A pink tank top was not going to cut it for this meeting. Kat hated the stupid things anyway - she was not, had never been, never would be, a pink kind of girl - but the Stone Age cave-morons in N-Tek's PR department were all of the opinion that she ought to look more feminine.
Ergo, it was either pink shirts or longer hair or makeup, and the hair was non-negotiable, to say nothing of the makeup. She'd suffered for most of the season on the circuit, but, happily, clandestine meetings with spymasters were not on the list of things that she had to wear pink for.
Which was good. 'Cause she wasn't going to anyway. No one took you seriously in pink.
The black tank she'd buried at the bottom of her wardrobe, on the other hand, looked both professional and kinda cool. It also had the green-and-blue N-Tek thumbs-up logo on the chest, which was very dorky, but maybe that would work out okay; it would remind Mr. Spymaster that she came with credentials.
"Serious, world-saving credentials," she said to herself, then glanced up at the looming figure of President Lincoln to see if he'd heard. He hadn't, natch, but his monument echoed with the voices of early-bird tourists. Gotta have tourists, she thought. Gotta have potential witnesses was more like it.
She looked the other way, over the flat Reflecting Pool towards the needle of the Washington Monument. Last time she'd been here, she and Max had done some B&E, some hostage-saving, and of course she'd done that sweet piece of flying right up against said monument. Max had later sworn that he hadn't been free-falling to his death, but she knew better: one of the few times she'd unquestionably saved his life. Like right now.
The day had hardly edged past sunrise in D.C. and - big surprise - it was promising to be just as muggy as it had been in Orlando. She shifted on the stone steps that lead to the memorial interior and checked her watch. 7:15 AM. Yup - here came her spymaster contact, right on cue.
She knew he was her contact because he looked so absolutely ordinary, so commonplace, so invisible among the dark suit politicians and casual tourists of the city, that he had to be a spy. Only N-Tek (and DREAD, if she was going to be completely honest) liked its operatives to come with distinctive personalities.
Kat stood as he climbed the marble steps to reach her, dusted off her hands, and prepared to do battle.
"Kat Ryan?" he asked her, a bit out of breath. Navy blue suit, maroon tie, dark hair - receding a little. Could stand to exercise a few pounds off his gut and chin. The pale complexion of a cubicle rat. Oh yeah. Definitely a government-issue secret agent.
"N-Tek needs the transphasic generator back," she said instead of Hello or Yes, that's me. Hardball, right from the start. Let him know she meant business and nothing but.
He partly obliged her by skipping over the "can neither confirm nor deny" garbage. "That could be difficult to arrange, since my agency had nothing to do with its shutdown."
The CIA wasn't supposed to carry out operations on U.S. soil against U.S. citizens. But wasn't supposed to and reality were different things, and Kat knew it. She narrowed her eyes. "Or we could do this the hard way," she said, mocking.
Mr. Spy appeared not to notice her words. Instead he glanced around casually to see if anyone was in earshot, then said, "The problem, Agent Ryan, is that the generator was used by a terrorist to nearly destroy a major city."
"He tried. Didn't." She was trying to be flippant, brusque, mostly to reinforce her professionalism but also to hide the persistent current of unease at what she was doing.
She'd gotten Berto to hack into their boss' personal files, snuck out of the state under that same boss' nose, and was now engaging in a thoroughly back-alley under-the-table negotiation with a certified government spook.
Sneaky, underhanded, dishonorable. Neither Josh nor Max would have done any of those things.
Of course, Josh/Max was lying at death's door with all that honor. This isn't breaking the law, it's just being a spy; besides, the ends here definitely justify the means, she told herself. Stop being a dork. Stop worrying.
The spook shrugged, faint disappointment creasing his bland face. "Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. And this as well, unfortunately. Your employer is an old friend, and I'd like to accommodate your request, but I'm afraid the security risk is simply too high."
"There's no proof he's alive," she pointed out quickly, careful to not say the name aloud. It was the truth: no one had seen or heard from John Dread since N-Tek's generator had gone kablooey.
"Or dead," the spook added. Which was also true: John Dread had left no body, only sunglasses.
She was nonetheless cheered to hear him say it. Aha! Now we're getting somewhere. With precision, she asked, "So what if you had proof?"
"Well..." He pretended to consider it, like he'd never thought of the idea before. "With the man in custody, the threat would be lessened considerably. And if he should happen to be deceased, I don't think we could make a case against restoring the generator."
"I'll do it. I'll bring him in, dead or alive." She grinned at the spook, pleased to visibly discomfort him with her enthusiasm. "Always wanted to say that."
He straightened his government-issue maroon tie and glanced around for potential ambushes before he committed. "Because I know Jefferson didn't sanction this -"
She cut him off: "He would if he knew what I was asking for."
The spy would know before lunch, of that she was sure, especially with the big fat bait she'd just dropped. Bland indifference or not, he was curious. And that curiosity was going to get her what she wanted. "You'll have seventy-two hours and an agency team," he finished.
"Gimme forty-eight hours and an old enemy instead."
His eyebrow went up. "I'm sorry?"
Kat's grin widened. This was a really good plan. Or a really bad one. She didn't know yet, but by God, she was going to carry it out all the way. "I need to borrow Dread's most loyal operative."
"We don't have access to Psycho or Vitriol," the spook said.
"Not the dumbest," Kat corrected. "The most loyal. His pet dragon."
