Rogue Faction Part 1 Page 8

  She seemed to realize he was giving her a chance to leave the room before he dealt with Reid and his issues. Nodding, she immediately rose from her chair. It was an opportunity she would readily accept.

  Even as the door closed behind her, Boone had his attention focused on Luke Reid. “What in the hell is your problem?” he demanded.

  “Problem? I don’t have a problem!” He was instantly defensive. That was good. Defensive people made mistakes.

  Clayton looked on, an aura of fascination spanned his entire face. Monica continued to work through her files. There was no way she was oblivious to the conversation at this point.

  Fair enough. Game on!

  “You’ve been all over Cyrus’s case ever since he joined the team. Now that he’s part of this group, you’re acting like he’s invaded your sandbox and kicked over your sandcastle.” Boone was growling at the man. He refused to raise his voice, but his ire was up all the same.

  “I know you’ve taking a shine to the kid, but he’s not qualified to contribute in this capacity. It’s that simple!”

  Boone took a deep breath. It was bullshit, but Reid was responding in a more cogent and rational manner than he’d anticipated.

  Reid’s case was less reckless than Boone had expected. Still, Reid represented a persistent roadblock. He would continue to butt heads with Cyrus at every turn unless the equation was altered in some way. The only thing Boone knew for sure was that Cyrus had the same innate talent for data analysis as he did for fieldwork. He wouldn’t allow such a valuable asset to go underutilized.

  “You’re just frosted that the kid, as you call him, made you look bad at the last meeting,” Boone needled.

  This brought a pulsing vein to the surface of Reid’s forehead. He looked ready to bear his teeth and snarl.

  “One lucky instance—and I stand by my analysis! My profile would’ve been equally effective. But you keep talking up your pet monkey like you’ll win a set of steak knives if he gets promoted! He doesn’t have the experience, and he doesn’t have the skills needed for this job!”

  Boone took a slow, deep breath, and watched Reid for a moment. Reid appeared to fervently believe he was making valid points. It was almost like he wasn’t privy to the same mission reports Boone had read, let alone the reports Boone had personally filed. The success of Cyrus’s last half-dozen undercover assignments very clearly spoke for themselves. No one survived in the field by being lucky. Boone was sure that Reid had some other axe to grind; he just had no idea what it might be in regards to.

  Maybe it was something he should speak with Cyrus about directly. He must have some idea why Reid had it out for him. Still, Boone knew he needed to deal with this situation here and now.

  “You think Cyrus isn’t up to the job?” Boone asked finally. “I say put your money where your mouth is.”

  Though Reid looked unsure as to what that meant, there was a light in his eyes. He liked the idea of having done with all of this. “What do you have in mind?”

  “This meeting constitutes his test. Cyrus has three gists, and he’s had less than thirty minutes to evaluate the lot. I haven’t had time to read any of the damn files, for that matter. You, on the other hand, know everything about the cases we’re about to discuss. At the close of this meeting, we put it to a vote. If those on hand don’t believe Cyrus has made a valuable contribution to the session, then he’s out. He’ll have no input on future sessions and won’t consult on mission plans.”

  Reid was already nodding his head.

  “Not so fast,” Boone warned. “If, at the end of the meeting, it’s decided Cyrus is a valuable member of this group, you never voice a negative or disparaging comment regarding him again, whether in his presence or not.”

  At that, Reid’s head stopped bobbing. The terms were no longer quite so agreeable. None of them were life or death, but he was at least fully considering the ramifications of a loss.

  “One other stipulation,” Boone clarified. “Both you and I are prohibited from voting as to Cyrus’s value to this group.”

  Nodding one more time, Reid made his decision. “Agreed!”

  Boone sat back in his chair, idly rolling his Zippo lighter in his hand. While he had no doubt Cyrus would prove his worth, that wasn’t enough. He needed a way to stick it to Reid and really drive his point home.

  Considering this, a mischievous smile spread across his face. It was the perfect idea. He literally held the solution in the palm of his hand.

