16. Welcome to the CSA
WELCOME TO THE CSA
REESE
Miles calls Evelyn while I rub the last of the mustache adhesive from my upper lip.
I had been planning to keep the mustache on because entering a secret government agency while wearing a disguise feels thematically appropriate.
But Miles pointed out that if he does get permission for me to enter the CSA, I’ll have to pass through security equipment designed to detect suspicious things.
I pointed out that a crooked mustache attached with two-year-old costume adhesive is unlikely to defeat the federal government. He didn’t disagree. He only looked at me until I peeled it off and stuck it across the top of my notebook.
I wait in his kitchen while he stands in the living area, talking to his mom on the phone. He doesn’t lower his voice, but I can only hear his side of the conversation.
“She wants to see it.”
A pause.
“Yes, I explained that.”
Another pause.
“No, I didn’t promise.” His gaze flicks toward me. “I told her I would ask.”
I raise both thumbs. He looks away like my encouragement is not helpful.
“I understand. Thank you.”
When he ends the call, I’m gripping the edge of his kitchen counter. “Well?”
“My mom approved a limited visit.”
“She did?” I release the counter. “Limited how?”
“Limited to a narrow, sanitized update about the operation you already witnessed. You’ll be allowed onto the main floor after all other active information has been secured. No sublevels. No operational files. No access to secured systems. You’ll have to stay with me and my mom the entire time.”
“That sounds perfectly reasonable.”
His eyebrows rise, like he expected me to argue.
“I’m capable of respecting boundaries.”
“You tracked your purse to an active intelligence operation this afternoon.”
“That was before I knew there were intelligence-operation boundaries to respect.”
“You knew there was a restricted-access sign.”
“Hey, I respected that one.”
He looks as though he wants to say more.
I hold up a hand. “We have already established that I made a questionable choice. Can we focus on the part where I get to visit a secret government agency?”
“One time,” he says. “Tonight’s approval doesn’t give you ongoing access.” He grabs his keys. “You’ll also need to leave your phone, smartwatch, purse, and anything else electronic with security.”
I glance toward the garage. “My purse is still in your trunk.”
“So I’ve heard. You’re going to need your ID from it.”
The drive takes less time than I expect.
Or maybe my brain is moving so quickly that twenty minutes feels like five.
I have passed some of these roads before without realizing that a secret intelligence agency was tucked among the fields and trees.
Now every turn feels significant. Every unmarked road looks like it could lead to an underground bunker.
Every dark SUV we pass appears suspicious.
Miles catches me watching one through the side mirror.
“That’s a family coming home from a soccer tournament.”
“You don’t know that.”
“There are three children in uniform in the back seat.”
“They could be tiny operatives.”
“They’re eating fast food.”
“Maintaining cover requires commitment.”
Miles shakes his head, but he’s smiling. A minute later, the smile fades, and his hands tighten slightly around the steering wheel.
Oh. He’s nervous. Miles has escorted people into dangerous buildings, met criminals while wearing false faces, and apparently survived a vehicle rolling during an extraction. But bringing me to his office makes him nervous.
I want to ask why. Instead, I look out the window and let him drive.
We turn into an area where a lit sign beside a tall gate reads Lancaster Business Solutions. A guardhouse stands just beyond it.
It’s dark, but there is enough decorative lighting for me to see that beyond the gate, the road passes by meticulously maintained grounds toward a mansion that looks less like a business and more like a place where an eccentric billionaire would gather a team of superheroes.
I lean toward the windshield. “You work in a mansion? Does it have secret passageways?”
“Yes.”
My head snaps toward him.
Miles glances at me. “You asked.”
“You answered.”
“I’m trying something new.”
I sit back, impressed. Miles pulls to a stop at the guardhouse. A broad-shouldered man in a dark uniform steps toward Miles’s window, and Miles lowers it.
“Evening, Moss.”
“Evening.” Moss looks past him at me. He has the expression of someone who could watch a building explode without raising his voice. “Director Lancaster is expecting you,” he says. “I’ll need her identification.”
I retrieve my driver’s license from my purse and hand it across Miles.
Moss scans it, then looks at the screen in his hand.
Not at my unfortunate DMV picture. At information about me.
I’m guessing there is a lot more information on his screen than my height, eye color, and the fact that I need corrective lenses to drive.
“Am I currently being assigned a threat level?” I ask.
