Chapter Text
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Dennis grumbles into the inconspicuous mic tucked into the collar of his shirt. “How do we even know he’s into guys?”
He tugs awkwardly at his button down. It was new, pressed lightly, then artfully wrinkled and beaten to show some wear and tear. His slacks were snug against his hip and loose at the ankles, where they were tailored a tad shorter than necessary, showing a brief flash of skin where his socks start. He’s even toting around a large messenger bag, it’s slung over his shoulder, weighed down with miscellaneous items, a few pens, a scribbled in notebook amongst other things. It was all very deliberate of course. He looked like the part he was meant to play.
Trinity’s voice comes through his ear piece, clear as day.
“The company has their ways.” She muses. Dennis snorts at that. “I’m just glad it’s not me.”
“No need to rub it in. God, this is going to be so humiliating if he’s straight.” He whispers, scanning the street for any sign of the target. So far, nothing. It was still relatively early out, the sun had just settled in the sky, warm rays banishing the lingering night chill. Dennis had allowed himself five minutes to enjoy the sunrise, filing the visage away.
Company sources said that the man would be passing by here, that he was a regular at the local cafe two blocks away. Dennis himself was holding a lukewarm cup from that very same shop.
“If it’s any consolation.” Trinity trails off. He waits for her to finish the sentence. She doesn’t.
“Seriously?”
“I got nothing.” He could practically hear her shrugging.
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” There’s a brief pause, then a drop in her tone, “Get ready huckleberry, three o’clock, just turning the corner.”
He immediately pretends to fumble with the bag slung across his torso, shifting through its messy compartments for something, his coffee balancing precariously in his hand. He didn’t even have to try very hard to look disheveled, he had a penchant for attracting mess. His shoes were a calculated half size too big so his socks bunched inside awkwardly, forcing him to hobble down the street in uneven steps.
“What an actor.” He hears Trinity whisper. “We should get you an Oscar.”
He fights the urge to roll his eyes at the comment. In his periphery, he can see the man as just a step away, and Dennis lets the hand holding the coffee go a bit slack. As planned, it goes tumbling. He blurts out a string of curses as the cup bounces off his bag, the lid popping off, and the liquid inside splatters across himself and the man in question.
“Oh fuck!” The lukewarm liquid seeps into his pant legs and onto the man’s shoes and socks. “Fuck, I’m so sorry-“
The rehearsed apologies fall from his lips, and to be fair, he is sorry. The shine of the shoes looked expensive, even covered in coffee. Polished and sleek leather doused in a shitty americano, he could cry if it weren’t planned.
“Fuck,” He says again when the strap of his bag slips from his shoulder and hits the floor, right on top of the spill. That wasn’t part of the plan. He hurries to pick it up, except he takes a step forward too quickly, and the extra room in his shoe gives way as his foot hits the pavement wrong. His feet slip from under him and he finds himself unexpectedly collapsing into the other man. “Oh, shit.“
“Woah there-“ The man’s voice is deeper than expected, the rumble of it sends a shiver up Dennis’ spine. He feels a firm arm come around his waist, steadying him, and pulling him into a sturdy chest. Dennis’ hand comes up to find purchase, his fingers curl against the soft fabric of this man’s sweater. His cheeks flush at their proximity.
There’s a breath of silence before Dennis’ eyes flicker up, peering curiously through his lashes. He can’t quite make out the man’s face from his position, so he coyly looks away. He feels the man inhale sharply.
Got him, Dennis thinks to himself. He clears his throat softly.
“I’m so sorry-“ His voice comes out breathy. He attempts to extract himself rom the man’s hold, but the arm around his waist tightens. He could feel the wiry muscle even through his clothes. “I can pay for the-“
“No, no.” There’s a shake of his head. “No need at all.”
His voice is pleasant, delighted even.
“I insist-“
“And I insist-“ There’s an emphasis made and he’s tugged closer. Dennis’ heart pounds in his chest and he wonders briefly if the man could feel it. “-you don’t.”
