broken record. "So what's the point?" he demanded to the air. Adrian never sullied himself with anger or blind rage, but he was dismayed and upset and couldn't swallow any of it, save for a good bottle of wine that solved nothing. "If the two of them can't find happiness in their perfect, brunette bubble of badass-ness and guardianship, then what's the point of anything? They're the ones that deserve it the most and they get screwed out of it. And by what? The very job dedicated to saving lives and repairing broken ones. They're the ones that deserve it most and it was taken from them before they could blink twice. So what the hell kind of luck is there for the rest of us trying to pursuit happiness?" He didn't notice he was rambling, as per usual, but glared at the buildings on the horizon as if they'd done something wrong.
If Adrian wanted a good audience for his speech, he was in the wrong place altogether. The girl was shallow and had zoned out for a good portion of it, as he had her, turning a cheek once philosophy got involved. "Who cares," she said simply, going back for her tequila, oblivious to who he was alluding to. "I don't know about you and I don't know about them, but I'm happy."
"Good to know," he said icily, gaze still on the horizon before squeezing his eyes shut and trying to block off all the voices streaming through his head. His headache swam behind his eyes. The hangover was worse than usual, courtesy of the voices, and not enough vodka in the world could drown his thoughts. They were overwhelming. His slight, miniscule edge for justice was parading his conscious mind and laid out a very compelling argument, forming a cold shoulder toward the universe. Because while Adrian understood why he was where he was- he concocted his own recipe for disaster, after all- he couldn't fathom what karma played into Rose and Dimitri's break-up. His two best friends who deserved the most were the ones that were always left worse off.
And that just didn't sit right with him.
San Diego, 6:38PM
3 years ago
"You are off the case." That was all she said. That's it. No "hello" or easy transition into the affair; just a five-worded slap in the face to polish off a horrific, blood-stained day.
Rose's head snapped up so fast at the sentence, Kirova almost flinched. If the CIA commander didn't have 30 years of the job under her belt and "resilient" nailed into her demeanor, she would have. Instead, Kirova remained stone-faced and impassive as Rose stared at her, wild-eyed. "What?" she demanded, at a loss for herself. She had never heard those words before- not directed at her, anyway.
"You got an innocent killed," Kirova said point-blank. "What do you think was going to happen?"
Rose swallowed the lump in her throat and looked away, not sure if she was going to cry or scream or punch something. All three sounded fine to her. She didn't need the reminder. It was fresh in her mind and still rattled her bones. In fact, she was surprised she could still form coherent sentences, given that her mind was a jumbled mess that probably needed to be examined by a psychiatrist and life-long priest.
3 hours ago, she and her team had infiltrated the suspected hide-out of a serial killer. The only reason he was under the CIA's radar was the mirror killings in Ireland the mob boss had committed before fleeing to the US. Of course he had to pick sunny California to vacation. It had started off pretty routine, and Rose thought she had cornered the monster, only to rip back the curtain to reveal a 15-year old girl that had recently been kidnapped and a victim of his they hadn't even considered. The girl had giant, doe-like eyes and an iridescent lily tattoo on her wrist. Rose had never seen so much fear pouring off an individual. If her mouth hadn't been gagged, Rose knew she would have heard a blood-curdling scream from the girl.
But she didn't. She didn't hear anything and she didn't do anything. For a few key, seemingly-mundane moments, Rose was disconnected from herself, frozen as her glock hovered between her and a 15-year old girl, knowing she was too young to see these horrors and too young to have a gun pointed at her skull, yet unable to move. Suddenly, she heard a click a gun's safety unlocking. It wasn't her's. It had come from behind. These revelations were slow and her hazy mind was sluggish as Rose desperately tried to reconnect to her frozen body. Ultimately, it cost her a life. She didn't even have time to turn before she heard a bullet rush over her shoulder, slicing through some strands of her hair before pinning between the girl's eyes. The spray of blood on Rose's bare skin was what finally sparked her out of her comatose state. By then, it was far too late.
