“Ian, Oliver, and I came to the consensus that this wasn’t a botched hit. It was a warning, a shot across the bow. Telling us to stop meddling, to stand down. We had another incident at one of our events a few months back. A bomb. Left somewhere it would be found, easy enough for us to intercept and disarm. But the threat was clear. That they can get to us.”
“Who is ‘they’?” Charlie asks. She’s leaning forwards now, curious.
“We thinkthisattack came from a group that calls themselves the Order.” Charlie rolls her eyes at this. “Yes, they think highly of themselves.” I lean in too, trying to keep this information close. “It’s a group of some of the wealthiest people in the world. Massive corporate titans who still want more. Even though the age of colonialism is over, in some ways it has just shifted. It isn’t countries trying to conquer the underdeveloped world but corporations. They think if they can disrupt the status quo enough they can remake the world.”
“How so?” Charlie asks. We are leaning in so close, I can smell her perfume again. The fruity aroma I’ve been thinking about on and off since Friday afternoon. Breathing it in is so much better than my memory led me to believe. The hints of strawberry and vanilla are so subtle yet tantalizing.
“The nations without infrastructure need roads, power lines, solar-powered internet, you name it. And these tycoons want it to betheirsteel, cable, pipelines used. They want to create peace by first causing chaos. It’s a backward logic, but that is what corrupt people do. They call themselves the Order as in the ‘new world order,’ the world made for them and by them.”
Charlie’s eyes widen. When I first learned about this, the magnitude of it, I was shocked too. “So you’re trying to stop them?” she clarifies.
“Little by little. We believe a massive cache of arms was exchanged recently. We don’t know what they’ll be used for,” I begin, and Charlie finishes my thought.
“But it can’t be anything good.”
“Exactly, and the person who was previously in charge of strategic operations on our side, Xander Caruso –” I watch as recognition flits across her face – “was killed on a mission six months ago in Osaka. Someone knew we were going to be there and rigged the dock to explode. We think someone within FIRE is leaking information about our plans to stop the Order.”
Charlie sits back in her chair and takes a sip of her imposter coffee drink.
“We never had anyone actively working against us before. But now we do. It’s a shadow war between two agencies that aren’t supposed to exist, taking on missions that never happened,” I continue.
Charlie is silent, still processing. I wouldn’t need to think about it. I’d jump in and ask, where do I sign up? How do I help? Since I was a kid, I wanted to be the hero. To stop the bad guys. I grew up and went to Annapolis and served in the military and learned that there isn’t always one clear bad guy or good guy. The villains are telling themselves a different story, one in whichtheyare right.
Helping to stop illegal arms deals and broker peace, I’m living out my childhood dream. Mostly.
Charlie seems more hesitant.
I press her for an answer. “Now that you know, what are you going to do? Go back to being an assistant and pretend you don’t know about the bad things in the world? Let someone else take care of it?” She meets my gaze, her blue eyes curious and probing. I finish my question: “Or are you going to do something about it?”
17
CHARLIE
“Hello, Charlie,” Celine says as she waltzes into the break room behind me. I was spacing out and letting my mind spiral in the peaceful empty room. My thoughts are circling around the attack on Friday and everything Declan just told me. It can’t be real, but somehow it was. Celine jolts me back to the here and now. “My, aren’t you the caffeine fiend? Another coffee?” she enquires.
“This is for the executive finance meeting,” I explain.
Oliver and Finn are meeting to review the proposed budgets in twenty minutes. Which means I need to have Oliver’s mushroom coffee and Finn’s decaf brew ready and in the conference room soon.
My conversation with Declan lasted longer than expected. He patiently answered all my questions. Patience and Declan were two words I never thought could co-exist in the same breath. But then again, I also never thought I would dream of his hands on me. Of him holding me close. Protecting me. Touching me.
My impression of Declan is shifting, the ground unsteady beneath my feet. His fierce loyalty and protectiveness put me on the defense. Being on the other side of his protection, I can’t help but rethink every interaction we’ve had.
“Congratulations on the King Cool video,” I tell Celine. Raj and his team posted their recap of the Kalispell race over the weekend. It was number two on trending for all of YouTube within hours. Apparently, our registration site is near crashing from all the people racing to sign up for one of our events. It was a big win for Celine and FIRE.
“Merci,” Celine responds with a demure look away as she grabs an energy drink from the refrigerator. This brand sponsors our entire global race series and they stock the fridge weekly. While most of the employees here live, eat, and breathe endurance sports, they also embrace quick energy hits and caffeine.
I take this interaction with Celine as a win, as I watch her pour her energy drink into a glass and then mix in a vitamin C booster pack. As she stirs the pink powder into the highlighter-yellow fluid, she addresses me again, her French accent playing with the vowels. “You know, Charlie, with so much to learn here at FIRE, I wanted to make sure someone reminded you of several key company policies.”
I turn to her, confused. “Which policies?”
“Well, the dress code is fairly relaxed, but, of course, if you couldn’t pass a fingertips inspection in grade school, best not to wear it here,” she says as she eyes my outfit. This T-shirt jersey dress hits me mid-thigh. And my thighs are kind of massive. Which is a point of pride for me. These pistons used to propel me to win after win after win. I keep them in shape now with yoga, Pilates, and long walks. I’m not ashamed of them, but I’m not flaunting them in the office either. As for the test she is referring to, my fingertips are at least two inches from my hem.
“OK, thanks,” I mutter as I turn my attention to the coffees for Oliver and Finn.
“And there is the no-fraternization policy as well,” Celine adds.
I bristle at this. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” I tell her, my tone making it clear that her “friendly reminders” are anything but. I highly doubt that anyone in this office would want to spend their time dating me. I haven’t run a mile in years. My body let me down so completely, so how could I expect it to be good enough for any of the fit people working for FIRE?
