an. Evil Author's Day 2022. No context rough drafted scenes from a WIP. I'm sure if you're up on my other fics you'll know what this is *wink*.
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Return to Langley
"This is bullshit." Sasha threw the operational report down on the opaque glass surface. It smacked with a force and that was satisfying. "You know it, and so do I. How the hell can you expect me to sit on this!?"
"Chandler—"
"It's solid intel! I've been tracking those accounts for six months; every one of those transactions can be sourced back to—"
"It's not enough."
"Not enough? No. No way. Maybe if I was a junior officer, but that won't cut it. Who turned it down?"
"Well above your paygrade, and you're trying my patience."
Reiss, the staunch bureaucrat that he was, gave 'the look'. The one designed to snuff objections like two fingers to a wick. It only increased her desire to pummel a fist into his thin-lipped, generic, middle-aged face. He had a punchable face. At Langley, most did, but his in particular was punchable. It was a fact upon which everyone agreed, and he was a fucking kiss ass; a spineless vessel of a man who couldn't promote soon enough.
She snatched her report from his desk and left the room.
"Close the door!"
Turning, she flashed her middle finger. Fuck him. Let him write her up for all she cared; fact was, he needed her, or his promotion wasn't coming, and the CIA had sunk close to three million dollars inserting her as a Senior Audit Partner at Ernst & Young's corporate office in Guangzhou. They weren't about to burn her cover for throwing the finger at Joshua Reiss.
Sharp staccato clicks echoed across the marble flooring as she tore toward her desk.
"Take it he said no?" Dennis asked, peering above the thick black rim of his glasses.
The drawn, caustic look shot toward her primary case analyst more than answered, and she took her chair, entering aggressively her password on the keyboard. He was Junior, two years in without a crease on his face and he carried with him a lunchbox every day better suited to a kindergartner, but he was smart. Real smart. And good. Too good for the CIA to chew him up and spit him out like she guaranteed they would.
"It doesn't make any goddamn sense. They spend all this money to put me there, I do my job and then he cockblocks me. There is more than enough to approach Gotō, and whatever the hell this is, it's big and that douchebag knows it."
Dennis, the docile soul that he was, remained quiet despite the redundance. His job was to turn up every digital reference made to any persons or entities Chandler saw fit to provide. Her job was to sift the proverbial shit from the pot. Narrow down who was doing what, who could be turned, and then report it back to the Office of External Development. Back when she had diplomatic immunity—an officially established cover assigned to an embassy—she'd recruit her own targets. Now? Well, she was truly a ghost. Non-Official Cover (NOC) didn't work if you approached the informants yourself. Now she got to watch while company suits like Reiss shat all over six months of her painstaking work.
Dennis cased the room, then pressed forward in his chair, face peeking above the soulless gray cubicle divider, and spoke in conspiracy. "Between you and I—he passed it to Bennet, who sent it to the FBI."
She drew her gaze away from the computer screen. "And the DOD?"
Dennis nodded slowly and then sunk down like a meerkat behind rock.
This was why she liked Dennis. Because he was so green and docile, no one expected nor suspected he possessed a spine. Plus, Dennis had the talent to snoop without leaving a footprint. In eight years of agency, she'd encountered but one individual with more accomplished skill in that regard.
"Can you find out who?" she mumbled, affixed again to the screen.
"Not without leaving a mark."
"But you see what I see?"
"I see it."
Good. That's all she'd needed to know; her decision had been made the second Reiss tried 'the look'.
x x x
The line rang three times before they answered. "Welcome back."
Another pain in her ass, but an essential one; the more accomplished of her trusted 'doers'. "Just here for another week."
Her doer made a noise of intrigue sarcastically. "Which can only mean one thing…"
"This needs to stay off the books." Sasha could imagine the hollowed smirk, the roll of deep brown eyes.
"You act like you call me for anything else."
"I need the chain of custody on dossier 87-4608." Sasha had peeled away from the parking garage by the time answers came.
"Reiss passed it to Bennet, Bennet approved and escalated it to FBI counterterrorism, director passed it up the chain through the DOD, but it got kicked back before hitting Marcus' desk."
Sasha frowned. "Who declined to pass it on to the Secretary of Defense?"
"Vice-chair Amy Granderson."
Several seconds of silence passed before Sasha responded. "Get me everything you can on her."
"It'll take me a minute, their shits tighter than tight."
"How long do you need?"
"A few days? I'll get it done before you leave."
"Knew there was a reason I kept you out of a federal prison," Sasha quipped. This rental car's breaks were shit compared to the beamer sitting in her garage some 200 miles south. Now stopped at a light, she checked the rearview for tails. Reflex, not necessity. A function as deeply ingrained as expanding the lungs in her chest. Every field operator did it, whether NOC or official cover.
"Yeah, well, enjoy the three years cause that's all you got left. Hate to break your heart, but the second this indentured servitude is done—this bitch is out, and you'll never find me again."
Sasha smirked. "Always a pleasure doing business with you Valkyrie."
Val disconnected the call, and Sasha took the cell from her ear, then hooked it to charge. The display system switched, showing her contact list instead of FM radio stations. She chose silence over a playlist. Listened instead to light rain tinkling against glass and metal, and the drag of wiper blades moving at low intervals.
The light turned green, and she pressed his name. Over the speakers this time, the line rang.
"Hey baby."
Once.
Tension seeped from her body like water to a drain. "You're in a good mood," she chimed.
"You're on your way home, that's a good mood. How was it?"
Her hesitation spoke volumes; her sigh communicating what she couldn't share.
"I'm sorry."
"I'm just frustrated, I'll get over it—with a solid drink, a nice bath, and maybe a back rub."
He was smiling. She could hear it in the way he breathed. "That's a very specific list."
"I have a very specific husband who works best from lists."
"Don't talk about Mike like that."
"Not quite the visual I was going for." As her facial muscles drew and her teeth showed, she wondered if she ever smiled like this without Tom. One that began inside long before transforming her physical features.
"Does your visual involve sex?" He asked.
"Of course."
"Three hours?"
"Two and a half. I can push it once I get past Richmond." She'd reached the 495-south now, late enough to miss Friday rush-hour, and hit the fast lane. Cruised fifteen over—the most she was confident to bullshit her way out of.
"You want red or white?"
"White's fine—I think we still have that bottle from Christmas."
"We do. Just make sure you get home safe."
The wiper blades skipped when they dragged. "I will. I love you, I'll see you soon."