Chapter 6
DECLAN
One more meeting and then it is the weekend.
An hour and then I’m out of here.
Home, changed, and ready to ride.
Just me and the bike. The sound of the chain and wheels rolling and the freedom of the road.
If I hit all the traffic lights right, I might be able to get back from my twenty-mile ride before the sun sets.
With three months to go until my 300 km cycling race in Athens, I can’t slack on my training if I want to place in my age group.
All that stands between me and my evening is one final meeting.
With my water bottle in one hand and my notepad in the other, I head out of my office to the conference room.
My timing is horrible, because Charlie Ross hops up from her desk at the same time.
Her perky ponytail bobs along, all she needs is a yellow pencil in her hair and she’ll have the quirky librarian look down.
The glasses, the hair. The pencil skirts that are professional yet still highlight her sculpted calves.
She has her security badge on a lanyard round her neck, as if she is trying to rub it in my face that I left her stranded outside on Monday.
“Hey, Declan.” She makes eye contact, which means we’ll end up walking to this meeting together.
I give her a nod in response.
“So, you were just in Finland?” Charlie asks. Her tone is so peppy and upbeat, I wince as if I’ve been hit in the eyes with direct sunlight.
“Yes. And?” I answer, not sure where her line of questioning is going.
“Oh, I saw a headline that the peace treaty was negotiated there. I’ve gone years of my life not thinking about the country and then two times in one week: Finland!” She talks with her hands and it only accentuates her prattling.
“Hmm,” is all I can muster in response. She knows something. I don’t know what, but she does.
Charlie presses her lips together. I hope my short responses are enough to end her questions. I’m all for helping the new team member out, but her direct questioning, the timing of her arrival, are too uncanny for me.
We pass by accounting in silence, for which the number crunchers are likely grateful. This corner of the office is the quietest, even with half the race operations team out on site all year.
“So you’re the VP of strategic operations?” Charlie pries once more.
“Yep,” I respond, happy to see the conference-room door just ahead. I won’t have to deal with her inane babbling for much longer.
“What does that even mean?” she asks. “I mean, sorry, that came out rude. But we have race operations, so how is strategic operations distinct from that?”
I stop short a few paces before we reach the conference room.
Charlie stops a half-step later and turns round.
Her blue eyes gaze up at me behind those librarian glasses.
She is searching for something. She could be trying to make small talk, get the lay of the land in the office, but my instincts are telling me that there is more to her sudden appearance and expedited hiring process.
I answer her query: “Business development. Making contacts with decision-makers in each market.”
“That sounds fun,” she replies with a nod.
I brush past her and enter the conference room.
There are two open seats left, thankfully on opposite sides of the room.
My options are the chair next to the A/C vent or Celine from PR Celine is good at her job, but she can’t take a hint.
I’m not interested in anything other than the necessary professional interactions with her. I elect to sit near the A/C.
The meeting is productive and efficient.
Each department head gives a brief update, a few even cede their time so others can go over more pressing topics.
Trey, who leads our corporate travel logistics, asks for an update on the visas for the executive team.
Charlie provides her update succinctly. I have to hand it to her, she’s on top of things.
That’s a good sign. But then, of course, Little Miss Questions pipes up.
“I have one name from the previous executive list that I can’t get a hold of. Is Xander Caruso still traveling with the same itinerary as Oliver?”
The room shifts. Everyone was quiet before, but now it sounds like they are all holding their breath.
They are all frozen. And instead of looking to Charlie, who was just speaking, or Trey, who could easily have deleted X.C.
from the list, I can sense that the whole room is focused on me.
I look over and Ian Turner has shifted his gaze back to Charlie; his expression mirrors my own.
I flex my hands as if I have some imaginary stress ball in my palms. The motion helps, fractionally. “He’s no longer with us.”
We never recovered his body from the bottom of Osaka Bay. But Shauna still sent the obituary in a company-wide email. They brought in grief counselors for employees to talk to. I worked from home for a few weeks to avoid questions. I needn’t have bothered. The rumor mill turned out enough theories.
X.C. might have looked fit, but he had a heart condition. Went for a run before one of their meetings and dropped dead.
Well, I heard X.C. was wasted and drove his rental car into the water. It’s a miracle Declan made it out alive.
None of the rumors got close to the truth and that was just fine. Let people create their own story.
Charlie glances over to me and I can read the look on her face. The “oh, I’ve stepped in it” expression.
Next to her, Celine catches my attention. She rolls her eyes at Charlie’s expense. I may not like Charlie very much, and I certainly don’t trust her, but no one likes a bully either. I ignore Celine’s non-verbal commentary and resume my notes.
The meeting ends a few moments later. I stay back as everyone else filters out – everyone except Ian. “We need to talk to Oliver about his new assistant.” His terse words confirm that he shares my suspicions.
“Couldn’t agree more,” I say before we both march over to Oliver’s office. Charlie is sitting at her desk, already dutifully typing her meeting notes.
Ian walks right past without giving her a second glance. He starts right in before the door is closed. “Oliver, Charlie is asking a lot of questions.”
I’m only a few steps behind him, hurrying to join him in Oliver’s office. I close the door behind me. My frustration is now directed at Ian as well. His premature comments were sloppy. There is no way Charlie didn’t hear Ian’s opening complaint.
Oliver is standing at his desk, packing his laptop, notepad, and USB drives into a FIRE-branded messenger bag. “It’s her first week; of course she’s asking questions. She’s learning the ropes around here.”
