Chapter 3: A New Agent and an Old Mistake
You don't usually do that.
Not the sex, you sleep with strangers all the time. Will calls them hit-and-runs because you've never once walked into his office asking him to vet a potentially long-term partner. Your life is easier that way, for so many reasons, and not just the cliché ones. It's easier that way and you might even prefer it.
No, you mean that you don't do that with strangers who know who you are.
It's dangerous, for one. For all you know she could be the FSB's newest undercover operative, here to seduce you and turn you into a Russian mole. She could be using you to access FBI personnel files and hack into the grid. Hell, she could work for the Taliban.
But you doubt it. You really fucking doubt it.
It doesn't really matter, in the long run, whether you think she's an innocent or not. There are rules about this, and you've been breaking them ever since you answered her simple question with a simple answer. You've been leaping over the line and chucking procedure out the window since you opened your mouth and your name came spilling out.
You've been sitting here trying to figure it out, your neck awkwardly pressed against the headboard of an unfamiliar bed, watching first the moon and then the rising sun cast mute shadows through translucent blinds.
Maybe you're slipping. Veterans of the service call it burn-out, when a spy slowly loses their fragile grasp on sanity, when the grueling reality of living this life finally takes its toll. You'd hoped that your end might come in some heroic misguided gesture. That, or you get killed on the job. Not like this, not with a stupid mistake because a shy smile and deep sea eyes made you forget to lie.
Maybe it was an off-day.
Your very first off-day.
It was different, somehow, when she knew who you were, when she stifled your name into the back of her hand, when she saw the cracks and bruises across your knuckles and didn't have to ask where you'd gotten them.
She's made you feel like all this time you've been wearing a sweater and only now realize what it is to feel someone else's skin on your own. Like you were never really naked with someone until now.
She sighs deeply, murmurs something in sleep, some remnant from a dream she'll soon forget.
You tell yourself that, last night, it was all about taking care of her. The threat was eliminated, the target's body already cold and stiff, his computer's contents wiped clean, but you still worried that she might need something, someone to be sure she was alright.
You're not nurturing, but she just looked so innocent, so confused, so lost. When she fumbled with her luggage and cursed under her breath, you couldn't just walk away. You couldn't even look away.
But she doesn't look fragile now. With her palm spread carelessly across your stomach, bare back rising and falling with her steady breath, blonde hair strewn across the pillow, she just looks beautiful. She must have a bruise somewhere on the back of her head. There's a single crimson line across her cheek bone, rimmed by deep purple, and it should somehow mar her flawless skin but it only makes her look more real.
You almost trace the cut with your forefinger, but you don't want to wake her, so you stop yourself and tuck your own hair behind your ear instead. You don't want to know what she would say if she woke to find you there, still in her bed, and very real, not the dubious figment of foggy confusion. You don't want to watch her realize who you are, see her eyes shrink back in fear—fear of what you've done and who you are.
Still, somewhere in the back of your mind, some glimmer of foolish optimism reminds you that she said thank you.
No one has ever thanked you before. You've never really given anyone the chance, but you're not sure most people would, even if you did stick around. But instead of lifting your spirits, instead of comforting your growing anxiety, it makes her feel further away from you.
You hardly know her. You know her name. You know she's good. You know she's polite and beautiful and innocent. You know she has light freckles peppered across her stomach.
You know that she doesn't know you.
She shifts a little in her sleep, her nose wrinkling, and you let guilt move you from her grasp, out from between warm sheets. You pad across the floor, retrieve your clothes. There are kinks in your hair and you probably smell like sex, but you don't shower. You can't risk her waking to the sound of the water shutting on or off.
You scoop up your phone from the bedside table—6:14am, no new messages or missed calls. As you button your shirt and try to flatten the creases down your front, you notice a little square pad of paper beside the TV guide. You wonder for a few moments if you should leave a note, but realize you don't know what you would say. The possibilities bubble up before you toss them aside.
Thank you.
I'm sorry.
You're beautiful.
Have a nice life.
You like the last option best, but can't figure out how to make it sound as sincere as it is. And even if you could somehow communicate this heavy feeling in your chest, how would you sign it? You feel your stomach twist when you really think about that particular blunder. You make a note to check that you didn't give the hotel concierge your real name too.
You don't have any luggage to gather, not even a purse, so you pat your pockets for your phone, credit card, passport. You run your fingers through your hair and look back once more at the sleeping figure you've left in bed. The sheets are tangled and wrapped around her legs and she fidgets slightly in her sleep.
But then she settles with her head tucked awkwardly against her shoulder and it looks wrong.
It looks too much like the last time you saw a head twisted strangely, too much like when you pulled one arm one way and your other arm another way, and how with a staccato crunch, a dark head fell from your grasp, slumped against the wall of the cabin, five o'clock shadow just barely visible over the folds of his jacket.
It makes you nauseous, it makes your vision buzz and the back of your neck instantly cold and clammy. You turn grasping blindly for the door, pull it open, and let it click behind you.
The feeling passes easily enough, and you stand just outside the room, back leaning against the door for support until you're clear-headed again. Then with a sigh of finality, you whisper goodbye to no one and walk away from everything.
-x-
You don't get your wakeup call until you're in the hotel shuttle and halfway down highway 5 to the airport. You stop the buzzing by dragging your finger across the screen lock and raising the phone to your ear. "I'm up," you husk into the receiver.
"You're booked for an 8:45 flight to JFK with US Airways. Briefing meeting at thirteen-hundred hours."
You check the time on your phone. "Cool, see you then." His line goes dead before you can say anything else.
You treat yourself to a coffee at the airport Starbucks. You don't know what it is, you just have the barista make you something hot and strong. She probably thinks you're flirting with her, and you let the smile she flashes lift your mood, but just a little.