  Laying the lighter down, he pushed it across the table toward Reid. “Why don’t we make it a little more interesting?” he offered.

  Eyeing the lighter as if it might bite him, nonetheless, Reid seemed intrigued.

  “Pick any pocket on your vest,” Boone clarified, his glance shifting to the tactical vest Reid wore. It was riddled with over a dozen pockets, compartments and mysterious stashes, where the man could secure assorted field gear. “By the end of the meeting, Cyrus will tell you which pocket contains the lighter.”

  Reid was weary, but interested. “And if I win?”

  “You keep the lighter.”

  The man’s eyebrows arched at the implication. Reid was aware of the lighter’s provenance. It had been a gift to Boone from his wife on their wedding day nearly twenty years earlier. And though she had succumbed to cancer only a few years later, that lighter was Boone’s treasured, ever-present reminder of everything they had once shared. He had carried it with him every day since they’d been wed. And while Boone was not prone to sentimentality, or displays of emotion, those who knew him were well aware of the lighter’s significance.

  The apprehension in his face was palpable. Reid swallowed hard, his eyes focused on the lighter the entire time. Boone knew his case had been made and that, with this wager, Reid now knew the full extent of both his confidence and conviction.

  “If you win?” Reid asked, almost fearfully.

  Boone answered without pause. “You give me your A.T.F. badge.”

  Like the lighter, to most it seemed like a trinket. But Boone knew that Reid prided himself on the work he’d done with the Bureau for Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms, prior to joining the Coalition. He’d risen through their ranks faster than any field team commander in the institution’s history. He’d outlasted many of his commanding officers, and his name was still regarded with reverence within the Bureau. That badge was more than identification to Reid, it was a trophy representing years of dedication and hard work.

  He quickly looked at Boone, before letting his uncertain gaze fall back on the worn and faded chrome finish of the old Zippo lighter.

  “Or you can back out now, no harm done,” Boone persisted. He wanted the man to step up. He needed to drive his point home once and for all. “But, either way, you’re backing the hell off the kid.”

  “Fine,” Reid agreed. There was a halfhearted, uncharacteristic cracking in his voice. He reached out and accepted the lighter.

  “But I don’t want you seeing where I stash it. I don’t need you signaling him in some way,” Reid clarified.

  Monica Fichtner cleared her throat and drew the attention of everyone at the table. “This is an interesting wager, gentlemen. But as head of this organization, I’d like to think I have some say in this matter. Am I wrong?”

  Reid looked instantly chagrined. The rebuke was tame by Monica’s standards, so Boone already knew how she would rule on the matter. But a nearly inaudible stammer from Reid, combined with his reluctance to meet the Red Queen’s eye, told Boone that his associate had yet to gain a measure of the woman in charge. Boone, for his part, looked to her with patient eyes and remained silent.

  “Very well,” Monica said finally, after a moment’s deliberation. “Play your game. I’m rather interested in the outcome, myself.”

  The decision brought a wide smile to Boone’s face. Troublingly, Reid seemed suddenly infused with a burst of confidence. It was as if he held some secret that he planned to use against Cyrus.

  This
is going to be interesting.

  Boone rose from his chair. “Guess I’ll go find Cyrus. I sent a pretty young thing out there to delay him. Knowing that kid, we might not see him for hours.”

  Boone was chuckling to himself and shaking his head, as he headed for the door. But silently, he harbored concern for whatever was bringing Reid increased confidence.

  Chapter 11

  Memorial Tower

  8:33 am

  Rushing down the corridor with a sheath of file folders tucked under his arm, Cyrus was painfully aware of the time. He was already late for the meeting. And, while part of him wanted to tell those waiting that they could all just kiss his ass—he was fresh off a jet, returning from a six-month long operation—another part of him was still driven. He wanted to get in there and hit the ground running.

  As he rounded a corner, Cyrus literally collided with a short brunette woman wearing a dark suit and high heels.