Now or never. Dennis shifts a bit so he could peek up at the man’s face. He deliberately trails his eyes slowly from his broad chest, up his neck, taking in the full beard, peppered with white at the bottom lip, the strong straight nose, and finally, stops at-
Oh.
Dennis can feel the blush coloring his face. He was never good at hiding his embarrassment.
He could see the amusement in the man’s eyes (brown, he notes uselessly to himself). There’s a half smile on his face, the crow’s feet gathered at the corner of his eyes make Dennis’ heart race. His fingers spasm a bit where they rest against his chest.
“Oh wow.” He says aloud, stupidly.
No one warned Dennis that he would be handsome.
“I mean,” He sputters. Any other words die in his throat as the man quirks an eyebrow, it’s devastatingly attractive. Dennis swallows hard, and the man’s eyes follow that movement, watching the gentle bob of his Adam’s apple. Then trail back up to meet Dennis’ again.
“You alright?” The man’s voice shakes him from his reverie, and Dennis quickly looks away, face burning.
“Yeah, I’m-uh-good.” Dennis pulls away, this time the man lets him easily. “Sorry about all that, I’m not usually this much of a mess.”
“I believe you.” The man shrugs. “Just one of those days.”
“Um, well, I should-“ Dennis takes a few steps back, gesturing in some random direction, “Go?”
“Are you asking?” The man follows, filling in the steps and closing that careful distance Dennis put between them, he gently taps a finger beneath Dennis chin, forcing him to look back up at him. It would be threatening from anyone else but Dennis is just helplessly turned on.
“No.” It doesn’t sound convincing, even to himself. “I’m going to go.” He repeats, stronger, looking into the man’s eyes.
“Okay.”
Neither of them move.
His eyes are piercing, Dennis notes. A dark brown that feels a bit like drowning in molasses, a slow and sweet death. He chews on his lower lip at the thought. He wonders if he’ll taste just as sweet. There’s a rustle in his ear. Dennis snaps back to reality.
His mission.
“I’m sorry, again,” Dennis says hurriedly. “About your shoes. Seriously. I can pay for whatever the cleaning is, you can, uh, bill me?”
He feels the older man’s eyes on him, taking in his wrinkled top and cuffed pants. Dennis shifts nervously in his shoes. It doesn’t go unnoticed. There’s a pause, then the man reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.
“How about you leave me your number and we’ll call it even?”
Dennis blinks. Well…that was easier than he thought. A small grin tugs at his lips before he can help it and the man raises a questioning brow.
“Are you trying to pick me up?” He jokes. The man laughs at that, it’s a short bark of a thing but it lights up all of Dennis’ nerves.
“Isn’t that what you were trying to do?”
“Touché.”
He passes the phone to Dennis, the new contact page already open. Dennis obediently puts in the number provided by the company, under the alias he’s been given. He returns the phone, and the man gives it a cursory glance.
“Cyrus? There’s a name you don’t see every day.”
“Religious parent and all that.” Dennis shrugs. Trinity chose the name on a whim, said it suited him, whatever that meant. The man types something and after a second, Dennis feels the phone in his pocket vibrate.
“Now you have mine.”
Dennis pulls out his phone, it was an older model that the company chucked at him. It was covered in dents from previous missions, there was even a large gash beneath the screen that Dennis struggled to type around. It really played up his character. The screen flickers to life when Dennis opens the message.
“Robby?” He wonders briefly if that’s his real name. Robby just nods.
“That’s me.” Dennis smiles up at him, and tucks his phone back into his pocket.
“So…I guess I’ll be hearing from you.” He tries to go for a teasing tone, swaying a bit on the balls of his feet.
“That you will.”
“Okay, well,” Dennis bends, scooping his wet bag off the street. He makes a face as he slings it back over his torso, it rests grossly against his hip. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
Robby makes a soft noise.
“I won’t.” His voice is so earnest it makes Dennis’ heart skip a beat.
Robby’s entire body turns as Dennis shuffles past him, his eye never leaving him. Dennis makes it only a few steps down the street before chancing a look over his shoulder at Robby, who raises a hand in good bye. He raises his own, wiggling his fingers a bit. Robby’s fingers follow in suit.
