5
5
AN INDECENT PROPOSAL
T he California day dawned bright with endless possibility, yet there was a single gray cloud hovering over me to threaten my plans. As I pounded my way up the sidewalk to Headquarters, clusters of navy paused their animated conversation to step aside in deference of my rank. I merely lifted my head in acknowledgement, preferring to stay focused on the monumental task ahead. I went over the bullet points in my head. This would be a hard sell, but Weston had almost lost one of his prized possessions. And the only person who hated to lose more than the general, was me.
The squat building where Academy brass conducted their business jutted from the hill in all its granite glory. It more resembled a maximum-security prison than an office building, which was fitting since the secrets locked inside were of national security. I peered through the screen imbedded into the wall, and the retina-scanner processed whether I was worthy to enter or not. A few seconds passed before Blair, Weston’s stacked blonde assistant, buzzed me through. I clacked across polished marble, bypassing the neat arrangement of modern chairs to greet her.
“Blair.” I pecked her smooth cheek. “Always a pleasure.”
Her smile picked up steam as she led me to the metal door that stood between reception and the hallowed halls where the powers-that-be governed our lives and millions of clueless civilians. I palmed this scanner, and a red light flashed before my handsome mug filled the screen. One second later the door popped, and I hesitated in the doorway.
“He’s ready and waiting for you, Ranger,” Blair reminded me , offering a last smile as though for encouragement.
I straightened my shoulders and stepped through the door. “Thank you, Blair.”
Deep breath in I marched down the hall, envisioning my mission going to plan. I counted on Weston being more receptive today because I’d saved the day, during that cursed Baja mission. The extra precaution I’d taken—the cross necklace—had paid off. Weston had been wrong about her being ready. I’d been right. I couldn’t rub it in his face, but he was aware. He wasn’t stupid. Just an ass. I’d allow him to save face and admit to my own tactical errors, although they were few.
I’d explain how I’d recently reconsidered how best to utilize her. I knew just how to frame it, so it would still benefit them. The truth was, no matter how many gifts she possessed, she wasn’t suited for Missions. You had to be cold-blooded to make it in this business. She was the opposite of that. I thought she could learn to be cutthroat, after she pulled the trigger on me. Until she informed me that she knew the gun wasn’t loaded. I realized she probably would’ve pulled it anyway, because her family was at stake. That’s something I could understand now, having recently discovered I might actually have a chance at one of those. Again.
I paused before the imposing door and my impending meeting, and realized, I’d gotten used to having them around. Her and her brother. Our brother. Truth was, I couldn’t wait to get back from a mission now. I already felt like a family man. I felt a strange need to make it legit . . . filling in holes from my own past. That was dangerous territory for a professional spy to be in.
I rubbed at the tight band constricting my chest. As their mentor, it was my duty to protect them. We had to keep that bit of intel about Mikey being my half-brother quiet, or the powers-that-be would surely use it against me. What they didn’t know, they couldn’t hurt me with. The Academy had zero tolerance for weakness and sentimentality in their leaders for anything other than furthering their own agendas. My plan was highly irregular, but I knew it could work.
I took a breath and knocked firmly on the door. After a growled “Enter,” I pushed through the door and strode to the same scratchy-hide chair I’d sat in when he’d tried to convince me my mentee was a natural for Missions. Yes, she was a natural for Missions with her preternatural gifts. And she was easy on the eyes and easy to get along with. But she had no game. And no agenda but to keep her brother safe.
“Nealson,” Weston greeted and even had the good grace to rise for the occasion. “Good to see you. It’s been a while.”
“Yes, sir.” I offered my palm. “I’ve been keeping busy.”
“So I’ve been told.” After a brief handshake, Weston indicated the pony chair I was already standing in front of. “Please sit down.”
I unfastened the single button holding my jacket together and pushed myself all the way back in my seat, aligning my knees in a perfect ninety-degree angle.
Weston hit me with his steel blues. “I understand you have important business to discuss regarding the Connelly girl.”
Right to it. Good. “Yes, sir. After careful consideration, I’ve reassessed Cadet Connelly’s training plan and wanted to discuss it with you for approval.”
There was a moment of heavy silence. I let it play out, staring at the assortment of artifacts displayed on his monstrosity of his desk.
“Oh,” he finally responded, reaching for his glossy humidor. It was the color of chewed tobacco and rumored to have been a gift from Robert Kennedy, or “Bobby” as he was known to Weston. He idly caressed it before creaking the lid open to select a fat cigar. “I thought we agreed she would continue with her elite training after she graduates from the CAP program this spring.”