  “Excuse me!” Cyrus said, dropping the folders and catching her by the elbow before she fell to the floor. She’d stumbled on her heels while reeling from the sudden collision.

  The woman collected herself. She seemed ‘off’ somehow, maybe confused. As she pulled her disheveled hair back from her face for the first time, Cyrus saw that her cheeks were pink. She looked flustered. More so than should’ve resulted from the impact.

  “Are you alright?” he asked, with some caution. “Do you need to sit down?”

  She looked around. First at the files scattered on the floor, then at her shaking hands. Finally, her eyes met his. They struck him as being the most unique shade of green he’d ever seen.

  When their eyes met, there was a flash of recognition, as if whatever had distracted her had finally evaporated, making way for clear thought. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  He gave her another moment. He could see there was more on her mind.

  “You’re Cyrus Cooper, right?” she asked.

  “My reputation for klutziness precedes me,” he said with a warm smile, offering his hand.

  She laughed, and they shook. “Charlene Greene—my friends call me Charlie.”

  Cyrus knelt and started collecting his files. “It’s nice to meet you, Charlene,” he said, while he did it. “I’m sorry to knock you down and then run away, but I’m actually late for a meeting.”

  “Oh, no. Call me Charlie,” she said. “And that’s the funny part. I was on my way to find you. Greg Boone asked me to delay you for a few minutes while he dealt with an issue in the conference room. You’re not late at all!”

  Cyrus stopped what he was doing and looked up at the young woman. And she was young. Not all that much older than he was. He guessed her age at mid- to late-twenties. That was interesting. People gave him a hard time for being the youngest guy in Field Operations. But it seemed younger faces were popping up all over the Coalition.

  “Dealt with an issue?” Cyrus asked.

  Charlie’s face blanched. “Uh…I probably wasn’t supposed to mention that part—now that I think about it.”

  She suddenly looked very uncomfortable.

  “I guess I wasn’t supposed to tell you ‘that part’ either,” she admitted.

  Her demure attitude brought a sincere grin from Cyrus. “You’re not a very good liar, Charlie. That’s not an ideal quality in a spy. Are you sure you’ve taken a job with the right agency?”

  Her eyes bulged at his insinuation, before squinting as if considering his words. When the sparkle touched her eyes and the smile crossed her lips, Cyrus knew she realized he was just giving her a hard time.

  “That’s sort of a relief then, since I’m not a spy,” she explained. “I took over as head of Logistics while you were out on your last operation.”

  The realization brought some satisfaction to Cyrus. This meant they would be working together in the future. It wasn’t an unpleasant thought. And based on what she’d just said, it sounded like they would be attending the Brainstorm Session together as well.

  Grabbing the last of his folders, Cyrus cocked his head in the direction of the conference room. “I think you’re going my way?” he asked.

  “Ah…” she stammered. “Boone wanted me to have you wait a few minutes. How do we know if it’s been long enough?”

  “If I know Boone, it’s been long enough.”

  As if on cue, Cyrus looked up to see Boone step from the doorway at the end of the hall. Boone met his glance, then looked at Charlie standing beside him. He rolled his eyes dramatically and motioned for them to get moving, before ducking back inside.

  Chapter 12

  Memorial Tower

  8:37 am

  After watching Charlie slip into her chair at the opposite corner of the table, Cyrus took his spot between Thomas Clayton and Greg Boone. Clayton and Monica Fichtner were the two unknowns in this equation, as far as Cyrus was concerned. Boone had recruited him into the Coalition, and after that he’d been his training officer. Most recently, Boone had led half of the missions Cyrus worked after graduating from probationary status. Luke Reid was potentially trouble. Cyrus knew the man didn’t care for him, but he’d never figured out why. Reid seemed to have a chip on his shoulder.