It was adorable.
“Bye.” He mouths, he sees a small smile starting to form on Robby’s face just as he ducks around the corner where he had come from. He leans himself against the brick wall when he’s out of sight, pressing a firm hand over his beating heart.
What on Earth has gotten into him today?
He shakes his head, trying to clear it. God, he was never going to hear the end of it from Trinity…speaking of which. He looks around, checking the coast is clear, before he taps at his ear. There’s a crackle, then some shuffling.
“Well, that was a fucking mess.” He hears her come back to life. He rolls his eyes as he begins his trek back to the pick up point. The sun was beaming high now, casting long shadows from the buildings around him. He starts walking aimlessly, taking random turns out of habit to try and throw off anyone who may be following him.
“Don’t start.” He mumbles, throwing a look behind him. Clear.
“I’m shocked you got his number.” He takes a sharp left onto a narrow street.
“Wasn’t that the whole point?”
“Fuck if I know.” He hears the faraway jingle of keys in his ear piece. “You almost here?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He gripes. He ducks into an alleyway, glancing back one more time to check for tails before he scales the wired fence that separates the opening from the backend of the alley. He lands quietly on the other side, and to his immediate right, there is a small rusty door. He grips the handle, pressing his thumb strategically to the side. There’s a low click that indicates it’s been unlocked, and after another look around, he slides inside.
It had once been a dingy bar. The only light source inside being the flickering sign behind the counter that seems to be on the verge of puttering out. It cast everything in an unnatural blue glow. The door shuts behind him, and it clicks again when it locks. There was a thick layer of dust covering the tables and chairs, the smell of mildew and stale beer fills his nose.
“Gross.”
“Yeah, it’s been a while since anyone used that entrance.”
“Oh joy.” He says sarcastically. He makes his way to the back, weaving between cardboard boxes and half full bottles of god knows what. The backroom is filled with more of the same, crates of expired product covered in cobwebs and a thick layer of dust. There’s a false wall tucked behind a shelf that Dennis can barely squeeze into. It reveals a pitch black crawlspace of maybe three feet, and Dennis gropes the door for its lock.
“What the-“ He mutters as he slides a palm down the steel door. His voice seems to trigger the mechanism because the next second, there’s a small bright green light scanning his eyes. He jumps a bit at the intrusion but it works. There’s a muffled thud and hiss as it unlocks. He pushes his weight against the heavy door. It gives way with a cloud of dust that clogs up his airways.
“Oh fuck-“ He coughs hard as he staggers through, eyes burning. A low hum of electricity starts, and the small lights in the ceiling flicker to life. It illuminates the corridor before him, circular in shape, not dissimilar to a sewage system, he wrinkles his nose. Smells like it too.
“Hey, Trin, remember Russia?”
“Don’t fucking talk to me about Russia.”
“Yeah well, this is what it’s giving.” The heavy door closes behind him with an eerie echo. “I feel like some 18th century runaway in here. You would think they have the funding to make this shit easier.”
“You say this every time you go on a mission.” He can practically hear her eye roll.
“It’s why I don’t do them.”
“Well, not after Russia you don’t.”
“True.”
He makes it to the last checkpoint already annoyed. There was always so many goddamn layers to all this. He presses his hand onto the reader, and when the green light comes on, he takes a step back so it can do a full body scan. He flips a bird directly into the camera.
“I hate you.” He tells it. Trinity’s laugh peaks in his earpiece.
“You’re lucky I’m on duty today.
“That’s why I did it.”
“Don’t get too comfortable huckleberry.”
The door opens into a concrete room with, surprise, more steel doors, all locked of course. But Dennis ignores them in favor of the short ladder that leads to a hatch door in the ceiling, which as he approaches, creaks open.
Trinity’s smug face looks down at him, and he just flips her off as he starts climbing. She offers him a hand once he’s made it to the last few rungs and hauls him through, onto his feet. He sighs as he looks around.
“All that just to get to the glorified garage.”
“Could be worse.”
