JUST A FEW THINGS BEFORE YOU READ THIS. I DID SOME RESEARCH - BUT SOME THINGS, OF COURSE, THERE WAS NO WAY I'D GET INFO FOR. SO PLEASE KNOW THAT.

PLEASE REVIEW. THIS IS ONE I REALLY WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE READERS THINK!


Emma pushed away the memories as the plane rattled underneath her feet. She'd been in therapy for as long as she could remember – and the tools her therapist had given her for times like these were necessary. Well – times like these as much as her therapist could imagine. Perhaps, she thought, more for times where situations she was in brought up the things from the past.

Breathing – she was good at that by now.

Grounding herself.

Explaining to herself that she was not in the past.

She identified where the tightness was in her body – where she held stress. Her chest. Tight. Restricted.

As she took deep breaths. As she oriented herself to the present instead of the past. As focused on what she was there to do, she could feel the memories subsiding.

A Lockheed I-100. Not the plane she'd been on. This was for work. Work she never thought she'd be doing. Ever. Even 24 hours ago. This was never what she'd thought that she'd ever be allowed to do.

"Wait, what?" Emma asked. Maybe to get more information. More likely, she asked that to give her brain time to process the information. "You want me for… what?"

It was all business. It was the job.

"You're the one who wrote this, right?"

Emma took the document Isabelle extended, and Emma saw the title of the paper with her name underneath it. Emma nodded. Still trying to keep from asking the same two questions over again.

Isabelle stood behind her desk, crossing her arms over her chest. "You wrote this proposal for the Agency to reconsider their policy on interrogations, correct?"

Emma nodded. "But…"

"You insinuated that our current method for interrogating women who have suffered sexual assault is counterintuitive to getting information from the asset."

Of course she had. She'd seen enough footage from interrogations. She'd cringed and withdrawn just watching agents bombard women with questions.

Isabelle asked, "What were the problems you were seeing?"

Emma hadn't worked their long, but she knew Isabelle wasn't asking for clarification. She wanted Emma to talk herself through it. So she did.

"Well, our current methods, while attempting to be sensitive to the issue at hand," Emma began, knowing she could talk about the proposal in her sleep, "have failed miserably." She began to pace back and forth in front of the desk, her feet repeatedly stepping on the seal on the Director's carpet. "Agents often push past boundaries in order to get information, which, instead of forcing assets to reveal vital intelligence, lead to them shutting down. We don't get the information we need because we are not handling correctly." The words came without hindrances. "And many of these women have more information than we ever uncover in time. Women who are either held captive by warlords or are in their families know much more than locations and names. They know routines and methods of terrorists that not only could aid in our apprehension of terrorists, but allow us to prevent and perhaps anticipate further attacks."

The room was quiet.

And when Emma looked up, Isabelle had a knowing grin on her face. And Isabelle asked, "And, please, tell me, why, after what you just told me, you don't think you're the woman for this job?"

Emma threw her hands in the air, "Um. Because I'm a fucking analyst." She took a breath, "I sit at a computer, reviewing information and compiling reports."

"A damn good analyst." Isabelle added. Then she sat down.

When Isabelle didn't say anything else, Emma said, "Thanks for the compliment, but…" Emma didn't know how to respond. She couldn't stop the thoughts from swirling around her normally structured brain. "Isabelle…" She stuttered again, "I mean, Director…"

"Emma." Isabelle said, giving her the knowing glance. "It's just you and I right now."

"Fine." Emma said, her words taking over, "Isabelle, you recruited me and told me one important thing." Emma put both her hands on the desk, willing her hands to be still. Then she looked up at Isabelle, and said, "You told me that I was simply an analyst, something I was overjoyed about. You told me that I would sit at a desk here at Langley."

"I did say that."

"Yeah, you did." Emma agreed. "Do you remember why you told me that?"

Isabelle said, "I do."

The cryptic side of her adopted aunt could sometimes ruffle Emma. "You said that I could never go undercover or be in the field because I would compromise the whole operation." She could remember that meeting like it was yesterday. She'd been about as confused then as she was now. Offered a job as a CIA analyst? A job at the CIA? The confusion came out as frustration as she argued, "My face has been plastered on the news all over the world. If something happened, I would be more of a liability than an actual help. Do you remember that?"

"I do." The smirk on Isabelle's face was maddening.

"What changed?" Emma asked. "My mother won her second term. I stayed out of the press as much as possible, but there's no way I've been able to stay out of it completely. And…"

She didn't know what else to say.