You try to nap on the plane, but the man sitting next to you in the middle seat smells like curry and stale cigarette smoke, and every time he smacks his gum, you jerk awake.
You kind of wish you were on a different airline—an airline that didn't have the same deep blue stewardess uniforms—because every time you see one out of the corner of your eye or through a fuzzy haze of near-sleep, you feel that excited pull on your chest before the pang of guilt and disappointment pushes back.
-x-
You've hardly stepped through the pod doors when you hear your name called.
"Lopez!"
And just like that, you've been thrown back into your real life. You're back on the grid, and phones are ringing, the blue haze of monitors reflect off glassy desks, and lower-level personnel are dashing from one place to another, files and manila packets in their hands, perpetual anxiety written across their faces.
"You might want this back." The towering figure stops just short of running you over and pushes a bulky black object into your hands. Hudson looks over both shoulders before letting you have the object. You turn it over and smile at its familiarity. Its been your sidearm since training, and you don't tell anyone, but you've secretly named it Lucy.
"Thanks."
He stays there, though, once you've taken it from him and shifts awkwardly before opening his mouth again. "It was in the ladies room. You left it in the tampon disposal."
You suppress a chuckle and shrug, tucking the gun into the back of your jeans and moving around him to your desk. "I couldn't take it through airport security, could I? It seemed a logical place to hide it."
He rolls his eyes at that and starts to turn away, but your curiosity gets the better of you. "Hey Hudson, who had to fish it out?"
"Some poor girl from surveillance," he says, with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"You made Kitty do it?" Another phone rings and the pods door open and close behind you.
"Yeah. We didn't have anyone on the team who could go into the girl's bathroom."
"What do you mean?" You both know where this is going, and Hudson can't get out of it.
He grits his teeth and sighs, "You're the only girl on our field ops team."
You mask your mirth with a facade of thoughtfulness. "Huh. Interesting."
You can see a flash of purple shirt before Anderson comes up to clap you on the back. "Maybe they'll fill the new spot with a woman."
"Too late, Schuester and Corcoran are in there with the new guy now," Hudson points a thumb behind him to where Will's office is tucked between Data Analysis and the meeting room. You can see Will leaning up against his desk, and the dark back of someone's head through the pane of window.
You sigh because that head definitely belongs to a guy. "At least he's not white."
Hudson shuffles around to the desk across from yours, and you pull out a file from the drawer in your desk about blackmarket UAV sales in unincorporated territories before Anderson leans in close to whisper, "Weren't you wearing that yesterday?"
You shoot him an I-don't-want-to-talk-about-it look and then glance threateningly at his ash grey blazer and painfully purple button-down. "Okay, okay, he raises his hands in surrender. "You don't make any comments about how gay my clothes are and I won't bring up how obvious it is that you had sex last night." You smile at that, because Anderson might be the only guy in this whole division who even tries to understand you.
Before you can explain that you'll shower as soon as debriefing is over, Will's office door slides open with a whoosh and you look up at Shelby Corcoran's long legs, a black A-line skirt, and the highest cheekbones you've ever seen.
"Guys, listen up!" Will calls from somewhere behind her.
He opens his mouth like he's about to say something else, but his boss is already interrupting him. "Hi everyone. First of all, where's Lopez?"
Your eyes shoot back up to Corcoran's face and you raise your hand in acknowledgement. "Yeah?"
"Lopez, I heard about your operation yesterday. Well done."
You can't help smile at that, and you feel your face start to heat before you manage to answer, "Thank you, ma'am. The guy made it easy for me."
She nods, suitably pleased by your modesty. "Well I want the summary report on my desk by the end of the day. Okay, secondly, it is my honor to introduce you all to the newest member of the team."
She reaches behind her to point at a man you've never seen before. He looks young, way too young to be doing this job. He's got dark fuzzy hair, a baby nose, and innocent eyes that betray his inexperience. "He's fresh out of the Academy with top scores and brilliant recommendations. He'll be joining the field ops team with Hudson and Lopez."
The grid breaks out in uneasy chatter and even Anderson looks like he's about to turn and say something until Corcoran clears her throat again. "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Special Agent Jake Puckerman."
And then the room goes silent.
You can feel the color draining from your face. Flashes of memory and anger bubble up until you shove them down again. After a few beats of palpable shock, someone on your left lets out a low whistle. Slowly heads turn, eyebrows raise, and too many people glance in your direction to gage your reaction. Abrams murmurs, "As I live and breathe."
The new agent nervously brushes a hand through his hair and tries to smile. "Hi guys."
Hudson looks over at you in wild confusion, "Wait, like Puckerman, Puckerman?"You don't bother giving credence to his surprise, so he turns to the new guy and, to your dismay, continues to talk. "Are you related to Noah Puckerman?"
You can see the muscles in Jake's jaw ripple and he takes a calming breath through his nose before nodding. "Half brother."
Someone else swears under their breath.
"Crap," Abrams says, "Dude, your brother was a legend."
"Yeah." Hudson crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against his desk. "Was a legend. Until he wasn't."
Jake looks like he's about throw something at his lumbering giant of a new partner, so you jump in to save both of them, and maybe distract people from the way your face has visibly paled. "Hey Hudson, why don't you do something useful. I'm pretty sure the water cooler needs refilling."
He scoffs at that, throws his hands up in the air and frustrated humiliation, and tries to make eye contact with Will. Shelby pats Jake on the back and starts to whisper something in his ear while Will just rubs the skin between his eyes and shouts, "If you have A or B-level clearance, meeting room in five!"