That was as much of an admission she wasn’t ready as I was going to get.
“I no longer think that’s the best option or her,” I stated mildly.
Weston growled in his throat. “A mission gone awry is a chance to reevaluate, reassess, and revamp. Every mistake is a lesson.” He punctuated with a sharp snip of his silver guillotine. “So you don’t redo them again,” he finished, tossing the beheaded cigar tip into a garbage can that was most likely real onyx. “Connelly’s gifts make her ideal for Missions . . . I stand by that. The committee you’re in charge of stands by that.”
“Stood by that,” I corrected. “I’ve already held a meeting with Dr. Patel and Commander Davies. They agree with me, but you are the last word.”
Weston harrrrmphed around this bit and shuffled some paperwork. “I reread the reports this morning, knowing the nature of this meeting. The girl made some mistakes, sure, but she corrected them. Demonstrated some pretty spectacular tactical moves under pressure. Figured out where the victims were located.” He eyed me before sliding a pair of bifocals over his eyes to flip through some more paperwork. “In the Paulon Mission, she unintentionally figured out who the muscle behind the Paulon drug machine was. A name we knew of, but dismissed as being too low on the totem pole to be a key player. A lot of good has come from having her be part of the team.” He removed his glasses and trained his sharp gaze back on me.
“Yes, sir,” I allowed. “But having her part of the team almost cost her her life, Agent Caruther’s life, Cadet Sae’s life . . .”
Weston growled out a half-assed acknowledgment before withdrawing his gold lighter from his suit pocket. He flicked and flamed up his stogie. After letting him puff on this for a few moments, I pressed my advantage.
“And you hit on a key point here: unintentionally figured out. That’s just it. The way her gifts work directly opposes Academy operational procedures. This makes it extremely difficult to collaborate with her in the field. She’s been encouraged by Dr. Davenport to go with her feelings, or gut, if you will. So she moves on a whim, seemingly unaware of when or how she’s doing it. That is the very nature of how her gift works.”
Weston closed one eye against the curling smoke and reached over to flip a switch on a nearly soundless air vent.
I leaned forward to further my advance. “However, the rest of the elite team is taught the opposite. Everything is strategically measured. Each move is synchronized, tactical. During an op, we have to think through each move to its logical conclusion. Connelly doesn’t think logically because it works against her gift—she becomes caught in a limbo of indecision when following orders that goes against her gut instinct. When they collide, it can be catastrophic.” Meaningful pause. “This is what led to her demise on The Baja Mission.”
Weston blasted a plume of smoke at the ceiling, as if he could blow the validity of what I was saying away.
I continued on softly with my hard sell. “Therefore, it’s confusing as hell for her in a stressful situation . . . I’m giving orders that directly opposes what her instinct, that she’s been instructed to follow, tells her. Which does she obey? Her commanding officer or her gut instinct? In the field she has to obey my orders, or people get hurt. If she overrides this, her instinct becomes inoperable. She starts doubting herself and the one thing her GAP training has drilled into her to trust. Above all else. A slave cannot serve two masters, so she has to choose. But which one is right? It paralyzes her. And I witnessed this scenario first hand.”
Weston blew out a sigh this time and set down his cigar. He creaked back in his leather chair to regard me carefully. “So, what do you propose we do?”
I knew he wouldn’t want to take his latest pawn out of the game completely. Not when she had successfully intuited such important intel. He foresaw a lot of awards on his wall in the future. Like any successful partnership a compromise would need to be had, followed by a sweetened deal for him that would tip the odds in my favor.
“Use her solely for recon missions,” I suggested. “You’re absolutely correct about her gifts being ideal for these. But her gifts, by their very nature, cannot materialize in a high intensity, stressful situation, with danger attached. She, unfortunately, is unable to reign in her emotions. We’ve made little to no progress in this particular area—her weakest by far.”
“Maybe she just needs more training, Officer. Are you being too soft on her?”
I shook my head. “All the training in the world can’t rewire her. And with her gifts being what they are, I don’t think that we want to fiddle around too much with her brain.”
Weston grunted at that one and picked up his smoldering stogey.
“A good spy has to think analytically,” I continued on. “Her brain isn’t wired that way. She is very much governed by her emotions, very attuned to them. I believe this is why her instinct is so highly developed—it relies on feelings instead of rational thoughts.”
