Chapter 1

The CIA's Guide to Kidnapping

I

Julia Howard was elated. She had been driving for three days straight, from her dorm in sunny LA to some junk-town she'd never heard of called Waukon, Iowa, and she was elated. She had endured blizzard conditions, traffic jams in mountain passes, and icy roads through the northern plains, and she was elated.

She was elated because today, after all she had endured, she would finally answer the question that dogged her almost her entire life: who am I?

Julia had been adopted shortly after her birth. She knew nothing of her birth parents, and her adopted mother, Marianne, warned her never to go looking for her family. When pressed, Marianne would lock up, never giving a good reason why it was apparently so dangerous. It frustrated Julia like nothing else, but, loving as she was, Marianne had good reason.

Unfortunately for Marianne, Julia was independent now, living in a dorm a thousand miles away, with a functional car and enough cash in her bank account to make the trip (with the cheapest motels and some skipped meals, to be sure).

Julia had, in fact, begun searching for relatives the moment she moved in for college. She queried one of those scammy ancestor lookup sites that harvest people's DNA to find relatives. She felt she had sprung a jackpot when someone actually came up: an elderly great aunt named Willa Masterson, living in Waukon, Iowa.

So, when fall quarter ended, Julia set out. Marianne had expected her home for Christmas, so she made up a story about spending a few days with a new friend. Julia would be home on the 23rd. She promised.

It was around six PM on the 20th of December when she rolled up to the modest, snow-coated home of her great aunt. The sun had set long ago; the air was calm; the sky was clear.

Julia sat for a time in her car, reveling at the house and the potential that laid within. It was an old, narrow two-story home, with Christmas lights strung loosely above the porch. A large oak tree, barren but rather pretty with an inch of snow cover, stood in the yard, casting long shadows over the front of the house via a nearby street lamp. A single car parked at the back of a driveway beside the home suggested Willa was inside.

Julia stepped out of her car, and the serenity of the night was sliced by the rush of icy midwestern air. Aside from living in Pasadena the past three months, Julia was a native of temperate Seattle: she had never experienced such cold. Even the motels in Moab and Denver were nothing compared to this. She got back in her car, turned it on, and cranked up the radiator.

Rummaging through her belongings, Julia realized how poorly she underestimated the weather: her heaviest item was the oversized sweater she was already wearing.

Nevertheless, she had come this far; a little extreme cold wasn't going to stop her from walking a few feet. She put her other shirts on below the sweater, wrapped a thin scarf over her face, and dashed out of the car.

She walked briskly, shivering in the night, until she reached the front door. She planned to knock immediately, but felt a shock of hesitation: what will I say, she wondered? Will this woman even know I exist? Will she believe me? The last thing Julia wanted was to be turned away, to have the door shut on her only chance to answer the existential question that so plagued her. But of course, it's not like Julia was about to turn back. Nerves have a tendency to irrationality, after all. So, with a deep breath (that knocked her back a little bit), she knocked on the door (there was no doorbell), gripping tightly a slip of paper proving her genetic lineage, and hoped for the best.

She waited for ages in the biting cold. Snow was melting into her shoes, stinging her toes.

Perhaps Willa has trouble walking? Perhaps she didn't hear the knock?

Julia rose her fist to knock again when she heard a latch turn. The door opened, but staring back at Julia was no decrepit, elderly woman. It was a twenty-something redhead pointing a gun.

II
(Three Days Earlier)

Robin Miller was a twenty-year-old redhead with a newly minted license to carry a government-issued firearm. She was a CIA analyst, recruited four years ago for her intelligence, passion for crime-solving, and general "ends-justify-the-means" attitude (basically required of anyone willing to join a clandestine government agency these days). The gun wasn't initially part of the plan, however. After all, what kind of analyst needs a gun?

A month ago, she had received notice that she would be entering into a top-secret operation, for which she would require field training. That was all she knew until today. No explanation what she was in for, nor why she was chosen at all. That last part in particular ate at her: she was just a forensics geek – she wasn't even considered exceptionally competent, compared to her peers – so why was she being pulled into the field?

The confusion grew deeper when she was called in for her briefing that morning to the office of the CIA Director. The person who led the entire organization, someone appointed to their role by the President of the United States, had organized some sort of field op which demanded Robin's participation. What the hell?