You turn back to your desk with a smirk and only then notice that Anderson is looking at you with big, liquid eyes. "Did you know he had a brother?"
"No." You don't elaborate, just fiddle with the keyboard on your desk.
"Lopez." You look up again to see Will and the new guy hovering near your desk. Corcoran is gone already, and you're glad. You don't need her to hear anymore about any of this. "Santana, can you show Pu— Jake to his new desk, please?"
You nod slowly and motion with your head for Jake to follow you. His desk is in the back, smashed up between the tech guys and a floor to ceiling window that overlooks Broadway and the New York skyline. You show him his seat and it almost feels like you're condemning him to a timeout. You can't even hear pod doors open and close from way over here, just the dull thrum of productivity.
It's like even the building isn't sure if he belongs here.
"At least you've got a view," you say. He stands there looking at it for a minute. The solitary glass desk has a flat monitor, a desk light, and a handset.
He nods his thanks and pulls out the chair to sit at his new workplace, but you cross your arms and lean against the glass, studying him.
He looks so young. And clean, squeaky clean. He's wearing a leather jacket that's so new it looks fake, and the way he picks up the handset with cautious fingers strikes you as strange.
"You don't look like him."
He glances up like he's just noticed you staring at him. "Yeah, well, like I said, he was my half brother." You don't even lift an eyebrow, so he keeps going, challenging you. "Do you have any siblings?"
There's something else you really don't need to talk about. "No."
"Well it might surprise you, then, to find out that people usually aren't exactly like their relatives." You
don't move a muscle; some grain of humanity is telling you he's the new guy and he doesn't need you ripping off his balls. At least not today.
Then, foolishly, he keeps talking, standing to meet your smouldering gaze. "Look, I know six foreign languages, I can take apart and reassemble a Smith & Wesson faster than most people can tie their shoes, I am fully qualified in the latest counterintelligence procedural manuals, I can tell you the molecular structure, lethal dose, and all the known soviet storehouses of weaponized VX gas, I love my country, and I am not my brother."
Underneath your scowl you have to admit that you're a little impressed. You study him a moment longer before your set jaw lifts a little and you nod. "The coffee here is shit, there's a Starbucks across the street. Welcome to FBI."
-x-
"At fifteen-hundred hours yesterday, Special Agent Lopez boarded the US Airways flight number 512 from Seattle to London, UK."
Will leans in closer to read down the report in his hands, following along with a guiding finger. "Our section was acting on intel from an Arab informant, code named Antigone. The source was from Section C in Counterterrorism and we had independent confirmation that Antigone's information was reliable."
Will flips the page. "Special Agent Lopez boarded flight 512 under orders to intercept an Arab courier delivering the activation codes to an advanced weapons system just recently sold to the Saudis. We anticipated the codes would be on their way to a third-party weapons dealer temporarily stationed in Bristol, UK. It is on the record that the British security service—primarily Military Intelligence Section 5—has been more than cooperative during this operation." Will looks up from the sheet, "Hudson?"
Hudson jumps a little in his seat, and Will frowns. "Can we pay attention please, people?"
"Right, yeah." Hudson sits up in his chair a flips to the second page of the post-op report. "TSA conducted a blue-level tech sweep for any medium that might have contained the codes and concluded at..." He leans in further to read the time, "14:49 that the codes were not hidden in any of the baggage checked for flight 512 to Heathrow. Special Agent Lopez was then contacted to board the flight with the intention of locating the codes on board and neutralizing any resistance before the plane entered into international airspace."
Hudson finishes his part and lets the paper fall lifelessly to the meeting room table. Will clears his throat, "Lopez?"
You're about to start talking when there's a frenzied knock at the door and Anderson slides it open to step in, "NSA flash. You'll want to see this." He reaches around and sets a clean sheet of paper in front of Will before scurrying out of the room.
The room falls into a kind of pensive silence as Will reads down the sheet. His eyes get darker and your blood runs a little cooler in your veins when he meets your gaze over the top of the sheet. His voice is clearer than it has been all afternoon when he says, "Everyone, out."
You'd get up to leave but he's almost pinning you to your seat with his eyes. You can't remember him ever looking this angry before. When Hudson and Jake get up and shuffle out, you try preparing yourself for the worst, even though you're not sure what the worst is.
The meeting room door slides closed again with a click and Will slowly lowers the paper to rest neatly on top of the post-op report. "Santana, is there something you want to tell me?"
Shit.
He's found out about the most gorgeous flight attendant on this side of the Greenwich time zone. And judging by the look Will's giving you, something went wrong. That thought shoots a shiver down your spine and you struggle to stop yourself from picturing her slender wrists duct taped to radiator or her body shoved in the trunk of a car.
Its your fault. If it weren't for you, she'd probably be handing an overweight man his turkey sandwich right now. Maybe fixing a little kid's seat belt. But you'll be damned if you let Will know what you're thinking. "What do you mean?"
"After getting off the plane you took a taxi to the Hilton and checked in as Claire Olivarez, yes?" His face is unreadable.
"Yeah, that's right." You're a fucking idiot. You let your insane libido cloud your judgement and now her life is in danger, if she isn't dead already. You've literally ruined someone's life because you're incapable of self-control. That's got to be a new low.
Will sighs, glancing down to review the paper once more. You promise that if she's dead, you'll never forgive yourself. "Jesus Will, just tell me. What's going on?"
"There was a surveillance team at the hotel. It was a stakeout—three different cars at different entrances, all with stolen plates."
You're not sure you're following, but he keeps talking. "Local police checked it out when someone called in to report the suspicious activity and we have CCTV confirming they followed you there and didn't leave until nine-hundred hours today. You didn't check for tails on your way to the hotel, did you?"
