"Are you?" he repeated.
Of course, he did. "No. Not right now," I choked out. "Unless you count emotional instability as a threat."
A beat of silence. "Why are you calling?"
It was a good question, one I wasn't sure how to answer. "I just… I wanted to see how you were doing. And maybe get a progress report on the last one."
"Define the last one."
"Valmont," I supplied, feeling stupid for needing to clarify and for needing to come up with an excuse as to why I was reaching out. "I haven't seen anything in the news."
"I'm being careful," he replied. "The subject is cautious. He's aware that someone is targeting him, which increases the risk. And I don't make mistakes."
His voice was so dry, it could have started a brushfire.
"So what are you going to do?" I asked. "If he's onto you?"
"Wait for him to make either the first move or a mistake of his own."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Everyone does eventually, especially if they have something to hide and something to lose."
The silence on the line was too loud. I was aware of every shift in my own breathing, every tiny vibration of blood behind my eyes.
I went for it, blunt. "Do you have a name?"
This time, the pause was a chasm. I thought maybe he'd hung up.
"Why?"
"Well, I don't know what to call you and Operative Seven sounds like a mouthful."
"No," he finally said. "I don't."
I expected a joke, or a brush-off, or maybe just a snort. But he said it with a precision that meant there was nothing else behind it. It hit harder than I thought.
"You don't…like, you can't tell me, or you actually don't have one?"
"I never had one," he said. "Father didn't give us names. We got numbers."
I swallowed. "That's…Jesus. That's bleak."
"I didn't notice," he said, and I knew, without being told, that it was the closest thing to vulnerability he'd ever allow.
"Operative Seven is just weird," I said. "I'll give you one." I racked my brain for something clever, something with weight. All that came out was, "Seven. I'm calling you Seven."
He didn't react.
"You can call me Kimmy," I said, softer.
"Understood," he said, then paused, then finally uttered, "Kimmy."
For some reason, the way he said my name made my spine prickle. It felt like he'd reached through the line and traced the word across my skin. Just thinking about it had my arms in goosebumps.
I tried to ignore it and turn the mood lighter, if only to keep from falling into the existential pit he'd dug. "So… Do you always answer unknown calls with ‘Are you in danger?' Or is that just a me thing?"
"It's protocol."
