the missions, he knows the history of the Nightstalkers, he knows the team.”
“Adequate isn’t good enough,” Hannah said of Ms. Jones’s long-time assistant. She nodded at Golden, who spoke up.
“The team will always see Pitr as a shadow of Ms. Jones since he was her attendant. Subconsciously they will not give him the respect he needs to command the team.”
“So Pitr is out just like that?” Frasier said. “I assume his folder is not in that pile.” He nodded toward the desk. “Although, I’m not sure I agree with Doctor Golden’s reasoning about either Moms or Pitr. The team members are professionals, and they’ve had no complaints about Pitr. Or his shadow.”
Golden shrugged. “We wouldn’t be sitting here if Pitr was acceptable to Hannah.”
Frasier reluctantly accepted that reasoning.
“Outside of Pitr,” Hannah asked Frasier, “do you have a suggestion?”
Frasier turned to Golden. “How is Neeley’s therapy going?”
“She’s killing someone as we speak. She and your man Roland.”
“That’s not answering the question,” Frasier said. “Although the fact she’s working in concert with another operative is a change for her.”
“It is,” Golden said, and her tone indicated displeasure, but whether it was at someone being killed (doubtful), Neeley working with someone else (possible), or just Frasier in general (likely) wasn’t clear.
Hannah spoke up. “Neeley is an excellent field operative, but she isn’t managerial material.”
“You don’t want to let her go,” Frasier said.
“My desires play no role in field decisions,” Hannah said in a voice that dripped ice.
Frasier backtracked slightly. “Certainly.” He gestured at the folders. “It’s obvious you have candidates,” Frasier said. “If we knew who they were, we could—”
Further words were forestalled as a strip of red light all around the edge of the ceiling began flashing, accompanied by a klaxon. For the first time in the presence of others since taking this position, Hannah was rattled. She stared at the light, mouth slightly open, eyes blinking. Then she shook her head, gathering herself, and opened the top, right-hand drawer of her desk. She pulled out a leather-bound file secured with a red ribbon, which was sealed with, of all things, wax. Hannah ran a finger under the ribbon and broke the wax seal. She flipped the file open.
Frasier and Golden exchanged glances, the klaxon resounding in their ears, but Hannah was focused on reading.
Hannah stood up abruptly and walked across the office. She slid aside a panel that had appeared to simply be part of the drab gray metal wall, exposing a switch. Hannah pulled the switch and the klaxon stopped. The red light stopped flashing but it stayed lit, tainting the room with its glow. Another panel slid down just above the switch and an old red bulb display appeared; a countdown apparently from the time of Dr. No.
12:00
As they watched, the first second counted off.
11:59:59
Hannah stared at the timer for five seconds and then returned to her desk. She sat down, and the look on her face dissuaded either of the two psychiatrists from asking any questions. She read some more from the file, slowly, steadily, before putting it on the desk and raising her eyes to her guests.
“What is it?” Doctor Golden asked, having never seen her normally somber boss so grave. It was as if a statue had frozen into diamond. “What happens in twelve hours?”
“Unless we stop it,” Hannah said, “the end of our existence.”
Eleven Hours
Scout was riding Comanche through the neighborhood, glad that the construction boom that had started this housing enclave over two years ago had ground to a standstill along with the economy. When her family had moved in, the latest construction, five empty lots down, had been proceeding furiously, even on Thanksgiving, but then it had suddenly ceased and the house remained almost complete. This gave Scout quite a few empty
“Adequate isn’t good enough,” Hannah said of Ms. Jones’s long-time assistant. She nodded at Golden, who spoke up.
“The team will always see Pitr as a shadow of Ms. Jones since he was her attendant. Subconsciously they will not give him the respect he needs to command the team.”
“So Pitr is out just like that?” Frasier said. “I assume his folder is not in that pile.” He nodded toward the desk. “Although, I’m not sure I agree with Doctor Golden’s reasoning about either Moms or Pitr. The team members are professionals, and they’ve had no complaints about Pitr. Or his shadow.”
Golden shrugged. “We wouldn’t be sitting here if Pitr was acceptable to Hannah.”
Frasier reluctantly accepted that reasoning.
“Outside of Pitr,” Hannah asked Frasier, “do you have a suggestion?”
Frasier turned to Golden. “How is Neeley’s therapy going?”
“She’s killing someone as we speak. She and your man Roland.”
“That’s not answering the question,” Frasier said. “Although the fact she’s working in concert with another operative is a change for her.”
“It is,” Golden said, and her tone indicated displeasure, but whether it was at someone being killed (doubtful), Neeley working with someone else (possible), or just Frasier in general (likely) wasn’t clear.
Hannah spoke up. “Neeley is an excellent field operative, but she isn’t managerial material.”
“You don’t want to let her go,” Frasier said.
“My desires play no role in field decisions,” Hannah said in a voice that dripped ice.
Frasier backtracked slightly. “Certainly.” He gestured at the folders. “It’s obvious you have candidates,” Frasier said. “If we knew who they were, we could—”
Further words were forestalled as a strip of red light all around the edge of the ceiling began flashing, accompanied by a klaxon. For the first time in the presence of others since taking this position, Hannah was rattled. She stared at the light, mouth slightly open, eyes blinking. Then she shook her head, gathering herself, and opened the top, right-hand drawer of her desk. She pulled out a leather-bound file secured with a red ribbon, which was sealed with, of all things, wax. Hannah ran a finger under the ribbon and broke the wax seal. She flipped the file open.
Frasier and Golden exchanged glances, the klaxon resounding in their ears, but Hannah was focused on reading.
Hannah stood up abruptly and walked across the office. She slid aside a panel that had appeared to simply be part of the drab gray metal wall, exposing a switch. Hannah pulled the switch and the klaxon stopped. The red light stopped flashing but it stayed lit, tainting the room with its glow. Another panel slid down just above the switch and an old red bulb display appeared; a countdown apparently from the time of Dr. No.
12:00
As they watched, the first second counted off.
11:59:59
Hannah stared at the timer for five seconds and then returned to her desk. She sat down, and the look on her face dissuaded either of the two psychiatrists from asking any questions. She read some more from the file, slowly, steadily, before putting it on the desk and raising her eyes to her guests.
“What is it?” Doctor Golden asked, having never seen her normally somber boss so grave. It was as if a statue had frozen into diamond. “What happens in twelve hours?”
“Unless we stop it,” Hannah said, “the end of our existence.”
Eleven Hours
Scout was riding Comanche through the neighborhood, glad that the construction boom that had started this housing enclave over two years ago had ground to a standstill along with the economy. When her family had moved in, the latest construction, five empty lots down, had been proceeding furiously, even on Thanksgiving, but then it had suddenly ceased and the house remained almost complete. This gave Scout quite a few empty
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