2. A Less-Than-Typical Pedestrian
CHAPTER 2
A LESS-THAN-TYPICAL PEDESTRIAN
ZOE
I cannot believe I got to the case before Ledger . I didn’t expect that extra shot of excitement and satisfaction on this mission. Mostly because I didn’t expect to see Ledger here at all. The man is rather nice to behold in any circumstance, but seeing him run is a glorious thing, and I will never be sad to witness that.
I’ll also never be sad to witness the look on his face at the exact moment he realized that I was going to best him on this mission. Or the look of frustration on his face when I winked at him from the rooftop. I beat him in Cairo when we crossed paths there, but then he took home the prize when our missions took us to the same back alley warehouse in London not long after, so I’m glad I won this one. I can’t let Ledger get two in a row.
Not that I can’t handle him winning now and then. It’s what keeps me sharp. A competition is only worthy of actually competing in when the opponent is on your level .
I am a little disappointed that Ledger isn’t chasing after me, though. I kind of figured he would. Maybe not from the rooftops, but definitely from the ground. I make it a block and a half away from the acquisition site, across half a dozen connected— or close enough to jump— roofs, descend back down to the street, duck into an alcove, pull the super-thin and lightweight magenta jacket and teal bag from the pouch at my waist, put the jacket on, slip the case into the bag, let down my hair, and walk half a block before I realize he isn’t tailing me.
Not that I would’ve let him catch up to me. I’ve worked hard to get all the information that led me to this case, and we need its contents. Some artwork was stolen, and we believe it’s being sold to fund terrorist activity. This case likely contains the catalog of stolen art, along with their current location and potential buyers. I don’t want this information in anyone else’s hands. Not even Ledger’s .
Especially not Ledger’s .
So , I navigate this enemy territory with speed and agility. Normally , I wouldn’t consider a city filled with normal people “enemy” territory, but between overly-enthusiastic tourists asking me to take pictures of them in front of the—admittedly, rather impressive— Masonic Library / Museum and the dive-bombing pigeons, it feels like it fits. But I do love Philadelphia . It’s a city of revolutions and rebirths, which has pretty much been the theme of my life.
My evasive maneuvers aren’t just for Ledger , of course. I don’t want the guys I stole the case from or the one accepting the handoff to catch me, either, and I know they’re out searching for me— I’ve nearly run into them twice.
Which is why I don’t just stroll the nearly two miles up Market Street to my extraction point. I double back. I go around. I take a bus, a commuter train, and a trolley , of all things. I am as adept at evading obstacles in the field as I am at avoiding social commitments back home. And , of course, the entire way, I navigate construction detours, which take about the same level of tactical planning as evading capture. At least the orange cones are less intimidating than armed guards.
Luckily , Packston , the tech op in my ear is very good at seeing the overhead view and directing me to locations at precisely the right time, because I’m also in a big hurry to get back to Langley with the case. This is a big city, but the longer a game of cat-and-mouse goes on, the more likely the mouse is to get caught. And I never get caught.
I cross over the Schuylkill River the second time on foot, and as I approach the building with the private heliport, I tell Packston , “ I’ve hit the extraction point.”
“ Roger that, Zoe . Initiating protocol ‘ Rooftop Rendezvous .’ And just for the record, since our evasion pattern had more twists than a roller coaster factory, the subjects called off their pursuit of you. Harrison is on standby, rooftop level.”
I drum the fingertips of my free hand against my leg as the elevator takes me up the six stories and onto the roof, where Harrison is, indeed, waiting for me in the chopper. Its blades are turning slowly like it’s powering up in preparation to take off the moment I step aboard. The second the elevator doors are open enough for me to slip through, I run toward the helicopter.
Like quite a few flat rooftops in Philly , this one is grassed to help with stormwater runoff. Maybe because I was just traipsing through the city in less-than-typical pedestrian paths, or maybe because I’m in a hurry to get back, I channel my inner Pythagoras and run the hypotenuse, because I’m all about taking the shortest distance between two points—the straight line.
Which means I am cutting across the grass instead of walking on the sidewalk like a civilized pedestrian. Except it’s not grass, it’s more like a ground cover of succulents, and it seems that it rained last night. And , apparently, ground cover on a gravel roof is very squishy.