They look at each other, then at the same time say,
“Could be Russia.”
They share a cheeky smile, and Trinity swings an arm around his shoulder.
“C’mon, let’s get back to HQ.”
They make their way through the rows of cars and motorbikes, Trinity whistling some nonsensical tune as she spins the car keys on a finger.
“So, honeypot duty, huh?”
“Don’t.” Dennis points a finger at her. “I don’t even know why they had me do it. I was grounded.”
They fall into silence. As much as they joke about the assignment in Russia, it had gone so south that the company put Trinity on coms for the next two years and Dennis…well, he took the blame. So he was grounded, at least that’s the colloquial term.
Prison felt more apt.
Five years underground, basement level 6, the only assignments he would be touching was agent paperwork and the morgue files. Oh, and writing letters to parents of deceased agents, lying to them about the lives they led and the death they were dealt. His meals were monitored, any visitation was strictly timed, there was no sunlight, no clocks, nothing. When they pulled him out for this assignment, he hadn’t even known that a year and a half had passed.
He cried that first night out, the moon and stars too overwhelming to bear.
The car lights flash as they approach, Dennis throws his damp bag into the back seat as soon as Trinity unlocks it. It makes a gross sound when it hits the leather.
“That’s gonna stain.” Trinity blows some raspberries as she settles into the drivers seat, the car roars the life and Dennis clambers in next to her, slamming the door loudly. “Careful, don’t wanna add car door to your list of debts.”
“Whatever, at this rate, I’ll be dead before I can even pay off half.” He crosses his arms tightly, leaning his head against the cold tinted window. Trinity drives them out of the garage in looping turns, it takes them a few minutes to surface. The afternoon is in full swing, but the sun does nothing to dissuade the bad mood that’s settled over him.
“It’s not all bad.” She says quietly. He doesn’t move, his eyes burn where they’re glaring out the window. They’re passing main roads now, he could see the congregation of all the things they will never have. Families, friends, loved ones. He breathes hard through his nose.
“I hate this.” He whispers. That’s as much as he can give away. His hand comes to press against his wet eyes.
“I know.” Her voice is as tired as he feels. She knows, of course she does, better than anyone else. They were cut from the same cloth after all.
No matter how many missions they complete, no matter how many people they kill, how many small factions they bring down, it will never be enough. Nothing will ever be enough for the company. They live under constant surveillance, constant scrutiny, constant correction. Nothing belonged to themselves. Every action they take, every blink, every twitch of a finger, must live and breathe for the good of the company. Their lives started and ended with the company, nothing more, nothing less.
The world outside blurs as they make their way to HQ. It’s a long drive, the silence stifles the air. What can they talk about really? When they both know who’s listening.
He lets his mind wander to a sweeter memory, the last time he saw his family. He recalls the way his mom’s arms felt when they held him, his brothers’ strong hands slapping his back, his father’s baritone voice as he prayed over Dennis. His throat tightens. That’s who he was doing this for. He couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. He’ll work until the flesh melts off his body, and even then, if the company has use for his bones, he’d give it to them if it meant his family stayed safe.
There was no other use in his life.
He closes his eyes.
Honeypot duty, huh. What a fucking travesty. He might be dying sooner than he thought. It startles a chuckle out of him, and Trinity casts him a look.
“Should I be worried?” She asks. He waves her off.
“No, no. It’s just funny.”
“What?”
“Me.” He points at himself and lolls his head over to look at her. “Honeypot.”
It cracks a smile out of her and she glances at him quickly, then screws up her face.
“Yeah, that is funny. Cause you’re butt ugly.”
“Fuck off, Santos.”
“Oh, it’s Santos now?”
They dissolve into giggles, laughing the absurdity of his situation. The air lightens between them.
“You think they’ll keep me grounded?” He asks after a while.
“I don’t know. You got his number right?”
“Could be fake.”
“Could be.”
“What’s it for anyway?”
“I don’t know. It’s way above any of our levels, Ellis doesn’t even know.” She then pointedly looks over at a corner in the car.