Robin, with professional countenance and perfect posture (hiding furious nerves), stepped into the office of Director Diane Beckman. She stood by the door, facing the seventy-year-old leader. Beckman sat behind an ornate cherry desk, on which laid large – yet meticulously organized – stacks of papers and files, along with a closed laptop. (You would think things would be a little more digital in 2032, but alas.) Behind her oversized leather-tufted chair stood several tall bookshelves, all full of probably interesting – yet oddly un-labeled – hardcovers. To Robin's right, portraits of past Directors were arranged in perfect order on a wall. A large window covered nearly the entirety of the opposite wall, from which a weak winter sun peeked through overcast skies and thick branches of empty trees to scatter light and shadow across the room.

The Director gestured for Robin to sit in one of the modest fabric-backed chairs opposite the desk. Robin nodded and obeyed. The Director said nothing. Robin waited, watching nervously as the Director scribbled words on a slip of paper, then opened her laptop and started typing. The click-clack of the keys rang across the room for what felt like ten minutes before finally Beckman muttered, "your partner's late, as usual." Then she kept writing.

Robin's head was racing with questions, but she dared not ask. Basic training taught her not to speak to a superior unless spoken to, and to breach conduct against anyone – especially the highest-credentialed person in the organization – could even threaten her employment. So, Robin sat still, posture erect, eyes in front, waiting.

Eventually, the Agent she deduced to be the "partner" Beckman referred to stepped in.

"Sorry I'm late, Diane," the man said with a shockingly casual attitude.

"Damn it, Agent Gordon," Beckman sighed with frustration, "your status will not save you from a dishonorable discharge if you do not learn to respect your superiors."

"Uh, sorry, Director." Agent Gordon's response was full of annoyance, as if he truly had the gall to regard the Director of the CIA as beneath him.

"Sit down and do not utter another word." The agent submitted reluctantly.

"In here," Beckman started, passing manila folders to each agent, "you will find your target and destination. You are to bring your target to me alive. You are to leave for your destination the moment you exit my office. You are not to tell anyone of your mission. If any one of these directives are disobeyed, I will personally see to it that both of you are drafted to the front lines of the next war. You have sixty seconds to read and memorize these documents in this room. Then you will leave them here – aside from the enclosed ID cards – and exit my office." The matter-of-fact attitude cut up the awkwardness of the prior dialogue.

Robin opened her folder. It contained a single sheet of paper with a photo of the target – a black-haired woman with green eyes – and a single sentence with the target's name and where to acquire her – some house in a town in Iowa she had never heard of called Waukon. The target was expected to arrive at that location in three-to-four days. Accompanying the page was a fake ID for Robin, which listed her residence as that same address.

Very little information. Robin had no trouble memorizing it, especially since nearly all of it was duplicated onto her fake ID. Robin placed the folder with the page back down and rose to leave. "Agent Miller," Director Beckman said in a sharp tone, "where are you going?"

Robin felt a jolt as she realized her mistake: she should have waited for her superior. "My apologies, Director." She sat back down, hoping Beckman would not issue her some punishment for her transgression.

After a moment, Beckman spoke again. "Your time is up, Agent Gordon."

"Yes, Dia – Director." Agent Gordon rose, dropping the folder casually on the desk. Robin noticed as she stood to follow him that his file was much more detailed than hers. She wondered what information could only be privy to him.

The two agents discreetly exited the building. Robin followed Agent Gordon to a car buried deep in the busy parking lot – a modest old Toyota with Iowa plates and an "I run on Ethanol!" bumper sticker. Agent Gordon found a hide-a-key under a tire, and then gestured for Robin to sit in the passenger's seat as he unlocked the door.

III

CIA headquarters are nestled in a small wooded area of northern Virginia, across the Potomac from D.C. Nature is hard to come by in these parts after so much explosive growth in the area, and whatever aesthetic those woods provide the compound is decimated by the massive, dull parking lots surrounding three sides of it. Once they made it west of Fairfax, however, the two agents would have many miles of pleasant drive until midwestern flatlands, rural meat-processing plants, and big-city industrial centers ruined the sights and smells of the country.

The trip to Waukon would be much faster for these agents than it would for Julia; though toll roads and winter weather would slow them down, the distance was significantly shorter and passing through the Appalachians was much easier than the Rockies. They would manage the trip in two days, staying at a hotel in Elkhart the first night.