"Why would I? I had no reason to." You stare back at him as dangerously as you can.
"Apparently you did."
You feel like you're six inches tall until you realize he's just sitting there, staring at the report again. "Wait, that's it?"
"Yeah, that's it. Why, what were you expecting? Gang violence?" You do your best not to look embarrassed until he's thrown the paper down and buried his head in his hands. "Do you realize what this looks like? Are you even aware of how completely screwed we are? An agent at your level just forgetting to check for tails? Santana, we're going to get eaten alive when the post-op report goes out."
She's not dead. At least not yet. They were just watching her. No zip ties and black hoods, no shady spy with a silencer and a kill order. You still have a chance to get her out of there.
"Well apparently, the op isn't over yet."
He ignores you, looking back at the NSA flash and scratching the back of his head. "What I don't understand is why they didn't leave when you did." He leans over to the conference phone in the middle of the massive meeting room desk. He holds a button near the top and clears his throat, "Have Anderson come back in here."
You swallow thickly and he's looking back at you again, his stare is actually penetrating for the first time since you started working here. Probably because you know you deserve it. "You did leave the hotel before eight like you said you did, right?"
"Yes." You're beginning to realize there's no way you're getting more answers until you explain what's really going on. "Actually, Will, there is something more to the story."
Before he can react, the meeting door is sliding open and Anderson's curly hair pokes in first.
"Anderson, can we get the CCTV footage that this is referring to?" Will holds out the clean paper and in seconds Anderson is nodding, snatching the paper, and leaving the room in gut-numbing silence. "What do you mean, more to the story?" It's less of a question than a demand.
You can feel your cheeks heat with shame, shame because you've fucked up and now he knows you did. "After I got off the plane I went to the hotel, just like I said. But... I wasn't alone." He's studying you from beneath thick eyebrows. His face betrays no flicker of judgement, just torturous patience. "One of the flight crew was kind of having trouble figuring out where she was and what was going on."
"Kind of having trouble?" There's that arrogant cynicism.
"She got hit in the head, Will. She's the casualty you just filed." You say it like its justification, and maybe by convincing him, you'll convince yourself.
"So you took her to a hotel for the night?" His eyes are cold. He might have been giving you the benefit of the doubt before, but you think he can see right through you now.
"Yeah. We arrived at the same time. I don't know when she left in the morning."
"So it might have been at nine this morning?"
You nod slowly, and you can see most of the muscles in his face visibly clench. He throws the report he's been white-knuckling against the table violently, and pulls his hand into a clenched fist.
"Dammit. You took her to a hotel? Santana, that is not how we do things here."
You don't bother trying to defend yourself. You screwed up. You both know it, and you briefly hope that he's evolved enough to realize you're going to hate yourself for this longer than any kind of reprimand would bother you. Actually, he's always been all bark and no bite, so you like your chances.
He presses the flat of his palm against his forehead and starts to think it out verbally. "Okay, we're looking at a relatively sophisticated organization if it can spontaneously mobilize three vehicles in a random city to just watch a building all night. But as far as we know, they didn't make any move beyond that."
You nod along, glad to be able to start doing something. "Either they were specifically targeting me or it was still about the activation codes."
"You better pray to your all your saints, Lopez, that this isn't about you. That would mean they have the intelligence and funding to follow you all the way across the country and either board a plane with you four minutes before scheduled takeoff, or they have access to traffic control information that would have told them about the emergency stop in St. Paul." Will stands up to start pacing the room.
"That's totally implausible, though. Surely if they had that much influence, manpower, and intel, they wouldn't be targeting someone like me. They'd aim way higher in the pecking order."
Will nods. "Okay, so we assume for now that this is about those codes and Saudi access to WMDs."
"So say it's a third party that was probably on the plane with me, the courier, and the codes."
"The third-party agent watches you neutralize the courier and appropriate the codes."
"He won't have seen me destroy them, the flight attendant and I did it in the back."
"Okay, okay," Will says, tapping his fingers along the backs of chairs as he passes them, going back and forth. "So the third-party agent must have been following the codes from their side, otherwise they'd know that our plan has been to destroy the codes all along. For all they know you and this flight attendant were both working undercover."
"And better still, they don't necessarily even realize that I work for the US government."
"Great. That's really good. That'll be what saves my balls when I have to explain all this to Shelby."
"Okay." You try to ignore the fact that he's more excited about his balls than he seems to be about the danger an innocent person must be in at this very moment.
"So how'd you leave the hotel? Why wouldn't they have followed you?"
His question is fair one, but that doesn't change the fact that you have no idea of the answer. "I had the airport shuttle there and ready the moment I stepped out of the building. Its possible that by some weird fluke they didn't recognize me or missed it altogether." You and Will exchange skeptical glances because it's never safe to rely on coincidence.
Just as you're about to admit that you might be wrong, Anderson barges into the room again. "Your CCTV footage is on channel two." He tips his head to the large screen hanging above the meeting table on the far wall.
Will nods at him—it's a simultaneous 'thank you' and 'get out'—and snatches the remote from the table, pointing it at the screen with practiced speed. The visual flashes onto the screen in an instant, and grainy footage shows a hotel parking lot in morning light. Tiny white numbers in the bottom corner of the screen tick up until, at precisely 09:04:47, a slim figure with loose blonde hair strides from off screen into a hotel shuttle. Moments later the shuttle is rolling out of the lot.
Your stomach drops when one of the parked cars, a deep grey BMW, pulls out of the lot and into traffic, only a few vehicles behind Brittany's.
"Shit," you whisper.
"Well, it's only been a few hours since this happened. If we're very lucky, they'll still just be tailing her, maybe waiting for her to make a dead drop or call in or something." You have a very hard time letting yourself be comforted by that.