“Right.” They were always listening. “I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Yeah.”
There’s a beat. Then he puts on his best love-sick tone, and whines.
“You think he’ll call me?”
“God, you’re killing me today. Please, shut up and let me drive.” She bats at his arm but laughs all the same. He rests his head back onto his seat, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.
Technically, it was a successful operation. He can’t fuck up the mission objective if he doesn’t know exactly what it is…right? Ellis had pulled him from his comfy little prison a few days ago, telling him Director Shamsi requested him specifically on this mission. There wasn’t really any other details, only orders. Wear this, do that, don’t do that, all of which Dennis committed to memory. They curated his outfit, his persona, the little meet-cute, everything. All he had to do was play the part.
Maybe he fumbled the innocent twink thing they had expected from him, but the only thing he knew was he needed to run into this man and get his attention. And if they review the mission case, they can’t say he didn’t. It was in Director Shamsi’s hands now.
They drive up the long winding hill to HQ, the car ascending into darkness as they drive through several man-made tunnels, eventually leading them to a looming metal gate, surrounded by guards who draw up their firearms at them. Several come running up to the car, shouting for identification, and Trinity rolls down her window, flashing her badge. A large man comes up in full gear, face hidden behind a glossy helmet, and grabs it. He inspects it for a long while, then takes a scanner from the belt on his hip, and points it at her face, then at Dennis’. The light turns blue as it accepts them, and he waves at the men behind them to open the doors.
They drive in, another series of tunnels awaits them, and it’s winding labyrinth down to the actual entrance. There are even more guards waiting for them there. Trinity turns off the car as they make it a few feet to the doors, and relinquishes the keys to the guard that comes up to the window. They both step out for inspection, guards scanning the both of them and checking Trinity’s badge. They eye him suspiciously when they realize he doesn’t have on, but he passes regardless. They’re then ushered into a secured elevator, flanked at both sides by guards. The ride up is a quiet affair, all of them standing stiffly in silence as the floor levels flash on a screen above them. They’re pushed out at the 15th floor, a familiar hallway greets them.
“Thanks guys.” Trinity salutes them as the doors close with a lazy grin. “For nothing.” She grumbles under her breath. Dennis fights a smile.
“C’mon, let’s go find Ellis.” He says, tugging her arm.
As they walk, they pass a few other agents and colleagues, throwing up a hand or chin in greeting. Ellis’ office is at the far end of the floor, on their left. It’s a decently sized space, and behind those wooden doors is an almost military neat interior. Everything in its place, nothing out of order. How very like her. Trinity steps forward and knocks, three curt raps. The response is near immediate.
“Come in.”
They share a quick look.
“Nervous?”
“Should I be?”
Trinity shrugs at his answer, then pushes through the doors. They swing open soundlessly, and they see Ellis sat behind her desk, eyebrows furrowed, glaring at the papers in her hand. Her gaze flickers towards them, then back down.
“Agents.” She greets.
“Ma’am.” Dennis nods, and Trinity waves a hand.
“Report.”
“Success.” Dennis reaches into his pocket and draws out the battered phone. He takes a few steps forward and places it on the desk, then steps back next to Trinity. Ellis puts down the papers in her and takes hold of the phone, the screen lighting up as she unlocks it, she taps through it, frowning at what she sees.
“Anything else?”
“Nothing that won’t be on the report.”
“Good. Have it to me by the end of the hour.” She chucks the phone back at Dennis, who fumbles a bit at the catch. It earns him a stern look from Ellis. He swallows the lump in his throat before he asks.
“My base?”
She reaches into her desk, and throws another item at him. This time, he catches it with a deft swipe. He looks down into his palm, and his breath catches. His badge.
“Congratulations agent. You’re no longer grounded.” There’s a small smile at her lips, and Dennis nods.
“Thank you.” He clutches at the item that signifies his freedom, and puts it into his pocket along with the phone. Ellis turns back to her paperwork, and before they could be dismissed, there’s another knock at the door. Harder, more insistent, the person behind doesn’t even wait for an answer, just pushing through.