"Tired yourself out yet?" Isabelle asked, eyebrows raised.

Emma stepped back, nodding.

Isabelle stood up, putting her finger on the report sitting on the desk. "Emma, I don't read every proposal the analysts write. This…" Her eyes met Emma's. "This went through almost everyone's hands here at the Agency."

Taken aback, Emma shook her head, "No…"

Isabelle interrupted, "It went through everyone's hands. Em, this could revolutionize the type of intelligence that we gather. This could allow us to not only stop attacks but take a more proactive approach instead of constantly playing defense."

Emma let that sink in. Sure, she'd believed in what she wrote. Not only from the interrogations she'd watched, but from personal experience. Some of the tactics used, Emma imagined herself being questioned like that – she'd broken down crying multiple times after watching those. But to hear that they were seriously considering implementing her ideas – the whole Agency – she couldn't believe it.

"There are more seasoned Agents who could carry this out." Emma stated. "I haven't done any interrogation work since training."

"And that's why I want you." Isabelle pulled a file from under the report. And she opened it so Emma could read it. "Amina Ebeid."

Emma looked down at the picture. A teenage girl looked back at her. Her face was surrounded by a hijab, her sunken cheeks showed signs of hunger. Her right eye was red and swollen. Dark circles under her eyes. A split lip. And dark eyes that drew Emma in.

"Fifteen years old." Isabelle continued, "She was apprehended in a raid we conducted on the compound where we had intelligence that Behrouz Milad was."

Milad struck a chord. "The one believed to have funded the Hezbollah attacks on the Israeli side of the Gaza strip?"

Isabelle nodded, "And, I don't think this is news to you, but we believe…"

"… Milad was behind the bombing of the school building in Daraa," Emma interrupted, "And based on data recovered from their last safe-house, they're planning an attack on an American Embassy." She'd put that report together as well.

"Like I said, you're a damn good analyst. " Isabelle complimented. "Not only do you speak Arabic fluently and know the culture extremely well, but your gut instinct on the Middle East desk speaks for itself."

Emma ran her hand through her hair, "A desk job. That's all you said I'd get."

"So Amina…" Isabelle continued, pulling out another picture, "…was found barely alive inside the compound."

The picture spoke. A long chain-link fence divided into multiple cells. The chains in the corners of each attached to the wall. Stone walls. The bloodstains on the floor were unmissable. And bodies.

"I know that's hard to see." Isabelle said, her voice moving from boss into aunt mode.

Emma nodded, but then said, "You think this is the first time I've seen something like this since I got back?"

Isabelle shook her head, "No. I know it's not." Then she turned the picture back to the girl, "But I also know you've watched the questioning of survivors from this same type of rescue, and that's why you wrote this proposal."

It was.

And then Emma quietly asked, "But why me?"

Isabelle paused. Took a breath. Then said, "Because we know the attack is soon. We know she was one of Milad's favorite. And because she's barely able to speak about it." Then Isabelle bit her top lip, looking off into the distance. Like she was thinking about the best way to say something. "And from the video I've seen, I think you can get through to her."

Emma wanted to ask Isabelle what made her so sure about that. Wanted to know what she, a mere desk warmer, could bring to the table that another agent couldn't. Wanted to know how that could be possible when Emma was used to data and compiling said data. Wanted to know.

And Isabelle answered without the question. "She reminds me of you."

The pilot's voice blasted through Emma's memory into her ears through the headset. "Descending."

Emma braced herself for landing, moving her body from the one position she'd been in for a while. She could hear the wheels engaging. And she tried to prepare herself with what Isabelle had told her.

They were flying into a base about 25 miles easy of Baghdad. There she'd meet the agent on the ground. They had Amina in custody. Emma would question her there on live feed back to the Agency. Emma was in charge of winning the trust of the girl. More seasoned interrogators would be there to instruct Emma on questions that would help lead to getting the information. She was not undercover. She was just an analyst.

She'd read the file. The file where even the most basic questions had the girl shutting down. Despite her working through the steps in her head, Emma knew it wouldn't make any difference until she was in the room with Amina. Like her paper said, "Giving abused women and children their dignity back through connecting with them in their pain only comes once you engage with them as human beings in a way in which they can relate."

The pilot jabbered on with the men on the ground, and she heard the engine shift as they came to a halt. She looked down at what she was wearing – she hadn't had a chance to go home before the flight. But she'd brought her duffel with her, which gave her black jeans and a light, long-sleeved cotton shirt. Knowing the weather and the sand issues in the region, Emma was once again in a position that she loved her boots for.