"Right," you nod in resignation, trying desperately not to think about what all this really means, "Well that's it then. We find her, we find them, whoever they are."
-x-
It takes the team less than half an hour to find out everything you could ever want to know about Brittany Susan Pierce. Thanks to Data Analysis and the 2015 reinstitution of the PATRIOT Act, you learn that she took dance lessons until she was 17, that the last time she had a cavity was eight years ago, and that the money in her bank account has never reached five digits. She lives in the South Bronx with a journalist roommate and probably two cats, judging by the amount of cat food she buys every month.
Abrams does a little extra digging and tells you that all her recent phone calls have either been to coworkers or family. He laughs out loud when he sees her browser history. Apart from checking email, she's only logged on to the internet twice in the last three weeks.
When Abrams and Hudson argue over whether her codename should be Legs or Barbie, you spontaneously reach over to your handset and unceremoniously punch in her apartment's landline. Your stomach doesn't flip with nerves until the pause after the third ring, and you're strangely surprised, even disappointed, when the phone is answered by an unfamiliar voice.
"Hello?"
"Hi, this is Cassy with ConEdison Energy, is Brittany Pierce available?" Hudson and Abrams still beside you, motioning for the new guy to be quiet when he steps next to your desk as well.
The woman at the other end sounds like she's sweating. "Uh, why? Is there a problem?"
"Brittany Pierce is still the main account holder for this address, correct?"
"Yeah, probably, I don't remember. She's away with work now, though." The voice at the other end pauses after that and you consider asking when she's expected home, but before you can ask, the voice is back, her tone threaded with unease. "Is this a problem with the automatic bill pay? Because if it is, that's just a misunderstanding, Brittany might have accidentally hooked that up to a savings account."
You can't help the tiny grin that erupts when she says that. "Oh, no, no, it's fine, I'm sure. We just need her to verify a few things. Do you know when she'd be able to call us back?" Out of the corner of your eye you see the new guy hunch over the edge of your desk, scribbling out a message on scratch paper.
"I think she's supposed to be back in town on Friday. Or what if I just give you her cell number? Do you already have it?"
"Oh I'm sure we have it here, thanks for the cooperation, Ms...?"
"Rose, Marly Rose. I'm the roommate."
"Well thank you Ms. Rose–" The new guy finally finishes his note and waves it in front of you, as if it were still important: Boss says no contact.
When you hang up the phone, all three of the men standing around you with big, bewildered eyes. You don't look at them though, you slam down your handset and march straight toward Will's office.
He's standing in the doorway, arms crossed, deep lines in his face betraying anger. "What the hell Santana? You don't get to give me attitude when you're the one acting prematurely. It's like you're trying to screw this up!"
You ignore his accusation. "Why no contact?"
The slight deviation in his gaze warns you that he's thinking on the spot. "We don't know what kind of situation we're about to walk in on. They might have her phones tapped, in which case you've just given them a very clear indication that their suspicions are dead-on and that she's somehow wrapped up in a clandestine operation."
"Oh come on, Will. We've done this a thousand times before. Just let me call her and arrange to meet. I can use a pay as you go mobile and have guys with guns and bulletproof vests right there to take her in if something goes down. She needs to know she's in danger, we at least owe her that." He's not buying it so you throw in "she trusts me and will do what I tell her."
"Don't be naïve Santana."
And if you weren't pissed off before, you are now. "Give me one good reason I can't call her and take her in."
"Okay look," Will grabs your arm and ushers you hurriedly into his office, sliding the door behind you. He doesn't sit down, he just stands right in front of you and meets your glare head-on. "No contact. This is an order. I know you're not so good with following orders, but this is over my head. It's coming from the very top."
"What the hell is going on? If I find out this is about politics, so help me God, I'll–"
"I'm on the phone with the Executive Assistant Director's office, I'm trying to figure that out. But until I do, no contact. Okay, Lopez?"
"So what are we supposed to do? I can't just sit around waiting while these people are just wandering around, totally under the radar, somewhere between here and Bumfuck, Minnesota."
He rolls his eyes at that, just as the phone on his desk starts to ring. He swings around his desk and says, "Brief the whole team, even the new guy, and be ready to recommend a plan of action to me in fifteen minutes." He lifts the receiver, waves you out, and you just catch him say, "Anthony, hi. Please tell me Shelby got ahold of you," before you close the door on your way out.
-x-
You decide to call her Bluebell, mostly because your other options are just plain disrespectful. The whole team is halfway through realizing that you have no idea how to find her without actually calling her up on the phone when Anderson bursts in. He's all smiles and purple dress shirt saying she just made a purchase with a credit card in Manhattan.
Minutes later, Abrams is making gangster hand gestures because Bluebell has signed into her email account and confirmed a get-together with someone named Quinn for the day after tomorrow. A plan quickly develops and you'd be totally on board if it didn't completely rely on the hope that nothing awful happens between now and then.
Hudson pitches it to Will, and it's looking like you're going to feel like a helpless piece of shit for another forty-eight hours.
-x-
You're exhausted by the time get to the bar. Your back is sore and there's a burning behind your eyes from staring at a computer screen all day. But you need a stiff drink or a good lay to make you forget how much of a fuckup you are.
It's busy for a Wednesday. Couples chat easily at the two-seater tables and half the bar stools are already occupied. Lines of a reggae beat carry across the chatter from the floor above.
"Kamikazi and a shot of gin," you tell the bartender and settle onto a stool, running your fingers over the wine-tinted marble bar.
He cracks a tiny grin and nods as he flips a fresh cloth towel over his shoulder. "Long day?"