“Shen.” Ellis’ scowls, “What did I tell you about-“
“Direct orders from Shamsi.” He huffs out, clearly having ran here. Trinity and Dennis share another look as he gestures towards him. “She wants to talk to him. Now.”
“Oh fuck.” Dennis hears Ellis mumble. “Alright, take him. Santos, you’re on report duty.”
“Aw man.” Trinity groans. “I hate paperwork.” Ellis looks over at her, not exactly endeared, but something close. Shen doesn’t wait for Dennis to follow, just turns around expecting him to. Trinity catches his arm before he scurries off, and whispers into his ear, “Find me after?”
He nods imperceptibly, and jogs to catch up with the other man.
“Hey man, been a while.” Shen says leisurely when Dennis sidles up next to him. “How’s being grounded?”
“Not great. Really boring.”
“I’ll bet.” Shen scans his badge at the elevator, it opens with a small ding. As they enter, he scans his badge inside again, pulling up a keyboard that he quickly punches in a sequence of numbers that leave Dennis dizzy.
“Gonna take this all the way up, then take another one.” He says. “Her office is pretty secluded.”
They make it to the top floor and promptly transfers to the second elevator across the hall. The two guards manning it greet Shen warmly, then scans Dennis before letting them on. There’s another sequence of numbers to be punched in but before long, they’re flying up through the second building, this time, above ground. The sunlight beams through the clear glass; bulletproof, shatter resistant, one way. The material was reinforced with an element that was no doubt procured in the basement level labs that were hidden under layers of security. The company had trade secrets that would bring smaller governments to their knees. It was terrifying.
Director Shamsi is a terrifying woman. It was rare to get an audience with her, she was as elusive as they came. The only time Dennis ever saw her was after Russia, and even then, it was brief, only a two second sentencing, then like a problem child, he was shoved into a dark room and never to be let out. Until now.
No one knows much about her. Only that she started the company, the reasons as to why and how remain a mystery. It wasn’t so much that she worked for the government, no, instead the government was her. She had a long, long, long sheet of people in power who owed her favors.
Dennis takes in a deep breath, fingers twitching as they go higher and higher. The air seems to chill around them.
“It’s gonna be alright man.” Shen looks at him from the corner of his eye as they come to a slow stop.
“You think?”
“No. But good luck!” The other man abruptly claps him on the shoulder, and nudges him out of the elevator. Dennis blinks, and turns to say something but the doors are already closing behind him.
“Ah fuck.” He whispers to himself.
The hallway he finds himself in is sleek and modern, an open ceiling so he can see the blue sky. There’s floor to wall windows that are intersected with beams so he could see the city for miles. It was dizzying. It all led to a set of gleaming metal doors, polished and flat. They open as Dennis approaches, automated scanners flash at him for just a second before declaring him harmless.
The woman herself is stood by the farthest window in her office, looking down at the sprawling metropolis beneath her, Dennis was sure in more ways than just literal. There’s a deep seated emotion in her eyes that he can’t quite place. The entire office is circular, and her desk is situated a little farther back from center point. Dennis comes up to the center, hands clasped behind his back, feet shoulder width apart, and spine ramrod straight. He focuses his gaze on a faraway point.
“Director Shamsi.” He greets. The woman doesn’t acknowledge him, only continuing to look out with that same stern expression on her face. He knows better than to speak again.
After a long silence, he hears her sigh.
“Agent.” He stands impossibly straighter. “I had hoped I saw the last of you.”
She turns and levels a look at him. His palms start to sweat.
“Russia.” She slowly approaches her desk. “Was quite the blunder.”
He stays silent, willing himself not to tremble. She rests her palms on her desk. The metal surface was clean, too clean, not a fingerprint in sight.
“Tell me. Do you take me for a fool?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.” She takes a seat, and motions for him to do the same in front of her, but he doesn’t move. Director Shamsi doesn’t even blink, after all, the gesture was just feigned courtesy.
“What do you know of your mission today?”
“Nothing, ma’am.”
“Good.” Then a beat. “What do you know of the man you were asked to intercept?”
