started, so they sent down a senior agent and three rookies, one of which was Frank. Two months in, the senior guy got offered a cherry assignment. He’d insisted that one of the rookies had it in hand, so rather than send a new lead, they’d sent the new leader a mid-level guy to help.
So what had she done?
She’d gone from six months in Africa to being assigned to the Panama mission in under seventy-two hours.
By being so angry at Frank Adams that she hadn’t been thinking, was how she’d done it. Beatrice had blown through the Secret Service command hierarchy so fast that she’d bet her section commander had shipped her out just to be rid of her demands to be assigned to the Panama project.
Panama? What the heck was up with that?
She’d landed from Africa Wednesday night, slept most of Thursday, tracked Frank down on Friday morning, and was supposed to have the week off but instead been on the road by that night. She’d driven twenty-four of the last forty-eight hours, crashing into a Motel 6 in Chattanooga, Tennessee for fourteen hours in the middle of it. Now it was Monday morning, July third at eight a.m. She was in San Antonio, Texas and through the Fort Sam security.
And Panama?
If she went storming into the Secret Service liaison office, Frank would just laugh his head off and she’d be forced to kill him. And she sure didn’t like the idea of being one of the peons like he was, but she didn’t want to start a battle for control either. Her section commander had made it clear that some new agent was shaping up well and they were going to let him run with it and see how he did. He’d told her that they were only letting her jump on because she’d done so well in Africa, but it wasn’t her team.
So, one, she didn’t want to tromp on his toes.
Two, the fact that she’d showed up at all… well, he’d know he’d won. She hadn’t thought of that. She’d just been so damn angry she hadn’t been thinking right up to this moment. He’d made her angrier than the day he’d tried to carjack her new car. And she was angry now for his not being where she’d left him.
That in itself was pretty damn stupid. Of course he’d take a great opportunity like this one.
She didn’t like these feelings one bit for a whole lot of reasons.
She turned and walked back to the white porcelain water fountain hanging from a gray tile wall between the bathrooms. She wasn’t thirsty, though her throat was dry. She just needed a moment to think.
Beat knew that if she were rational, she’d go and climb back into her car and head right back to Brooklyn, to beg for a new assignment.
No strings. No ties. Her parents had always been trying to tie her in knots to fit their plans for her. It had sure worked on her sister. Hannah had a degree in literature, a pediatrician husband she’d met at Vassar and helped support through Columbia, two cute kids, and she was barely twenty five. They’d just bought their first place barely ten blocks from her parents’ place, serious parent heaven. Hannah’s life was all neat and set. And it probably was, her husband was a great guy. Good for her.
Not for Beat.
Over the last six months she’d finally decided that she liked her new nickname, even if Frank Adams had been the one to give it to her. Beat was a tougher, stronger woman than Beatrice Ann. Beat wouldn’t be shying away from facing Frank Adams. She’d just sweep into that conference room and take over.
She turned, made sure her vest hung straight and headed for the office door. Just as she hit the door she realized that, without thinking, she was wearing the exact clothes she’d been wearing when she first met him.
Well, he better not get all smug, or he’d be going down.
Going down hard.
# # #
Frank heard the door slam open, rocketing into Malcolm’s desk with a sharp thwack. He didn’t even bother to turn, he knew exactly who stood now in the doorway behind him.
The other three guys, so used to the
So what had she done?
She’d gone from six months in Africa to being assigned to the Panama mission in under seventy-two hours.
By being so angry at Frank Adams that she hadn’t been thinking, was how she’d done it. Beatrice had blown through the Secret Service command hierarchy so fast that she’d bet her section commander had shipped her out just to be rid of her demands to be assigned to the Panama project.
Panama? What the heck was up with that?
She’d landed from Africa Wednesday night, slept most of Thursday, tracked Frank down on Friday morning, and was supposed to have the week off but instead been on the road by that night. She’d driven twenty-four of the last forty-eight hours, crashing into a Motel 6 in Chattanooga, Tennessee for fourteen hours in the middle of it. Now it was Monday morning, July third at eight a.m. She was in San Antonio, Texas and through the Fort Sam security.
And Panama?
If she went storming into the Secret Service liaison office, Frank would just laugh his head off and she’d be forced to kill him. And she sure didn’t like the idea of being one of the peons like he was, but she didn’t want to start a battle for control either. Her section commander had made it clear that some new agent was shaping up well and they were going to let him run with it and see how he did. He’d told her that they were only letting her jump on because she’d done so well in Africa, but it wasn’t her team.
So, one, she didn’t want to tromp on his toes.
Two, the fact that she’d showed up at all… well, he’d know he’d won. She hadn’t thought of that. She’d just been so damn angry she hadn’t been thinking right up to this moment. He’d made her angrier than the day he’d tried to carjack her new car. And she was angry now for his not being where she’d left him.
That in itself was pretty damn stupid. Of course he’d take a great opportunity like this one.
She didn’t like these feelings one bit for a whole lot of reasons.
She turned and walked back to the white porcelain water fountain hanging from a gray tile wall between the bathrooms. She wasn’t thirsty, though her throat was dry. She just needed a moment to think.
Beat knew that if she were rational, she’d go and climb back into her car and head right back to Brooklyn, to beg for a new assignment.
No strings. No ties. Her parents had always been trying to tie her in knots to fit their plans for her. It had sure worked on her sister. Hannah had a degree in literature, a pediatrician husband she’d met at Vassar and helped support through Columbia, two cute kids, and she was barely twenty five. They’d just bought their first place barely ten blocks from her parents’ place, serious parent heaven. Hannah’s life was all neat and set. And it probably was, her husband was a great guy. Good for her.
Not for Beat.
Over the last six months she’d finally decided that she liked her new nickname, even if Frank Adams had been the one to give it to her. Beat was a tougher, stronger woman than Beatrice Ann. Beat wouldn’t be shying away from facing Frank Adams. She’d just sweep into that conference room and take over.
She turned, made sure her vest hung straight and headed for the office door. Just as she hit the door she realized that, without thinking, she was wearing the exact clothes she’d been wearing when she first met him.
Well, he better not get all smug, or he’d be going down.
Going down hard.
# # #
Frank heard the door slam open, rocketing into Malcolm’s desk with a sharp thwack. He didn’t even bother to turn, he knew exactly who stood now in the doorway behind him.
The other three guys, so used to the
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