Weston appeared to be aggravated by the advantage tipping my way. I treaded lightly, lowering my voice even more.
“And we also can’t overcome the fact she was raised outside the confines of The Academy for seventeen years. Cadets have been taught, from the time they’re two, to suppress emotions, to rely on analytical reasoning. These techniques for self-control cadets use would inhibit the very gifts of hers we rely on.”
Another grunt and a head nod followed this. I took this to mean he was buying what I was selling. It wasn’t a hard sell: it was the truth.
“Therefore, that’s yet another reason she’s no good for Missions—her face still gives her away in every situation. She’s so easy to read, a civilian could do it. Also, a girl with her moral upbringing could no more pull the trigger and kill someone than Mother Teresa.”
Weston interrupted my spiel with a hard chuckle. “I may be more receptive to your argument there, Ranger, if it weren’t for a significant little artifact from the past—she was able to pull the trigger on you .” He pointed his stubby cigar at me with palpable glee.
I inwardly smiled. “I’m glad you brought that up, because I’ve been meaning to update that erroneous intel in the Connelly Mission file.”
Weston leaned forward, squinting at me through the smoke.
“She confessed to me, some time ago, that she knew in advance the gun wasn’t loaded. Her gift,” I explained before he could ask. “She couldn’t kill me, even when I was there to take her and her brother away.”
This excavated bit of intel was followed by an aggravated gesture to move it forward by the man in charge.
“The committee’s unanimous decision is that we continue to use her solely for intel—low-risk recons we need help on. Continue extracting falsehoods from government documents. Her success rate of finding falsehoods in paperwork is hovering around eighty percent. That’s gonna be invaluable when dealing with foreign affairs right now. I’ve already added Russian to her course load this six-weeks,” I added.
Weston nodded his approval, so I was bringing him home now that I was on a roll.
“So, based on her inability to reign in her emotions, and don’t forget—we don’t want her to reign in her emotions, because if she does, she also reigns in her gifts.” I paused until he nodded his agreement on this point. “And based on her seventeen-year stint living outside our world, in addition to the poisoning her mother and perhaps Davenport put in her mind about our institution, I’m suggesting that we not only remove her from Missions, but we also remedy her negative perception of us by giving her the life she secretly harbors.” I paused to take a breath. “If we do that for her, she’ll remain loyal, and we don’t have to worry so much about her defecting on us . . .” I let that one hang in the air with his smoke.
“Go on.” He gave an incline of his head.
“Love and marriage.”
An incredulous snort discharged with the last of his smoke. I thought he might actually choke for a moment before he composed himself. “And how, pray tell, does this benefit us?”
“It could provide another gifted child for The Academy.”
Weston knitted his long grisly brows as if uncomprehending.
“We could make her a breeder. Think about it: she has the best chance to provide The Academy with the next legitimate gifted, with the physical attributes we aspire to. We would raise up this gifted, indoctrinated with our goals from the get go.” This was the sweet part of the deal.
After a drawn-out pause, Weston let out a low, knowing chuckle. “Well, I see the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
I tried not to visibly bristle at that reference to my father and her mother.
Weston leaned back, folding his hands across his spreading paunch. “Be interesting to see who washes up in the gene pool . . . if we decide to breed her,” he baited me, already knowing where I was going with this.
I didn’t hide my intentions. I met his knowing smile with a conspiratorial one. “You already know we’re almost a perfect biological match.”
After a mustache-twitching smirk, he remarked, “Second only to Davenport.” He just couldn’t resist.
“Davenport’s no longer an option.” I didn’t take the bait.
He sucked three quick pulls on his stogie before resting it on his crystal ashtray. He laced his sausage fingers and appraised me bluntly. “So, you’re just going to force yourself on the young lady? Not sure that’s going to win her loyalties with us. Or did you have something more lab-based in mind?”
“Nothing lab based,” I corrected right away.
He smirked. “I didn’t think so.”
“She no longer feels threatened by me,” I responded mildly. “Don’t forget: I saved her life.”
“That will go a long ways to turning a young lady’s affections,” he affirmed. “The necklace was a great idea, by the way.”
I lifted a finger. “Well, I might just have another great idea.”
Weston raised brows. “Do tell.”
“It begins with another courtship, much like the one we cooked up between her and Davenport.” A twitchy, amused smile followed this. I fought the urge to punch it off his mouth. “I haven’t pursued her because she wasn’t ready,” I confessed. “She was too young and too green. Then the ‘incident’ occurred. Some time has passed. And some healing. The time is ripe.”