Robin was full of questions but, obsequious to the order of the agency, she would not open her mouth unless prompted by her superior.

Agent Gordon himself was apparently not much into chatter, however. When they departed Langley, he turned the radio to a classic rock station for entertainment while silently following the instructions of an on-deck GPS system. Robin felt like he had pretty much forgotten she was there until he finally spoke up outside of Pittsburgh.

"I s'pose you've got some questions, huh?"

Robin, bored nearly to sleep, perked up and started; "yeah, I—"

Agent Gordon spoke over her. "First of all, you can call me Jason. I don't really care about that formal crap, but if you insist, you can also go with Special Agent Jason Gordon. However you wanna flower it, doesn't matter to me.

"I'm sure you're wondering why you're here. Well, I chose you for this mission – Diane didn't want you to go, but I'm pretty good at getting that old bag to do what I want." Robin found this Agent's general disrespect loathsome, but forced herself to suppress a sour look.

"And before you think you're all that," Jason continued, "I only chose you so I could have something pretty to look at while I'm on this stupid mission." Yeah, Robin was pretty grossed out by this dude. Aside from generally not liking being randomly hit on, the agent looked like he was in his fifties; someone like that should not be creeping on a girl barely out of her teens.

Jason noticed Robin's discomfort. "Look, I'm just kidding," he said with a somewhat unconvincing tone. "I read your file. I was impressed by your work on the Ramirez homicide a few months back. The way you apprehended the killer completely unarmed, that was some solid work. Made me think you have some untapped potential in the field." Jason was referring to an incident in which Robin had used intuition and stealth to surprise a heavily-armed suspect who had unknowingly cornered her in a large warehouse. She was actually quite proud of that moment, but played it down in her report and didn't expect anyone else to notice or care. So, though she remained displeased with her fellow agent's conduct, she found herself partially placated by the unexpected appreciation.

"Anyway," Jason resumed, "if you have any questions about the purpose or details of this mission, don't bother asking. First rule of secret missions: what you don't know, you're not supposed to. National security and whatnot.

"I assume you haven't done much acting before, so just try and keep quiet. If for some reason, someone asks you something when we're getting food or checking into our hotel, keep it simple: You're my daughter, we're coming back from vacation, that's it. The simpler the story, the easier it is to remember. Call that rule number two."

Though Robin felt talked-down-to, she did realize in that moment that she hadn't considered her character. She couldn't be Robin Miller, CIA Analyst, after all; she had to be – (she glanced at her ID card) – Paris Colender. What a dumb name, she thought.

After that speech, Jason remained quiet through pretty much the remainder of the drive. He made a cheap "joke" in Elkhart about whether they should share a hotel room, but quickly insisted he was still just kidding when Robin failed to suppress her discomfort.

They arrived at the Waukon house on time – one day before Julia's earliest expected arrival – and parked their car at the end of the aforementioned driveway on the side. Robin noted how ugly the house looked – a quarter of it was textured in brick, while the rest was cheap off-white paneling; all topped off with a slatted red roof. Perhaps it was just Robin's taste, but the whole combination made her want to vomit.

"Pretty gross, isn't it," Jason said, seemingly reading her mind (or, more likely, noticing her nose wrinkle at the sight).

They walked in a side entrance to a quaint, country-themed kitchen with eggshell walls and cabinets, kitschy wall-hangings, and appliances that appeared to be from the '50s. It opened to a hallway running along the middle of the house, which led in the front to a living area and in the back to a laundry room and backyard exit. Opposite the kitchen was a half-bath.

The pair moved to the living room. Gray, stained shag carpeting covered the area, really accentuating that dilapidated "oldies" feel. The place was quite empty, with only a ratty couch, cheap wood coffee table, and small – almost certainly non-functional – CRT. At one end of the front wall was the front door, and opposite the other end was a set of narrow stairs to the second floor.

"There's two bedrooms up there," Jason said as Robin peered at the staircase, "we'll each take one – unless, of course, you'd prefer otherwise. I'm gonna head out to get some groceries for… well, we shouldn't be here more than three days tops. If you don't mind doing some laundry while I'm out?" The pair, having left Langley immediately after receiving their mission, had no time to go home and grab extra clothes; the best they had done was a quick run to Target in Elkhart for a second set each.