The girl was dead. He had vanished, and she mutely heard her team pursuing the killer. She, however, wasn't preoccupied with him, but his victim. Rose's eyes were filled to the brim with the image of blank, doe-like eyes and an innocent 15-year old crumpled on the ground, producing a dark, sanguine puddle in the musty light. The curtain rippled like a ghost. It seemed to laugh at her. Several heavy moments passed, blood dripping down Rose's cheeks and water building behind her lashes before a scream echoed throughout the warehouse, sending goosebumps over every inch of her skin and making the length of her spine shudder under the terror. Not the terror of a serial killer, but the terror of revelation of what she had done. It took Rose a long time afterwords to process that the scream had been torn from her own throat.
Sitting in Kirova's office, she was still dressed in fully-black attire and the aged blood had matted on her skin, no matter how many times her frantic hands had tried to smear it off over the last few hours. The more she had gotten on her hands, the more she had panicked. The blood on her hands was literal. If she looked down at them now, there was a good chance the CIA agent would begin hyperventilating. Instead, Rose squeezed her eyes shut and tried to banish the reenactment dancing through her mind, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I froze," was all she said.
"That's the best excuse you have for your actions? You got cold feet?"
"That's what happened."
"It cost you the arrest of Dashkov."
"I know that."
"It also cost you Zoe Sage's life."
"I know!" Rose shouted. Her hands balled into fists; they were so tight, the tendons were jutting out and her knuckles were pure white.
Kirova sobered and leaned back, assessing her shaken subordinate. There was a wild, primal look in Rose's eyes she had never seen before. Rose was not someone who froze. She didn't mess up, not like this. But she had, and the look on her face screamed she knew that. Now, there was no reasoning or cool, crystal logic that easily settle well the agent's mind. She was out for blood, blood to pay back the one that was already shed. An eye for an eye. That was someone's justice, but not her's. Not a CIA agent's. "Get cleaned up, Hathaway," Kirova finally said, her voice quiet as she scooped up the manilla folders and walked out of the office. Rose said nothing as the door swung shut in her face.
The bathroom was a lot like the meeting room; no pizazz or clever wall art, but clean-cut, black-and-white efficiency. It was washed out and perfectly white and Rose thought she was going to pull her hair out from the roots to be in such a perfect room when she was quit possibly the most screwed up person that had scrolled through here. She inhaled deeply and tried to compose herself, yanking the sink's handle until it was ice cold. Heedless of her hair, she dunked her head underneath and scrubbed her face until it was raw and the cold had fully washed away the warm blood that had seeped through her skin. Rose then shut off the sink and looked up at herself. She re-familiarizing herself with her dark curls and dark eyes and tan skin and every flaw and everything that people still considered "beautiful". She stared at the mirror, long and hard.
And then, she punched it. The glass shattered under the force and the cracks rippled through it like an ice pond.
The news of Zoe Sage rippled out faster than the mirror at impact. Of course, some of the reports were blurred and the Pentagon made sure to smother out any rumors of CIA involvement, especially any rumors of a CIA screw-up, but it still hit hard and headlined on every 5 o'clock news station. After 3 days of waking up to it alongside her morning coffee, Rose couldn't stomach it any further, and the CIA agent found herself in front of the San Diego police department. She looked down at her clean hands and flexed her sore fingers, surprised no bruises had purpled her tan skin and surprised further that her ring finger burned, out of nowhere. It was surreal. 6 months after getting rid of the rock on her ring finger and the ache returned at the strangest times, typically whenever something emotional tugged at her conscious. Funny, considering her stoic ex-husband was hardly the emotional type.