“You mean your peach is finally ripe,” he smirked.
I grit my teeth and smiled in pretend fraternal allegiance. “I feel confident I can seduce her into falling in love, and then . . .”
Weston barked a laugh, but otherwise didn’t interrupt.
“It’s an antiquated notion, to be sure,” I backtracked. “But one she can’t let go of.”
“Give her time,” he countered. “She’s only been here two years.”
Before I countered, I took a moment to square up my knees. “I respectfully disagree. As you’re aware, I know a thing or two about psychology. And these social norms are deeply entrenched into her psyche. Her father inoculated her with a vicious enough dose of religion to make her feel sick if she sins. Don’t forget she was raised as a civilian for seventeen years and was indoctrinated with a strict moral upbringing. It’s almost funny to see how these ideas she holds on to still manifest themselves, despite her stellar education.”
Weston didn’t look bored, so I went on. “She’s a bright girl. However, I still catch her out sometimes, shivering and looking bewildered by the fact that it’s cold here. Like she still can’t believe that the golden state isn’t warm all the time. She’s been here for two friggin’ years”—I flashed him the peace sign—“and she still wanders around at night without a jacket. It’s because she’s had it in her head for so long, the idea of what California’s like, that she can’t accept that it could be any other way. Even with indisputable proof, like the weather report that automatically flashes at her when she fires up her PAC.”
Weston let out a little huff of amusement.
“But I believe we can use this to our advantage. Let’s give her the hearts and flowers she craves. And then . . . a baby.”
Face devoid of expression, Weston’s eyes bored into mine.
“This will tie her to the Academy forever and turn her loyalties to us. She still feels like she’s in love with Davenport. As long as she harbors these feelings, she’s still a flight risk. Another reason Missions are no good for her: I have to keep one eye on the mark and the other on her to make sure she doesn’t flee. It’s distracting. Let’s distract her from him. Turn her onto someone who’s loyal to The Academy. Someone who is almost an equally perfect biological match . . .”
Rings of smoke floated to the ceiling while Weston worked this over in his steel-trap mind. “This is an intriguing plan, I must admit. I’m assuming the girl is still . . . intact?”
I nodded, and he smirked knowingly at me. “And you’re just the man to remedy that.”
I smirked back. “I believe so, yes.”
“What about those pesky morals of hers?”
“ When I’ve won her over, I plan on asking her to marry me . . . with your permission, of course.”
Weston’s chortle was equal parts disdain and mirth. “Love, marriage, and a baby carriage—that’s your plan?”
I didn’t crack a smile or get defensive. “Until we can mesh our ideology with some of hers,” I plodded on, “she will always feel like an outsider—a foreigner in a foreign land. To bring out the best in her, I think it’s time to use the carrot and the stick. Start accommodating her preferences, give her more freedom, validate some of her own ideas. What will it cost us? The price of a wedding. A drop in the bucket compared to what we can get from her. Strong-arming tactics usually backfire with her. And, as you are well-aware, they may get you what you want in the short-term, but the long-term effects are ineffective. Creates bitter resentment towards superiors and erodes confidence in the institution she’s pledged her life to—forcefully, I might add. So, let’s not force her any longer. Let’s seduce her instead. Bind her to us with marriage, a child, a brother who loves his life . . . then she’ll never want to leave. So far, she’s had nothing but a lot of misery here. It’s time to change that.”
I felt like I was breaking a sweat from my attempt to persuade so stalled out to let him percolate, and my glands to calm. It couldn’t seem like I wanted it too badly. Weston was both sharp and tricky; he could go the other way just to spite me.
“What’s in it for you, Nealson? Marriage to a girl who”—he curled finger quotes—“’has a face advertisers use to sell hamburgers.’”
“And that can sell The Academy to big donors,” I swiftly added.
“What’s your ultimate goal here?”
“To become an Academy CO.” I didn’t mince words.
Weston creaked his seat back. “My, my, you are ambitious, Ranger.”
“A family makes a man appear stable, to the top brass. In our circles—”
“ Our circles?” Weston sardonically rounded his stogey.
I cleared my throat. “Yes, sir. That’s where I want to be, and a wife at my side would be an asset.
“Anyone would do.”
“True,” I agreed. “But my union with Connelly would kill two birds with one stone: it would bind her to us, and I’d get a suitable arm-piece for all those brass parties. A gifted child would be a bonus. And since she’d balk at getting pregnant, unless it’s within the realm of holy matrimony . . .”