"In case you're curious," Jason continued, noting Robin's quizzical expression, "the CIA has tons of houses like this across the country. Contrary to a very useful lie, CIA does tons of domestic ops like this. I think we got this place for cheap at a foreclosure auction or something; some old dude spent thirty years decomposing in the hall, so no one wanted it. Which reminds me: probably don't go barefoot back there."

"So, this mission," Robin absentmindedly asked, "does the asset live in the area?"

"Uh-uh-uh," Jason annoyingly wagged an index finger in Robin's face. "Remember, if you don't know, you're not supposed to." Then he thought for a second. "You know what, it's actually probably a good lesson in how we do things:

"The target actually lives in L.A. I guess she's some sort of orphan or something; we caught her trying to find her biological family, and manipulated her into coming all the way out here to meet some long-lost great aunt. We thought Iowa would be the perfect destination for a winter break road trip – short enough that she could manage it alone, presumably without having to tell anyone where she's going; long enough, though, that by the time her dear adopted mother realizes she's missing, she'll already be locked up under Langley."

"So, we're basically kidnapping her." Robin wasn't particularly concerned about this; she was mainly just interested in learning more about how these operations worked.

"You could say that. We need her for super-secret government stuff. Can't say I know exactly what (not that I would say if I could). I know she's pretty important though.

"Don't worry, she'll be fine eventually, a couple weeks with us and then back home to mommy. Maybe a little memory loss; no harm done."

With that, Jason went on his shopping run and Robin prepared for bed, unaware of the action the next day would bring.

IV

Julia was frozen. A gun shoved in your face will do that.

"Come in," Robin said, stepping back and gesturing Julia inside. Julia, slowly, walked in, moving to put her hands up. "No need for that," Robin added, and gestured to the couch. "Sit."

Julia obeyed. Robin and Jason stood across from her. Robin put her gun away.

"First of all," Jason started, "we're not going to hurt you – as long as you cooperate, at least. We work with the government – CIA." Jason pulled out his wallet and flashed his credentials; Robin followed close behind. "You're going to come with us. We can't tell you why. Quite literally – we don't know. We were ordered to take you in by our Director.

"All we know is," he added, noting the confusion mixing into the fear on Julia's face, "you're a crucial component in some sorta super-secret project to save America… er, something like that. It's not important really, because frankly, you don't have a choice."

Robin felt a bit annoyed at Jason's carefree attitude toward the terrified target.

"Don't be too worried," Jason added, "you'll be back to your regular life in a couple weeks. If you survive, that is."

The casual threat renewed Julia's fear. Robin sighed at Jason's cavalier manner.

Jason beckoned Robin and Julia follow him out to his car – they would be driving straight through, overnight, to Langley. Robin held Julia back a bit, and as Jason dipped into the kitchen, she whispered (to prevent any detected violation of protocol toward her superior), "you'll be fine. Just follow orders."

As the pair stepped out, Jason opened the rear driver's-side door for Julia. "I'm going to trust you won't need handcuffs. After all, if you do anything stupid like try to escape at a stoplight or something, we will hunt you down, and you will not like what we do to you when we catch you."

Julia quietly obeyed, too frightened to respond.

Jason and Robin got into their respective seats, and the trio exited the driveway.

Julia watched the houses roll by. She mourned the serenity she had felt just moments ago, thinking about all the peaceful, sleeping families passing by, and how much she had wished to be among them that night. It was the last thing she remembered before the crash.

V

Julia awoke with a splitting headache, blurred vision, horribly tinnitic hearing, and aches all over her body. It took her a few moments to realize she was handcuffed and buckled into a car moving at high speeds.

She squeezed her eyes, trying to clear her sight. Slowly, her vision improved enough to differentiate colors. She saw flickering lights, and came to realize the sun was up and peeking through thick, fast-moving forest. After a moment, she realized she was in an entirely different vehicle, sitting behind a head much different from Jason's, with no Robin to be found.

That head was covered in a black beanie. In the rear-view mirror she saw part of a wrinkled face wearing dark shades.

Julia was too disoriented to comprehend her situation, but managed to eke out a "what's going on?"

The driver, with a hoarse, masculine voice, answered. "I'm saving your life."

Julia took a moment to respond. "Who are you?"

"Just…" the man hesitated before continuing: "Call me Betelgeuse."