Chapter 25
DECLAN
I enter the office in an uncaffeinated fog. I set my laptop bag down on my chair and grab my FIRE mug without thought, all muscle memory, headed for the break room. When I step back out of my office, something catches my eye. Or someone.
Charlie sits at her desk, focused on whatever she is typing. She is wearing her usual casual business attire instead of the more relaxed Friday dress code most people embrace. We’re the only two odd ones out. But that’s not what is distracting me. “Your face looks different today,” I say to her.
Charlie’s placid expression shifts to incredulous. “Happy Friday to you too? Your face looks the same.”
As someone who works in intelligence and surveillance, changes must be noted. “What’s different? What did you change?” I take a few steps closer to see if I can figure it out.
“Is this supposed to be a compliment?” Charlie asks sarcastically before returning her attention to her work. I don’t budge. After a moment, she admits, “I went for a run this morning.”
I’m not following how this explains what I’m seeing. “You’re not in running clothes.”
Charlie rolls her eyes, and I realize what is different as she is speaking. “I wear my contacts when I run. In my rush to get out the door, I forgot to take them out.”
“Oh.” I pause. That is plausible. Charlie still looks great without her glasses, but—Wait, what is my brain thinking here?
“Is this where you pull a Freddie Prinze Jr. and tell me I should stop wearing them because I look better without them?” Charlie asks.
“What? A who? No! Quite the opposite actually.” I’m on the defense.
“Um, thanks,” Charlie mutters, and it’s as though all the progress we’ve made as teammates is slipping away.
“No, I mean you look better in them.” I hesitate, realizing I might as well be the guy who locked her out on day one again. “I have quite a hole to dig myself out of.”
“Yes. Are you going to tell me to smile more next?” She cocks an eyebrow, daring me to make another comment.
“No. Just . . . I like the frames. The hint of blue . . .” I gulp before making this final confession, but it may be the only way to salvage this exchange. “It makes your eyes pop.”
Charlie glances up at me for the first time this morning without suspicion. Her shoulders lower, her defenses too. “Oh,” she responds, training her cobalt irises on me, disarming me as well.
I should offer to grab her some coffee too, I tell myself. But there is already an iced-coffee cup on her desk.
Charlie is assessing me, and I can tell I should say something. How can I get her to smile? Why am I so concerned about making her smile?
Celine turns the corner, and Charlie gives her the go-ahead to start her meeting with Oliver.
“He’s ready for the championship media plan,” Charlie tells her.
Celine gives her a “hmm” of acknowledgment, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she waltzes into Oliver’s office.
I barely register this interaction; I certainly don’t greet Celine.
Not with this awkward silence between myself and Charlie.
I head over to the break room, so I don’t have to stand there thinking about how to undo my comments.
When I get back to my office, Charlie isn’t at her desk. Which is good because I need to get to work. She’s a distraction, I remind myself.
I dive into my latest intel reports and the hour passes quickly.
I’m interrupted by a ping on my phone. One of my contacts in Denmark has spotted Monique, our MIA photographer who no-showed in Mexico City.
She hasn’t surfaced for weeks. This could be a chance to find out what happened, and whether she sold those images to someone else, someone who wants them to disappear.
It’s the piece I keep puzzling over. I can understand how a mole in our organization was recruited.
Money. It’s always the money. But Monique is an artist. While she has to fund her life somehow, she has prioritized art over financial gain for years.
Her award-winning photos have allowed her to buy what she needs and the rest she spends on gear or trekking to remote areas for the best shot.
She has integrity. How did the Order get to her?
I reread the message and respond:
Declan Davidson
Any signs of distress? Bruising, cuts,
extreme weight loss?
I need to know what we might be up against.
My contact sends an image. When it loads, I spot no visible injuries. Monique appears the same. Like any woman casually strolling down the streets. Perhaps she sold out to them willingly?
I shake my head, thinking about how easy it is to prey on someone’s integrity nowadays.
Anyone can spin up a social media campaign calling for a need to save a very worthy group – children, refugees, animals, souls in need of aid, people worthy of help.
But so often fraudsters can manipulate the urge to help and warp it into donations for shadow charities.
Or pit people against the genuine article, distorting their views so that suddenly they’re siding with terrorists or calling for violence in the name of peace.
It’s all one well-placed hashtag away. Could this be how the Order got to Monique?
Or is there a plausible explanation? I recall how quickly I misjudged Charlie, how embarrassed I was when she turned out to be Oliver’s new assistant.
I peer out my office and catch Charlie at her desk. “Hey,” I call out. She looks over at me and I wave her in.
“What’s up?” she asks. Her navy-blue blouse and white dress pants look elegant today.
And, of course, the blue draws more attention to her eyes.
Her perfume starts to waft my way. It’s sweet and makes me want to lick my lips.
I fight the urge and motion for her to close the door before I fill her in on the information I’ve just received.
“I’ll book you a flight,” Charlie says without preamble.
Outside, Oliver’s office door opens. His booming voice carries, even through closed doors. Through the frosted-glass wall of my office, I see him and Celine file out of their meeting.
Oliver knocks at my door and opens it without waiting for the all-clear. “Hey, Declan,” Oliver begins as he enters my now cramped office. “Oh, hi, Charlie,” he says, not surprised to find her here. “Declan, can we talk about the Finland registration opening date?”
“We’ve got other matters,” I say and nod to the office door.
Oliver shuts it and takes a seat next to Charlie.
I review the information again, as Oliver nods his head, following along. “Great, you’ll go right away.” Then he gestures to Charlie. “This would be a good opportunity for Charlie to get some field experience.”
Charlie perks up in her chair.
I do not mirror this action. If anything, I want to challenge Oliver.
Copenhagen with Charlie in tow. A flight, taxis, all with her never-ending stream of questions and curiosity. A rendezvous with my contact to not mess up. A cover to not blow. Another team member I’d be responsible for protecting, bringing home alive.
At least at the end of the day I’d get a break when we go back to the hotel. My mind catches on that word. “Hotel.” Keys. Locked doors. Perfectly made beds with plush duvets. Charlie’s piercing eyes. Her hand finds mine in the darkness . . .