You flash a transparent fake smile and say, "yeah," so he won't try to start a conversation.
It doesn't take long. Three pulls on the kamikaze and a tiny hair-flip when you see her smiling at you from across the bar, and she's walking over.
She's tall, thin. Deep red hair curls out from a low, off-the side pony and her round red lips part in a half-smile. "I haven't seen you here before." She has perfect teeth.
You smirk and throw the shot of gin down your throat. It burns, and you like the way it warms your chest as you draw your gaze down her body and back up. "Yeah. Maybe I should start coming here more often."
You introduce yourself as Nikki and she nods without batting an eyelash. She believes you, and why wouldn't she?
(You love it.)
(You love the way she looks at you like you're just a name and a body. You love this careless anonymity, where you don't have to be Santana Lopez and you don't have to know what you know and where everything about you is just a blank slate, waiting to be reinvented.)
Half and hour later, when she excuses herself to use the lady's room, she brushes her fingers casually along your arm and the look she shoots at you over her shoulder is nothing short of predatory. The way she sways her hips screams something like 'come and get it.'
You know that sex in a Bar 13 bathroom stall is about as trashy as it gets, but you also know that's never stopped you before. She looks pleased with herself when you follow, and the smug smile doesn't leave her face until you've got four fingers deep inside of her and she's clinging to the back of your shirt a little tighter with every thrust of your hand.
When she comes, she lets out this too-loud throaty moan and bangs the back of her head into the side of the stall. "Jesus fucking Christ," she pants, "how did you do that?" You don't answer, you just grin and help her pull down the hem of her dress.
It shocks you a little bit when she flips your positions and pins you to the wall, plunging her tongue into your mouth. She pulls away just long enough to say "Okay, baby. Tell me how you want it." Then it's like she's trying to feel every part of your mouth and squeeze all the air out of your chest with probing hands. "How do you want me to fuck you?"
It takes you a few seconds to remember how to form the words, but between ragged little gasps you manage to say, "I want you to lick me."
And then she's on the tile floor, her dress rustling carelessly around the toilet seat as she drags your jeans and your underwear down your legs and motions for you to brace your foot against tank.
When you climax, you feel like you're finally getting a song out of your head. It's like, for the first time in over 24 hours, you can close your eyes and not see yourself breaking the neck of a man with five o'clock shadow. You don't know anyone's half brother, and you don't have to smell the ghosting scent of Brittany's hair. You're just consumed by blissfully white oblivion.
You don't even feel hollow until you're in a taxi on your way to your apartment with the cheapest bottle of tequila you could find.
-x-
It isn't until noon the next day that Will admits nobody will tell him a goddamn thing about the no contact order. After a few more phone calls, he realizes he's not even sure who first issued it.
You're seething, literally seething. Will is off being completely useless, Hudson is playing solitaire on his computer and the new guy clearly has no idea what to do. You're too busy being mad to explain to him that there is nothing to do.
Well that's not quite true, but you can't imagine monitoring illegal weapons sales websites until this mess is sorted out. So you're watching CNN and looking back over CCTV footage near the hotel in St Paul and her apartment in the Bronx for the last few days, tapping your heals on the ground and wishing to God you could smoke the cigarette you hid in your bra this morning (just in case you needed it).
Will calls Hudson into his office at about 2pm and they talk. They talk for a long time, and you've been to the fax machine twice, trying to pass by the window and read their expressions. You're not used to being left out of things like this, but you think maybe Will is starting to punish you.
That's why you're so surprised when Hudson calls you in ten minutes later and Will tells you to take a seat. He folds his hands across the desk and chews the inside of his lip before finally saying, "I've got a contact, someone I want you to meet with. He might know who issued the no contact order, maybe even something about Bluebell and whoever is following her."
"Okay," you say evenly, "why aren't you going to do it?"
"Well the reason that you're going to tell everyone else is that I've got someone of my own to meet. I'm going to give the Saudi ambassador a little visit."
You frown because that's not quite Will's typical MO. You'd be surprised if he even gets an audience. You were pretty sure that most of what he does anyway is sit in his office and call people. "And the other reason?"
"He doesn't know he's my contact, and for right now, I need maximum deniability."
Between suspicious glances you say, "Then why not send the new guy? Nobody will recognize him."
Hudson cuts in, "As far as I'm concerned, he's got to earn our trust for sensitive stuff like this." You decide not to say anything about him maybe taking this half-brother thing too far. "New guy is going to be listening in with me, learn the ropes. Seeing as how you're clearly about to lose your shit by sitting around doing nothing, I volunteered you to run point."
"Also, I think your feminine charms might help..." Will scrunches up his face, "lubricate the situation."
You almost choke on a laugh, "Well I'm not going to be lubricating anything else, am I?"
"No, no," Will blanches, "Not that kind of op. Really, I just need you to get as much info as possible without tipping off the CIA that we're digging."
"Wait," you hold up your finger for emphasis, "This guy is CIA?"
"Sort of. He's the CIA consultant to the NCPC."
"You want me to spy on the National Counterproliferation Center and the Central Intelligence Agency?" You're kind of incredulous, almost thrilled to finally find something useful to do. Maybe even a little excited in a strange you-know-you-shouldn't-be kind of way.
"Not spying, per se. Santana, if you don't feel comfortable with this, I'll leave it up to your discretion. You can decide whether or not to tell him who you are and what we need to know. But I do need you to tell me if you don't feel comfortable doing this."
"No I'm doing it." You take a deep breath to slow a few speeding thoughts. "So who is this guy?"
"His name is Jesse St. James."