The blonde detective she came to pursue was not hard to find. Zoe Sage's face was branded in her mind's eye, and her sister was a ghostly mirror of the teen. Same bundle of dark, blonde hair and brown eyes, though her mild-mannered clothing and Christian jewelry advocated a collected, grown woman. She was weaving through the maze of desks, unfazed with the general chaos of the police department lobby. In contrast, Rose strode up to her sporting a ponytail and dull, CIA-issued clothing, her jacket hanging over her crossed arms as she hugged it close. "Detective Sage?" she asked.
The woman stopped and turned to her, barely batting an eyelash. She was staring at the CIA agent as you would any other stranger. "Can I help you?" she asked nonetheless with picture-perfect poise.
"I'm Agent Hathaway," she introduced sagely. "Rose Hathaway. I know this is pretty sudden, but is there... someplace more private we could talk?"
"Um, no, not really. But the lobby is pretty busy, people won't look twice over here. You know what Fitzgerald says, large parties are intimate and there's no privacy at small parties." As Sydney crossed her arms and as Rose tried to tap into her high school memories to figure out who the hell Fitzgerald was, let alone what the hell she was talking about, the blonde continued, "You said agent? As in FBI?"
Rose shook her head, effectively dispelling all creeping cobwebs of Fitzgerald and Great Gatsby quotes, reminding herself this was a police station, not the set of Jeopardy. "Uh, no, no. CIA."
Sydney's eyes flashed at that. It wasn't a mystery which agency was involved with her younger sister's death. "I see. And what exactly can I help a CIA agent with?"
"It's not anything like that. I... my team was the one that handled your sister's case and-"
Sydney held up her hand, stopping Rose and making her clamp down her lips. "Rose, right? I appreciate you coming down here, but I'm really not interesting in talking about the case. It doesn't really do me much good now, does it?"
"I know, I understand. I just- I feel responsible for what happened. And I couldn't not come down- if that makes any sense. I'm so... so sorry for your loss." She wanted to say more, but she couldn't find the words. Plus, she guessed it was better to go blunt with this detective.
Sydney weighed her seriously. The CIA agent had rings under her eyes and while she guessed she was normally well-built, her gaunt cheeks and loose clothing advocated that she hadn't slept or eaten well in awhile. There was still a fire and toughness in her that screamed government-assassin, and she could probably knew how to kill a man 590 different ways, but she had caught Rose in a glimmer of a weak moment. That alone almost made Sydney cave. Mentioning her sister had hit a nerve, though. It might have been 3 days ago, but to her, it might as well have been 3 hours. She didn't want to talk about it. Not with her. Not with someone responsible with her death. "I don't know why you feel responsible, but frankly, I don't want to know. Again, I appreciate you saying that, but pretty words don't do me any good."
"I just-"
"I have work, agent," the blonde put in abruptly, ending the conversation. As she turned and strolled away, heels clacking confidently with each stride, Rose stood there, paralyzed. There was only a collective sum of times Rose felt this helpless. Normally, she could use round-about logic to get around arguments and punch out any lingering complaints. Not this time though. This wasn't something that could be handled by violence, and that went directly against her CIA blood and their core teachings. Maybe she should have listened better to Dimitri's zen lessons and Adrian's personal therapeutic vises when she had the chance. They were, after all, the dream team in LA.
Tuxes and sunglasses walked by her, giving her funny looks, but she didn't budge, feeling like a lump of quartz in a sea of diamonds. Finally, as she gathered herself and was prepped to leave, knowing Sage wouldn't change her mind anytime soon, she noticed something out of her peripheral. Two detectives were releasing a young boy back to his mother, and as soon as he was out of the handcuffs, he raced toward her. The mother collapsed into sobs as she caught her son, crying tears of happiness. They were in the midst of the tuxes and sunglasses and phone rings as well, but it wasn't a strange sight to anyone. Anyone to Rose, that is. She stared at the them, and could almost imagine a gospel choir stirring up or fireworks flashing in the distance. As a CIA agent, everything is under wraps and no one cares about seeing the end result, believing that's where pride stepped in and gave them a satisfactory pat on the back. She'd never stuck around to see a family reunion like this. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd seen tears of happiness in life, let alone on the job.