“Only the name he gave me, ma’am.”
“Do you know why you were chosen for this mission?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Would you like to?” Her voice is deceptively soft, almost kind, like she’d be doing him a favor. He nearly hesitates.
“No, ma’am.” He says quickly. The air is tense between them. Dennis grits his teeth, this is why he hates it. The games in every conversation, the trips and pits you can fall into without ever knowing. Director Shamsi exhales, and seems to be contemplating something.
“You have a family, don’t you, Whitaker?” Dennis freezes at the use of his name.
“Yes.” He chokes out. She raises an eyebrow. “Ma’am.”
“You love them?”
More than anything. He thinks. But they can’t have that. She can’t have that.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She hums, and reaches into a drawer in her desk. She pulls out a thick file, he could see his name on it, in blocky ink, ‘Dennis Whitaker’. She lazily flips through it.
“They owed quite the sum. I see you’ve taken it on yourself. You would do anything for them?” Less of a question, more of a statement, but Dennis answers it all the same.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She looks at him over his file, then closes it sharply. She throws it to her right with abandon, and retrieves another file from a different drawer. Dennis could hear the low beep of authentication before she pulls out a thinner folder, no more than a few sheets of paper. She sets it gingerly in front of her, her hand splayed over the text.
“What I’m about to tell you, doesn’t leave this room.” She says slowly. “And I will know if it does.”
He nods.
“Come, sit.” An order. He pulls out the chair, sitting at the edge of it, back aching from how stiffly he’s posturing. She pushes the file towards him, then sits back. “Open it.”
The papers feel inexplicably heavy in his hand. There’s a short block of text, and a blurry photograph taken through a high window, zoomed in on a familiar face and figure. He scans the short paragraph, his breath hitching just slightly.
“Michael Robinavitch.” Director Shamsi’s voice is laced with contempt. “The man you met today. Is that the name he gave you?”
“No ma’am. He said his name was Robby.”
“…” At her silence, he looks up. She has a questioning look on her face, then, like something’s dawned on her, she smiles. He feels a chill down his spine at the expression. This wasn’t fucking good. “Did he now?”
He looks back down at the blurry photo. It looks to be a few years old, he was younger in this.
“He’s good. The best even, in this line of work.” She leans her elbows onto the desk. “Normally, we leave each other alone. He has his interests, I have mine. But you see, Whitaker, I have a problem. And it seems like you do too.”
Director Shamsi laces her fingers together, tucking them under her chin as her eyes pierce into him.
“How about we help each other out?” Dennis slowly looks up.
“Ma’am?”
“Take on this mission, and it’ll be the last one you’ll ever have to take.”
His heart drops through his stomach, he’s sure he’s stopped breathing. She couldn’t mean-
“You mean-you’re offering-“
“Your freedom.” She pauses. “Of course, failure is not an option in this case. You fail, you die. And not just you.” The rest of the threat goes without saying. Dennis steels his nerves.
“What do you need me to do?” Her smile widens at his response, it’s unsettling.
“Next page.”
He obediently flips the paper in his hand. A longer wall of text greets him, and two photos. One of a girl, roughly 4-5 years of age, smiling shyly at the camera, holding a small stuffed bear in her arms. The other one, of the same girl, only grown up, around 22 years of age, it was taken the same way Robby’s had been taken, from faraway and hidden. He sees from the corner of his eye, Director Shamsi watching his reaction carefully.
He skims the file. She had been taken around the age of the first photo, and only recently resurfaced a few years back, accompanying Robby on the scant missions they were able to intercept. There were several notes made in frantic red pen; attempts at negotiations, even recovery, have been made. All rejected or failed. Dennis frowns.
“Ma’am?” He looks at Director Shamsi, a bit confused, questions at the tip of his tongue. Was this a government official’s relative? What mission could warrant his freedom? What were the stakes at hand? Then he blinks. A terrible foreboding pit settles into his stomach. Her eyes bore into his, deadly and blank. He’s frozen as she says her next words, they settle over him like a noose.
“My daughter is your mission, agent. Bring her home.”