She glanced at her watch. Ten am in DC. 6pm there in Baghdad.

She'd been too nervous to sleep.

The door opened.

And she stood up, pulling the backpack they'd given her at Langley over her shoulder.

As she stepped to the door, the smell greeted her.

Dry. Sand. Desert. Familiar.

Before jumping out of the plane, she grabbed the scarf Isabelle had given her from her bag and wrapped it around her neck. And then, with a familiarity she tried not to recognize, she wrapped it around her head.

Isabelle had given it to her – one of her own. Saying that it wasn't a must.

But Emma wanted it. She wanted it because she was already different enough from Amina. She was already a white woman, like her previous interrogators, already a foreigner. And one more thing to fit in would be needed.

And Emma thought maybe, in a tiny sense, it might keep her identity from those at the base. Even for just a while until they could see her as an agent, and not as President McCord's daughter.

And, from experience, she knew it would help keep the sand out of her hair. Practically.

Feet on the ground, she put her sunglasses on, thankful it wasn't dark yet. One more thing to keep her identity her own as much as possible.

A man in fatigues stood at the edge of the airstrip. She hustled over to him. He was much taller than she was, probably 6'2" or so. Receding hairline. Green eyes. Mid 40s. As he reached out to shake her hand, Emma noted the calluses on his hand, the middle, ring, and pinkie fingers from the checkered front strap of his weapon – a seasoned shooter.

"Welcome to Iraq, MacDonald."

It caught her off guard. Most analysts sent into the field weren't given alias'. Isabelle, however had allowed Emma to have something different than McCord. McCord just – well – invoked images of the Commander in Chief.

So the name caught her off guard. But she quickly gathered herself. "Thank you."

He turned, walking quickly towards the building, and Emma followed. "I'm Mike Hurst, Station Chief."

"Nice to meet you, Mike." She said, struggling to keep up with his long legs and her heavy backpack. "I've seen a lot of your intel back at Langley."

He shook his head. "Can't believe they sent me another desk jockey to interrogate someone my guys brought in."

He opened the door and stepped in, and Emma hurried to get in behind him before the door closed.

"Your guys brought in?" Emma asked, "I thought she was rescued in a raid?"

Mike laughed, a deep laugh, but it held the hint of sarcasm, "Rescued, arrested – anyone working with a terrorist like Milad has information that we need."

He started up the concrete stairs, taking them two at a time. And Emma called out, "From what I've seen, Amira wasn't working with Milad. She was…"

And Mike turned around, his towering frame looking even more intimidating since he was a few steps above her. "Look, I don't know who you know or what you're doing here, but let me tell you something, rookie." He was loud, despite other people coming and going around them. Perhaps a tirade wasn't uncommon, as they just continued around them. Emma refused to step back, holding her ground as the words came louder, "Unless you've worked in the field, you don't know how these people are. Do you know how many women just like this one I've seen strap bombs to their children for the cause? Do you know how many times people just like her set land mines up that kill American soldiers? Do you?"

Emma just waited until he was finished. Never breaking eye contact. And praying she didn't look both as afraid and angry as she felt.

When she didn't answer him, he rolled his eyes and turned away from her to walk up the stairs, "Didn't think so."

"Excuse me, sir." She called out with force. "I actually do know."

He whipped around, "What?"

"Of the 56 suicide bombings occurring in American strongholds in the last ten years, 8 of them have been forced on children." Emma rattled, "Of those eight, only three have been detonated by a mother."

He just looked at her.

"And." She said, her voice getting louder, "Those land mines? Statistically, those are set by men and women in equal proportion. But the thing is…" She said, stepping up one step, "Over half of the women have been forced into that work, whether through poverty or marriage."

Then Emma removed her sunglasses, just so he could see how angry she was – see in her eyes how much she disagreed with him. "The reason I am here is because of those comments you just made. How are you supposed to get information from someone who has been traumatized when you're yelling at them and calling them murderers?"

It wasn't until his eyes widened and he stepped back that she realized what she'd done. By taking off her sunglasses this close to him – at that particular moment – Emma's heart sunk as it dawned on her what he must be thinking.

"You're… the President's daughter." He said, still hostile. "Why the fuck did they send me a wannabe secret agent celebrity?"

And she bit back at him, "Maybe because this wannabe agent can do the job." And she held his gaze.

After a few seconds, he stepped back. Then the corners of his mouth curled just a bit. "Weird how familiar this feels right now." Before Emma could ask any questions about what that meant, he gestured for her to follow him. "Well, let's go see what you can do."