-x-
You find him at a tiny table in the lounge of The Surrey Hotel on the Upper East Side. In a charcoal three-piece suit, he looks like part of the interior design of ivory walls and striking black leather lounge chairs. He's nursing what looks like a James Bond martini and idly scanning the world news page of the New York Times.
Your confidence is bolstered by your utter relief to be taking one step closer to Brittany. You haven't even figured out your opening line until you're right in front of him in your blood red cocktail dress and smoky eyeshadow. "The thing about the New York Times is that you don't really get world news, you get American foreign policy with just a dash of journalistic cynicism." Because you figure a guy like this will appreciate a little snob, you add, "And sometimes bad writing."
When he's done checking you out, there's a hint of a smile in his eyes as he says, "Maybe I'm attempting to gauge the collective American reaction to foreign issues." You look at him skeptically until he gives in. He waves his hand, offering you the seat next to him. "Jonathan Grover."
"Uh huh, and I'm Jennifer Lopez." You ignore his attempt to shake your hand but still take the seat, gracefully crossing one leg over the other. It isn't until St. James has checked you out again that he cocks his head to the side and asks if he knows you from somewhere.
"No, you don't know me. But I know you."
St James' eyes flash something dangerous, but he disguises it well with a graceful sip of his martini. "Then I suppose you realize that I have a lot of experience with this game we're playing. To put if proverbially, the odds are stacked, and not in your favor." You could almost laugh at how easy it was to make this guy feel defensive.
"Woah, settle down there, 007. Yeah, you're right, I am intelligence service. But for now I'm friendly."
"I didn't think the the Mexican National Defense could afford an ensemble like that." His eyes fall to your chest. "Impresionante."
You dish out a humorless laugh. "I wouldn't know."
"So what do you want from me?" It occurs to you that he might always be defensive.
"Relax, Maestro, this is more about what I can do for you." He doesn't say anything, just hides behind another sip of his martini. There's probably fucking vodka in it.
You don't feel like playing power games anymore so you jump right in. "Two days ago, a US Airways flight from SeaTac airport to Heathrow reported an inflight incident involving the assault of a flight attendant named Brittany S. Pierce. According to CNN, Fox News, The Washington Post, and the Minnesota Star Tribune, one of the passengers intercepted the attacker and restored order on the aircraft until it could make an emergency landing in the St Paul International Airport."
"That sounds accurate."
"It's not." In his uncertainty you reach out and take a dainty sip from his martini. You were right. It's a vodka martini and now there's a moist smudge of red where your lips pressed against the glass. "You know and I know that was an FBI covert operation to intercept WMD codes on their way to Saudi Arabia."
You have his attention now and he's glancing around the lounge to make sure no one is listening. "How–"
"But here's the thing," you interrupt, "They botched it. Your people weren't the only ones watching those codes. Someone else was on that flight—the French, al Qaeda, Mossad maybe, I don't know—and they saw someone they weren't supposed to see, or they thought they did. Now they're somewhere between St Paul, Minnesota and God knows where following a goddamn flight attendant. We both know it's not going to take long for them to find out that they're really looking for an FBI agent, maybe Counterterrorism, Counterproliferation..."
You watch his eyes like you're trying to see if your guesses are right. It's impressive that he doesn't squirm. "So whatever is going on, I recommend you guys figure out your shit before God-knows-who murders a US citizen over a Saudi coup and we all end up in World War Three."
This next part of your speech is the part you're worried about. "If an espias like me can figure out that your people were running that op, they're going to find out too." It's really just a guess but you build on it anyway, praying that you're making sense, "Something tells me you don't want that."
He fiddles with the edge of his newspaper, not looking up. He doesn't say anything for so long that you feel uncomfortable and almost uncross your legs, but then he furrows his brow and glances up. "You know this is FBI, why are you speaking with me about it?"
"The FBI won't touch it." You see his face change slightly—so slightly you couldn't even name what it is. and feel the heat of anger rising in your own face. "Wait, you won't either. What the hell, why?"
"Maybe you should read the news," he says without a hint of triumph and swings the newspaper around to face you. You don't see what he means until he points out one of the articles below the fold. When you start to read it, your mouth falls open.
President Chris Christie to Host Saudi-Israeli Peace Talks
WASHINGTON D.C. – Saudi Arabian officials spoke with White House correspondents on Tuesday, confirming King Abdullah's intentions to attend American-brokered peace talks in the coming weeks. Ehud Barak, Israel's defense minister, also has plans to join the talks, making this the first chance at a peace deal between Israel and a charter member of the Arab League in over two years...
You can't believe you didn't see this before. One silly little New York Times article and all the pieces are clicking into place. You glance up from the paper to realize that St James has left you at the table with the bill for his wannabe Bond cocktail.
-x-
Hudson and the new guy are waiting for you about a block down the street, leaning up against the retaining wall that separates 5th Avenue from Central Park. They're hunched together under the yellow-tinted street lights with what looks like iPod earbuds draped between them.
You don't stop as you reach them, just casually tug the wire out from your cleavage and hold it out over your shoulder for Hudson. When they both catch up to you and Hudson snatches the tiny microphone from your fingers, he frantically whispers in your ear. "What were you doing Lopez? We just fingered a CIA operative for information and we didn't even learn anything! You're a fucking piece of work, you know that?"
You don't even look at him, just pull the folded section of the New York Times out from under your arm and say, "You should read the news."
They both scuffle around behind you, trying to read the small print in the street light and still keep up with your brisk pace. Finally Hudson says, "Saudi peace talks? How did we not know about this?"
You're both surprised when the new guy speaks up, "So your operation just blundered into the middle of peace politics?"