Moss returns my license. “Your vetting was completed before tonight’s authorization.”
That is not a no.
Then Moss holds out some kind of scanner, and Miles taps his badge on it before placing his hand palm-down on it. Huh.
The gate begins opening, and Moss says, “Have a pleasant visit.”
“Thank you. I’ll do my best not to overthrow anything.”
Moss’s face remains perfectly neutral.
The mansion grows larger as we follow the cobblestone drive. Warm light shines through a few of the tall windows, but most of the building is dark. Only two other cars are parked in front.
“Who’s here?” I ask.
“Charlie and Emerson are still working on the operation I was part of today. A few security and support personnel are elsewhere in the building.”
“They know I’m coming?”
“They know someone authorized for a controlled visit is arriving. It’s…not a common thing.”
“They don’t know it’s me?”
“Charlie probably knows.”
“Because she’s a technical operative?”
“Because she’s Charlie. And she probably told Emerson.”
Miles parks, and we climb the front steps and open the big, wooden front door.
The lobby is all polished marble, dark wood, sharp lines, and intimidation.
A woman sits behind a massive reception counter wearing a black suit and an expression that makes me want to apologize for several library books I returned late in the fifth grade.
“Good evening,” she says.
“Ms. Hinshaw,” Miles says. “This is Reese Wilder.”
Her gaze shifts to me, but she doesn’t blink. “Director Lancaster is waiting.” Then, she gestures toward a row of small lockers built into the wall.
Miles opens one. “Phone, watch, purse, keys.”
I put all the items inside, and the locker seals with a soft click.
A door opens to the side of Ms. Hinshaw’s desk, and Evelyn Lancaster steps through.
I have seen her in her home, in restaurants, at family celebrations, and holding her granddaughter while directing six adult children with a single look.
Tonight, she is wearing a charcoal suit and a security badge. She doesn’t look like Miles’s mother.
Or she does, but she also looks like a woman in charge of a secret intelligence agency. Now I realize that her being able to direct with a single look is a skill she may have perfected on armed intelligence operatives. Those two realities are going to take some time to fit together.
“Reese,” she says warmly. “Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for letting me.”
“This is an unusual exception.”
I nod.
“I trust that you understand the importance of keeping everything you see and learn here private.”
“I do.”
Her expression softens slightly. “I know tonight has been a lot.”
“That is one way to describe it.”
“Tonight’s visit has been authorized because of your long relationship with our family, your completed vetting, and the fact that you accidentally witnessed a portion of an active operation.”
I wince. “Accidentally is an important word in that sentence.”
Evelyn gives me a warm smile, then gestures toward the open door. “Let’s go inside.”
The short hallway beyond the lobby contains a freestanding arch made of dark metal and glass. It looks like an airport scanner designed by someone with a much larger budget and no desire to make passengers feel comfortable.
“Go ahead,” Miles says.
I look back at him. “What does it detect?”
“Weapons, chemical agents, electronic devices, listening equipment, trackers, and several other things.”
My purse has a tracker in it, and I’m suddenly feeling very validated in leaving it in the locker. I walk through the scanner, and a light moves from my head to my feet before emitting one quiet chime. I look down at myself. “Did I pass?”
“You’re carrying trace amounts of beeswax,” Miles says, glancing at a nearby screen.
My eyes go wide. “It can detect beeswax?”
“It can detect chemical residue.”
Maybe my shower today shouldn’t have been a quick one.
The end of the hall opens into an enormous space.
Desks fill a good part of the room. Glass-fronted conference rooms line the back wall.
Four large screens hang at the front, displaying graphs, spreadsheets, market projections, and enough boring financial information to make my eyes lose focus immediately.
A sign above them reads Lancaster Business Solutions, and on another wall, I see their logo— Your secrets are safe with us.
I look at Miles. “That slogan is either clever or evidence that your entire agency enjoys tempting fate.”
He chuckles softly.
It’s late on a Saturday, so most of the desks are empty.
Charlie sits near the middle of the room, staring intently at a screen filled with what appears to be a spreadsheet.
Her posture is too rigid. She’s pretending to perform boring work with the same energy she uses when trying not to spoil the ending of a movie.
Emerson is several desks away. He glances up once, gives me a small nod, and returns to writing on a plain legal pad. Neither of them says anything. The silence feels staged. Not fake exactly. More… concealed.