Weston leaned back, somewhat convinced. “Your father sought the same and look where it got him. I’d be careful not to fall for the young lady—continue to keep a healthy distance. The Connelly women seem to have a way of ruining the lives of their paramours . . . particularly Nealsons.” He cocked a burly brow at me.
“I’m not worried,” I dismissed. “And you were the one who told me to embrace the Academy’s gifted. I don’t see a better way to do that than to marry one and have one of my own.”
“One of your own.”
Damn. I saw my mistake right away. I’d been doing so well.
“This child will become Academy property as soon as he . . . or she reaches the age of two. You would do well to remember that,” Weston warned, grinding out his stogey with unnecessary force.
“Yes sir, I’m well aware of that fact. And am happy with it. I don’t see myself doing any of the heavy lifting anyway. Not really my thing,” I dismissed, casting my gaze at the vista of the churning Bay beyond his shoulder. “And you don’t have to worry about me with the Connelly girl. This is strictly strategic on my part. The marriage will be one of convenience—there to provide a prop on my arm and a gifted progeny for The Academy, and then it’ll naturally fizzle out, as all relationships do. I just need something to bring her around. She’s been floundering since The Baja Mission.”
After a few accessing head nods, Weston stared me down. “You need to make sure your allegiance remains loyal to us—look to your father.” Meaningful pause. “To Davenport.”
“I’m first and foremost an Academy officer,” I replied staunchly. “I’ve more than proven my allegiance and my worth. And you don’t have to worry about me becoming attached . . . I’m not a sentimental man by nature. And I’m for damned sure not a family man. I’ll be as gone then as I am now. I dare repeat myself: This is in name only. And to win Connelly’s loyalties, once and for all, and to gain an Academy gifted to bear my last name.”
“And this super-child you seek . . . I think also bears repeating: will become part of The Academy family, raised to utilize as we see fit.” He leaned forward to probe the depths of my eyes.
I worked to keep a straight face. “Of course.”
What he didn’t know was that by then, I was planning on taking that leather seat, right out from under his saggy ass. And then use his gold lighter to burn the scratchy-hide one I was currently sitting in. I was armed with an almost unblemished record, Commander Davies’ approval, the allegiance of my peers, a gifted brother he knew nothing about. A soon-to-be gifted wife. He wanted to know my ultimate goal: Take over . . . his position.
Weston nodded his grizzled head at me. “Then you have my permission to woo the silly girl, marry her, knock her up. But”—he jabbed a finger at me—"she finishes the CAP program first.”
“Of course,” I easily agreed, rising to my feet to loom over him and offer my hand.
“And then continues on to the Elite Program,” he added.
I sighed. “Fine. But only recons. She’s still a mess in the field.”
“Done,” he said, shaking on it.
I moved to leave, relief releasing the tension in my chest even as triumph was expanding it.
“And one more condition . . . “
Ah hell . Like a balloon that over inflated too fast, my expanding chest collapsed. The ole curveball.
“We’re to use this farce wedding of yours as an exhibition of sorts. Therefore, it will be done on a grand scale: An Academy officer and a cadet like Connelly . . . will make for a pretty picture in the papers. And make the society pages, and the citizens of Marin County proud as punch.”
“Why would we do that?” I objected, somewhat surprised he was offering to fit the bill on a plan that would mostly benefit me. “It’d blow our covers.”
“Well, that’s precisely why we never shit where we eat,” he said, referring to our policy not to run missions in the Bay area.
“Fine.” I gripped his palm, making sure his was on top. “However, you want this to go.”
What did I care if he used our wedding as an exhibition? It was their dime. And I liked things done on a grand scale anyway. I sallied out the door a satisfied man, but some niggling doubt made me think I’d missed something of vital importance.
I pounded down the gray corridor, focusing on the next phase of my plan. The fun part—getting the Kitty-Kat to let down her guard. Just like her mother had gotten my father to let his guard down. A misstep that completely ruined his life . . . and nearly ruined mine. And then she went and killed him off, the one who helped her escape. Pretty cold-blooded. Her daughter was a tribute for that act of betrayal.
It was time to claim what was rightfully mine. And to put a ring on it. Weston was right, though. I couldn’t let myself get attached. But I wasn’t completely heartless. She was getting plenty in return. She would get protection from Missions, an easier Academy program, a family life for her and our brother. And the best part: me. It was a win-win all the way around.
I dismissed the lagging doubt. What could possibly go wrong?