I barely slow my run, though, as my shoes are getting soaked through, and I’m almost to the helipad when my foot catches on a plant and I fall. In my pre-intelligence operative life, I might have fallen flat on my face. Instead , I execute a perfect tactical roll back to standing. Which means that instead of getting my entire front side soaked, I get my entire backside soaked. But I don’t lose hold of the case— I keep my grip tight, at the expense of my hand.
I recently slacklined on a one-inch wide polyester webbing between the Petronas Twin Towers in Kuala Lumpur . It was 700 feet across, and I barely wobbled. And here, I fall on a soft, mostly flat surface? I am trained in a dozen different weapons, yet I am no match for succulents. ( Which I already know, because Packston gave me a potted succulent to “personalize” my desk once. Apparently , they actually have limits on how long they can go without water.)
My face heats, and I am wondering if Packston or anyone else back at Langley witnessed my fall— they haven’t exactly commandeered a satellite to watch my op, but there are probably cameras on this rooftop— when Packston says, “ Interesting choice of escape route.”
Sometimes it’s difficult to tell when Packston is being serious or sarcastic, but I can hear the smile in his words. So I respond with, “ Mission update: succulents are now classified as hostile entities. I’m proceeding with caution.”
I look at my hand that held the case. I tore a fingernail down so far that it’s bleeding. I shake it off and climb into the helicopter. My nails are in such sorry shape that it’s not like it makes them look much worse.
Harrison glances back at me, and I don’t need my expertise in reading body language to tell me that he saw the fall and that he’s feeling a mix of amusement and pity for me. Whether it’s for my injured nail, the embarrassment of falling, or the fact that the entire backside of my body is now soaking wet is anyone’s guess. Whatever . I got the case, and that’s what matters. “ Just keeping up my skills in gracefully evading ground-based threats.”
Harrison chuckles and goes back to piloting, lifting us off the building and back toward Langley .
The thirty-two minutes we are in the air isn’t nearly enough time for my clothes to dry, but it’s enough to make them not look like they’re soaked. One of the benefits of wearing dark colors. I glance down at my utility belt and then at the bag at my feet that holds the case I acquired from the targets. I have, on my person, gadgets for every possible mission scenario. But I don’t bring extra shoes? I’ll have to start packing a thin, foldable pair for my next mission because my feet are feeling way more humid than feet should ever feel.
As I walk into the Global Intelligence Division in the CIA building at Langley , carrying the case I acquired, I really hope that the squishing I’m pretty sure my shoes are making with each step is all in my head. My eyes rove over the heads in the room and immediately find Packston’s blond curls, and we give each other a nod before my eyes find Sullivan Reynolds , the director, on the opposite side.
I’m almost to Packston’s desk, halfway to the director, when my co-worker, Troy , swaggers up to me, coffee in hand, trying to appear superior. It’s too bad for him that our field records don’t back that up.
“ I heard you made quite the splash on your latest op,” he says. “ I didn’t even know you had taken up diving, Steele , yet I heard you executed a perfect forward tuck.” He pats me on the shoulder like he’s “congratulating” me when I know it’s to see how wet my back still is.
“ The key word in that sentence is ‘perfect.’”
He makes a show of drying his hand on his pant leg. “ You know, I hadn’t thought about wearing a wetsuit on a non-aquatic mission. That’s an interesting touch.”
“ You should try it sometime,” I say. “ It might help you to stay cool under pressure.”
I glance at Packston as Troy disappears back toward the bridge he lives under.
“ Hey , in my defense,” Packston says, holding up his hands, “if I’d have had any indication you were going to get all acrobatic, I wouldn’t have tapped into the rooftop cameras or put it on the big screens.”
I cringe that my slip-up was on the big screens, but I feel the compliment behind Packston’s words— I don’t mess up, so he wouldn’t have had any indication that I might. I’ll take it.
Director Reynolds , who is also my case officer for this mission, stands straight from where he’d been leaning to look at one of my coworkers’ computers, and he spots me before his eyes immediately go to the case in my hand and he smiles. He’s always proud of me at the end of a successful mission. I kind of live for it.
