Chapter 1: Our Meeting

"Where the hell is it?"

Where the hell is what? I've forgotten what the hell I'm supposed to be getting. His green eyes are so mesmerizing. Where did I know him from?

Mid-thirties. Somewhat spiked light brown hair. French.

I'm too exhausted to say anything but a simple, but explanatory, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Oh God. He has a dimple. Wow. Who is he?

"You've just stolen the disk on Weaver, and I am in particular need of it at the moment."

Weaver disk? Who the hell was Weaver? Oh. Damnit. Stupid ass job. I'd much rather be focusing on those sexy forehead wrinkles.

"Oh, that. Well, you must have knocked me out before I could've gotten it then, huh? Cuz, I don't exactly have it."

My head was throbbing. I didn't need this right now.

"Jesus, what agency are you?" I moaned at him. Probably some K-Directorate ass hole trying to steal from the CIA. A hot ass hole who I know from somewhere, but nevertheless, an ass hole.

"Who wants to know?" he grunts. "Now where's the disk?!"

"Dude, dude. Don't get so bent out of shape. Why do you think I know where the disk is?" I noticed his tux for the first time. He must've been at the same party. He looked reeeaally good in that tux, no matter who he worked for.

"I caught you in Warner's office looking for it, how else?" He growled. Finally, I notice how tired his eyes looked. Every wrinkle on his forehead had a story- some agonizing tale that breaks his heart to even tell. I could see that he'd been through a lot- maybe more than me. His heart had been ripped to shreds. Well, we definitely have something in common.

"And why do you think I have it?"

"Because after I knocked you out it wasn't there!"

Oh, well. That explains a lot. But I definitely didn't have it.

At least his gun was no longer pointed at me. But his brow was still furrowed. His stance still firm. His eyes still tired.

My mind flittered back to my apartment. Back to a picture of my dad with several of his colleagues in a bar.

And that's when I placed him.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

"Oh my god." My mouth fell open. "You're Michael Vaughn."

"What?" His mouth joined the trend and flew open too. He looked positively horrified. The tough guy exterior had melted, and he looked more tired than ever.

"Your father was William Vaughn- a friend of my father's. They were both killed by a woman named Irina Derevko."

He winced at the name.

"What?" He said again. Wow, a man of few words.

"Well, put the gun on the floor and I'll tell you who I am. I'm not armed I swear to God."

He did as he was told. I stood up, dusted my gown off, as it had collected dust from the warehouse floor. I took off my blonde wig to expose my long, sleek black hair. I held out my hand, but he seemed reluctant to take it. I guess I would be too. He glared at me, his stunning, yet tired eyes burning into my gray ones. And finally, he took it.

"CIA Secret Agent Alene Hardwick. My father was Lance Hardwick. So, am I right? You're Michael Vaughn?" We released hands.

"Yeah, but how did you-"

"You are identical to your father and he's in a picture with my dad framed in my house. Besides, we've met before."

He didn't say anything, but stared intensely at the ground as if it were going to move. I considered running away. Don't get involved, I told myself. This guy would just be trouble. He has too many secrets, too many skeletons in his closet. But I felt a tug at my heart. He was intriguing. I wanted to know why he looked so broken, I wanted to know the stories behind the forehead wrinkles, I wanted to know why he found it so hard to trust. Good lord, it looked as though he found it hard to breathe. And I wanted to know why. But first I had to gain his trust.

"Sit down," I told him. He sat down on a crate; I took the one opposite him and told him my triple agent story.