You can practically hear Hudson rolling his eyes behind you. "This stuff would have been nice to know 48 hours ago," he grumbles. "Still, this was a wasted trip. You bought the guy's drink, told him you were a Puerto Rican spy, and we're no better off than if we'd just flipped on fucking CNN."
"Mexican," you snap.
"What?"
"He thought I was Mexican, not Puerto Rican, you idiot." He still looks confused, so you turn to the new guy who's now walking comfortably beside you.
The new guy is quick on the uptake. "Puerto Rico is an unincorporated US territory," he says to Hudson. "Their intelligence service is basically us."
Hudson glares. "Well then maybe that's what you should have told him, Lopez. Then we wouldn't have had to lie to the CIA for a goddamn newspaper clipping."
"I didn't lie for a newspaper clipping, Hudson," you tell him, crossing over to the other side of the street. It's not until you see the flags above the French Consulate that you explain yourself. "Sometimes my prerogatives are a wee bit more nuanced than the objectives given to me by William Schuester."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"Look, I'll explain it all if you shut up and listen. Bottom line is we have the answer, the reason nobody will talk to Will or let us near Bluebell. Politicians in ivory towers don't want us lowly spooks screwing up their foreign affairs. Will is going to be happy just knowing why his buddies from the DI and the NSB headquarters won't talk to him. He was probably worried they didn't like his hair or something."
"Stop digressing."
"Even if the damn State Department won't let me contact Bluebell..."
Suddenly the new guy stops walking, and when you and Hudson glance back, he's gaping at you. "Holy hell, that's genius."
You smirk. Hudson still looks like he can't figure out how sex works. You think about calling him out on the fact that he's still miles behind the FBI's IQ average, but decide the new guy might want to do that instead.
"They won't let you so you're going to make sure someone else does," the new guy grins. "You put the pressure on the NCPC by making them think it's easier to track the airplane op back to us than it actually is. It gives them more incentive to do something about the problem and less incentive to try to wait it out and hope no one will figure out what's really going on."
You give the new guy an approving nod and glance back over your shoulders to make sure no one is overhearing the three of you. There's no one around, just a dog-walker and taxi parked on the other side of the street. "Exactly. Now nailing down a tenuous peace deal is about taking care of the Bluebell situation, not pretending it's not happening."
Hudson is about to say something, but then his phone rings a raucous triplet and he digs a hand into the pocket of his AF jacket to fish it out. "Hudson," he answers. Between irregular pauses he mumbles "Yes," "She's finished," "Yeah okay," and then he's shoving the phone at you, mouthing 'Will.'
When Will starts talking on the other line, he sounds tired. "Lopez, you're done with your chat?"
"Yeah. You should fire our guy in the press office."
"We don't have a guy in the press office."
"Maybe we should get one," you say, and then after winking at Hudson, you add "Or better yet, a woman. You know, to make gender representation a little more equal in our division."
He ignores your sass. "Do you need to come in for a debrief?"
"No," you mumble defeatedly, "we didn't get anything you couldn't learn by switching on the news. Better yet, check out the New York Times, page..." You pin the phone to your face with a shoulder and snatch the newspaper from Hudson's armpit, "page D1, about halfway down."
"Okay," he trails off. "Well, I don't know what you said to St. James, but he just scheduled a meeting with me for first thing tomorrow. He wants to come on as special consultation for this debacle."
You can't help the grin the blooms under your nose. "I can't wait for him to see my face."
"You did well, Lopez."
"Yes I did," you say before you can think about how asinine it makes you sound. "But then shouldn't we come in to prep? We can strategize and come up with a few options for when he shows up? I bet the CIA will—"
"No. I'm sick of your attitude, so I want you to go home, pop and Ambien, and sleep it off. Debriefing at seven hundred hours, tell Hudson and Pu-Jake I want them there too."
He doesn't wait for you to say goodbye, and even the smouldering that's happening under Hudson's thick eyebrows can't lift your spirits, which have suddenly fallen onto the pavement at your feet.
You don't want to let this rest, you don't want to go back to your dark, empty apartment. You don't want to be left alone with your guilt, so you toss the phone in his direction and wave down the next taxi you see, evading your teammate's questioning looks until you're about to climb in. "Debriefing is at seven. You boys have a good night." And then you're in the back of a cab telling the driver to take you to the nearest nightclub he can think of.
-x-
It turns out your cab driver was confused about what you meant by nightclub. He takes you to a place called Sapphire New York and you start to wonder about it when both the entrances have a tacky blue awning and are surrounded by men. If that didn't clue you in, the sickly pink lighting and potted palm trees inside make it pretty obvious. But it's not until you see four half-naked women getting friendly with a shiny, metal floor-to-ceiling pole that you remember the taxi just dropped you off and you'll have to call another one before you can get the hell out of here.
You settle for waiting outside, about a block away from the entrance because half a dozen men were looking at you like they thought you were an off-duty sex worker. To give yourself something to do and to fight off the chill tickling your bare arms, you pull a papery smooth cigarette and a lighter out of your bra. (You've been holding onto them all day.)
You light the end and pull a lung full of menthol in through your lips, watching the cloud of your exhale dissipate in the air, along with the clingy anxiety that's been wrapped around your limbs all day.
"Can I bum a smoke?" It's a man's voice, low, flat, and way too close to you. You turn to tell him to go fuck something dead, and it hits you like ice cubes down your back. You know that voice, that jawline, that smell of spearmint, cologne, and faint musk. You know those eyes, even though they've grown less piercing with age; they know more now. You know more now.
"Puck."
A/N: Thanks for sticking with this! If you want, you should definitely drop a review. Thanks again to LateInLifeTiburon for being a beta with this chapter and the last one as well!
If you're bored and want to check it out, my tumblr is fluidblueprint dot tumblr dot com