When I reach him, I hold out the case, and the first words that come out of my mouth are, “ Why was Ledger Lancaster there? We’ve worked really hard on this op— the CSA isn’t just going to steal it from us, are they?” I am not whining. My voice is coming out as strong and unyielding as steel. Just like my last name.
He accepts the case. “ They aren’t going to steal it from us. Don’t worry, it’s still your operation.”
“ Good ,” I say, crossing my arms.
“ But we are going to share the contents of the case with them.”
“ What ?!” My shoulders immediately tense back up, which is funny, because the director’s sag just a bit at my outburst.
“ It appears that it also contains some intel from an operation of theirs.”
I give him a wary look. It sounds like their way of trying to steal it from us.
“ A different operation,” he clarifies. “ We’ll know more after the contents are analyzed. For now, go home.”
“ I’m fine. If that case contains what we think it does, we’ll need to act on it soon.”
“ Even if it does, the analysts will still need time with it first. There’s nothing you can do right now. How long has it been since you last slept?”
“ I’m fine .”
Sully studies me in a way that makes me feel like he can see everything. “ That fall on the lawn said otherwise.”
I wince. Of course, he saw it.
“ Zoe , you’ve been working this case too hard for too long. Go home . After how long you’ve been gone, I bet it’ll be nice to sleep in your own bed again.”
I’m actually exhausted. I know, because Sully’s right— I never would’ve fallen on that rooftop if I wasn’t. So I tell Packston I’m heading home, leave Langley , get takeout Chinese food because I’ve also realized how ravenously hungry I am, and head to the hotel I’m currently calling home.
This place is clean and although the walls are painted the yellow of a mostly healed bruise, they’re better than the purple and orange plaid wallpaper of my previous hotel. Not that it matters. This is just the place I sleep and occasionally eat. I don’t need more than this. It’s not like I’ve ever really had a place to call home to compare it to— I only have vague recollections of the apartments I lived in with my mom before I started moving from house to house in foster care.
And now, I spend half my time in hotels around the world. A hotel might not be what most people call “home,” but it’s what’s most familiar to me, and that’s the same thing. It means I can feel “at home” when I’m at Langley or out of town.
I drop my go bag on the floor just inside the door, lock both locks, and take my Kung Pao Chicken to the desk, because it feels more like a kitchen table than my coffee table does. I’m partway through the container when I hear the sound of the Friends theme song coming from the TV in the room next to mine.
One of the bad parts about living in a hotel is being at the mercy of whoever is currently staying in the room next to mine. I watched an episode of Friends once. I could tell that it was a great show, but I hated it. At least it isn’t quite as bad as the previous guests who stayed in that room and watched one episode of Modern Family after another. I don’t like feeling melancholic. Or inadequate. And I definitely don’t enjoy longing for a past— or a present— that I’ve never experienced. And I feel all three with those shows.
So I grab my headphones, open an app I have on my phone that plays brown noise, and I crank it up loudly enough to drown out the sounds of the TV . Then I eat my spicy chicken in peace and think about how great it is that I have this space to myself. In foster care, that wasn’t a luxury that I ever enjoyed, so I always make sure to enjoy it now.
A few minutes later, I remove my headphones, close the box of Chinese food, unsure if I’m full or if I’m too tired to finish eating, and stick it in my mini fridge. Then I walk to my suitcase and stare at it. I’m too exhausted to change, but I’m not about to sleep in leather pants. So , as usual when exhausted, I still do whatever has to be done. I peel off my clothes, which are, in fact, dry now, pull on a nightshirt, and, as the director suggested, I crawl into “my own” bed.
It’s not that all mattresses in all hotels are the same that makes this one my own. But the circumstances of my childhood gifted me with the ability to sleep anywhere. And traveling the world for the CIA and spending time in so many different time zones has gifted me with the ability to sleep at any time .
Which is good, because the clock on the nightstand reads 6:02 p.m. as I put a pillow over my head to drown out the sound of Ross’s dinosaur lecture being met with Phoebe’s quirky retort, and, like a pro, drift off to sleep within seconds.