"Hathaway, was it?" a sudden voice cut in from behind, shattering her fixation.
Rose turned. She knew by the voice alone it wasn't Sydney. Instead, a middle-aged, square-jawed man in suspenders stood in the doorway of a curtain-drawn room, wearing typical detective attire. His arms were crossed as he sized her up skeptically. Yup. Definitely a detective. She nodded in response and he grunted, a mixture of recognition and reluctant admiration. "Thought so. I've heard of you. You're one of Kirova's girls."
"I am," she said before pausing. Her dark ponytail clocked behind her as she glanced back at the reunited pair, voice smaller as she corrected, "Or, I was."
Hans watched as Rose watched the pair. "What brings you down here?"
"Just... some work. Ends to tie up. Things like that."
She couldn't have given a vaguer response, and his grunt conveyed that before he noted, "You don't see this sort of thing in your department, do you?"
"No," she answered slowly, beginning to get an insider's perspective and see a glimmer of why Dimitri and Adrian were so devoted to such a job. Sure, she did the whole Mother Theresa, save-the-world-thing in the CIA, but she never got the chance to see the good outcome or Disney movie ending. "I don't."
"Great to see, isn't it? Pity you don't get that kind of reward. It's a great reminder at the end of the day." He made a move to duck back into his office, deeming his presence unneeded. He was the only one that felt that way.
"Wait," Rose said abruptly, striding towards him and stopping a few feet away from him. A thought had slammed into her so abruptly, she didn't think twice about it. She just acted. He humored her and stood patiently, waiting for the punch line. "What did you say your name was?"
"I didn't. But feel free to call me Hans."
"You're the head of these detectives?"
"What gave you that idea?"
"The 5 o'clock shadow says you haven't slept well in awhile, as do the faint coffee stains on your shirt. That typically marks a leadership position." She paused. "And it says 'Captain' in gold lettering on your door."
Hans smiled a little. Just a little. It echoed Dimitri's typical, half-smile policy. Detectives, she thought to herself wryly. "Agent Hathaway, what can I help you with? You agents don't typically make house calls. You certainly don't beg a detective to stick around, captain or no."
"I think... I might need your help." It was a far cry from a begging session, but it was out of the norm for someone of her stature and level of stubbornness. "I'm known to be a little reckless. And stubborn. And impulsive. But I'm not dumb. Kirova's at my throat, and the CIA is all about having a clean record. With my recent track record, I'll be destined to sorting paper work and being latched to a desk the next 3 years. You said you've heard about me, right? Then you know I don't belong at that kind of job. I'm good at what I do. I'm good in the field. And based on a quick calculation of the number of empty desks, scrambling police officers, and amount of unattended, handcuffed suspects in the waiting room, I can guess you're short-staffed as it is." The CIA might not have been the most heart-warming government organization, but it did nail into her some top-notch observation skills- skills that came in handy in police jobs, whether that be PD, detective, or otherwise.
He cocked his head. He wasn't dumb either. "Are you asking what I think you're asking, Hathaway?"
"I am."
"Have you thought this through?"
"I've rolled it around in my head for the last... oh, 2 and a half minutes or so. That's twice as much thought as I usually put into my actions."
He smirked and pocketed his hands, sizing her up again. As far as a detective, police officer, and CIA agent, he liked what he saw. Yes, he knew about her reputation, good and bad. The good outweighed the bad by a landslide. And he knew, sadly, people like Kirova were often blinded to that fact. "You're seriously considering this?"
"I am. But if you consider it too, I do have one condition."
"And what is that?"
A small grin found its way to her lips. There was a fire in her eyes that was unmistakable. Not primal and wicked, but haunted and determined. If words didn't speak loud enough, actions would. "Pair me with Sydney Sage the first chance you get," she said, slipping him her business number before turning away, dark ponytail swinging, the CIA agent heavily considering losing her title. "I have a debt to repay."