“I think you misunderstand. She’s prying. Asking about my trip to Finland. Asking about what I do here,” I emphasize to Oliver.
Oliver rebuffs my statement. “Those are perfectly reasonable questions for a coworker to ask another.”
Ian lets out a sigh and crosses his arms. The man is 6’ 4” and not one to speak up much, if at all.
He is a tech guy through and through; he would prefer to communicate with robots in binary code than with humans in words.
The fact that he is bringing this issue to Oliver speaks volumes, or it should.
“I don’t know where you found her. We know nothing about her past. Her allegiances. ”
Oliver stops his preparations to leave. “I’m sure you could ask Charlie about all of that. Her last job. Where she went to college. How fast she can run a mile.”
I put my hands on my hips. I hate to have to spell it out for Oliver.
“She could be a plant from the Order! Have you stopped to consider that?” In the six months since X.C.
and I were burned on a mission in Osaka, we have had multiple covert operations go sideways.
Bad intel, informants tailed and bullied into hiding, and then a direct threat to one of our events.
An explosive package left in the transition area of one of our triathlons, the metallurgic signature matches a known associate of the Order.
It could be multiple individuals or organizations colluding against us, but it fits that it would be the Order.
They clearly have a mole within our organization to keep that flow of intelligence running.
We’ve swapped out security clearances, repositioned team members, and found nothing.
That my mission in Helsinki was successful means that we’ve thwarted the Order’s attempts to infiltrate us.
Or the mole got wise and realized we were on to them, prompting the Order to send a new informant.
Ian backs me up. “The World Games are later this summer and we are less than five months out from our Exponential Endurance Championships. We’ve got too much on the line to chance a new potential threat to our security.”
Oliver takes off his glasses and cleans them with the hem of his polo.
It’s a stalling technique I’ve seen him use before, a way to gather his thoughts.
“You’re right, we can’t be too careful about who we trust. Which is why I wasn’t excited about the idea of hiring someone with the espionage experience that you suggested.
” He levels his gaze at me. “The last two you sent me,” he says, addressing Ian, “were keen to do all the clandestine work but couldn’t manage the calendar.
Horrible executive admins and I couldn’t trust them.
Charlie has my absolute trust, can do the job, and most importantly isn’t previously trained in deception.
” There is a note of finality in his voice, but my doubts linger.
“But how do you know you can trust her? How can we?” I protest.
He points to the far wall of his office with the start-line quote on it. “You know the origin of that quote? The race is not given to the swift, nor valor to the brave, but to those who endure to the end?”
“Ecclesiastes,” I retort.
“Matthew?” Ian guesses, both of us referring to a biblical origin of the quote.
“Partially correct.” Oliver nods. “But the first time I ever heard it was from my college roommate. It was his personal mantra. He uses it all the time in his run coaching now.”
Ian and I are silently waiting for Oliver to elaborate further. When he does, he only gives us a name: “Tom Ross.” In my periphery, Ian’s shoulders sink, his guard dropped.
Tom Ross, Mr. Run Barefoot, coached the US track and field delegation to multiple gold and silver medals in the World Games four years ago.
Best-selling author, Tom Ross. In terms of famous runners and running coaches, he’s a big name.
No one outside our little niche knows who he is, but everyone inside of it does.
“And, let me guess, Charlie Ross is his daughter?” I ask, finally putting the pieces together.
Oliver gives me a nod. “And my niece. I know I can count on you to show her the ropes. She’ll be on site with me next weekend in Kalispell, but when I’m out of the office, can you look out for her?”
I manage to squeeze out “yes, sir” through my tight jaw. Oliver leaves and pats Ian on the shoulder on his way out.
“Have a safe trip,” Charlie chirps behind me.
Our operation has never been more vulnerable, we are still reeling from the chaos the Order has caused, and now we are stuck with an inexperienced nepo hire of an executive assistant.
This is worse than a plant. At least that person can be dismissed with cause.
Oliver’s “niece” is not going to be up to this task and we are all going to pay for her ineptitude.
And his weakness in hiring her. Best to keep my guard up.
Ian turns to me and gives me a “what are you gonna do?” look before walking away.
I close Oliver’s door on my way out and avoid eye contact with Charlie as I walk to my office. I’ll be using this frustration on my ride tonight, knocking out twenty miles in an hour, easy. Maybe forty minutes.
From behind me, Charlie calls out, “You know, Ollie isn’t really my uncle.”
I turn to her, letting my pent-up frustration out. “They never are!”
It may not be Charlie’s fault that my mentor was murdered in front of my eyes. That the operations FIRE runs to keep the world safe from nefarious scum are compromised. That my instincts are all screaming to trust no one. But she is getting the brunt of it.
Her assertion that she and Oliver aren’t blood related does nothing to reassure me or make this any less a clear case of nepotism.
If anything, it is the worst-case scenario.
Not qualified for the job and a potential liability.
The Order aren’t above bribery. If she has any student loans or debts in the family, they can use that as leverage.
Charlie cocks her head to the side and gives a laughing smile. “Did you just angry-quote Pretty Woman to me?”
The most irrational response! How am I supposed to work with this?
She grabs her purse and locks her computer. “Have a good weekend, Declan.” She waves and bounces out of the office as if her presence hasn’t caused a massive disruption. I want to slam my office door. I want to tell her to her face that I think she shouldn’t be working here. I want to shout.
Instead, I pack my things, head home, and plan to pound out these training miles. To focus on the road, and the bike, and to forget for a while.