  That left Clayton and the Red Queen as the wildcards. He didn’t know what to expect from them. The Red Queen ultimately ran the Coalition. She was the shot caller and the public face of the small, elite agency. She was the one to deal with any political fallout created by Coalition operations. She was also, more often, the one to reap the political rewards gained from their hard work. In Cyrus’s short time with the agency, he’d come to realize she was almost as skilled at ducking the fallout as she was at leveraging success to gain favor with the powers that be. She was a ladder climber, and she saw her lofty position as head of the Coalition as another sizable stepping stone in a path to even greater personal wealth and glory.

  Thomas Clayton’s goals seemed to be largely in line with those of the Red Queen. The man was an experienced bureaucrat in his own right, though Cyrus had him pegged as more of an opportunistic brownnoser who’d gained his position as second-in-command more through fortunate timing and efficient ass kissing, than actual intelligence.

  Charlie Greene was an unknown factor at the moment. Her promotion to Head of Logistics had been a complete surprise; the result of some sort of dust-up over the course of Cyrus’s six months in the field. She was young, attractive, and had struck him as very sincere. He couldn’t help hoping that the job didn’t drive that last quality from her. Most of those who made up the Coalition, field agents and headquarters staff, had a tendency to be rather hardcore. The place seemed to attract individuals either genetically predisposed toward having no sense of humor, or Type-A personalities complete with broomsticks surgically implanted deep within their colons.

  Still, there might be hope for Charlie. Only time would tell.

  “Why don’t we start the meeting by reviewing our most recent field operation,” the Red Queen began. She’d finally set aside the stack of papers that had occupied her attention, and Cyrus watched the woman’s eyes pass slowly around the table as if appraising everyone present.

  Her gaze finally settled squarely on him.

  Figures.

  “Your report made for an interesting review,” she said, with a trace of humor. “I understand that the operation did not go according to plan?”

  Meeting her eyes, Cyrus knew better than to demur. He called her the Red Queen for a reason. It was a name she’d earned thanks to her clinical, often cold, interpretation of raw data. It had nothing to do with her hair color, though that was an amusing coincidence.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Cyrus countered. “The mission objectives were achieved with a minimal loss of life.”

  The Red Queen’s lips tightened into a humorless smile. Her glance moved briefly to Boone before once again settling on Cyrus. Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on the table before speaking in a humorless, robotic fash
ion. “I don’t recall the mission objectives including the detonation of one of the suspects—or any parameter that required my undercover agent to bring the remainder of the arms smuggling outfit in single handedly.”

  “But, you see, that was the very first thing I learned about field work,” Cyrus explained without giving an inch. “As they say, no plan ever survives contact with the enemy. In order to be successful, it’s necessary to adapt. I simply adjusted the plan and adapted to the fluctuating mission parameters.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re going to tell me that blowing up the bomber…what was his name? Yurgie?”

  “Eartzie,” Boone clarified. It was his first contribution to the discussion.

  “Eartzie,” the Red Queen growled. “Whatever! You’re telling me that your fluctuating mission parameters prompted the immolation of a human being?”

  “It’s completely detailed in my report, ma’am,” Cyrus responded calmly. He refused to be drawn into an argument with the boss, but he stood by his actions.

  She sat back in her chair. He could feel her glare; she studied him as if searching for something specific. What that might be, he had no idea.

  Finally the Red Queen nodded. It was as if she’d come to some sort of personal decision. “The man, this Eartzie, was a deviant. He cost countless lives and left untold more in ruin. In truth, you very likely saved the taxpayers a great deal of money by eliminating the need for a trial. There would’ve been countless extradition issues, as well. I am relieved that you killed him for the right reasons. According to your report, it was actually quite creative, using the man’s own bomb against him.”

  Cyrus wanted to explain that, more to the point, he’d used the man’s pride against him. It had been the bomb that killed him, but it was Eartzie’s utter confidence in his own work and unwillingness to double check that work, that actually cost him his life. Had the man taken even a few seconds for a closer look at the wiring of the explosive charge, he would’ve realized that it had been tampered with.