Internal Task Force 7812
a.k.a. // The Tribeca-Antioch Incident Investigation

— — —

INITIAL INTERVIEW
Re: Opr. Rhys Proudfoot
Senior Officer Tesh Marionetti
Director, Domestic Protection Division, CIIO Badge #337-090

Interviewed by: FAIRMONT

Polygraph Room 7, Fitzhugh-Bristol Building, Central Chicago City
Administer: Sp.O. Wallace Brickman, CIIO Badge #339-123

— — —

OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT
→ To be delivered to:
MONICA THOMPSON (D/PICSUS), CIIO Badge #███-███
SHELLEY TURNPIKE (AD/PICSUS), CIIO Badge #338-███
RICHARD FAIRMONT (CHAIR/LEAD, Internal Task Force 7812)
→ CC: Tesh Marionetti, D/DPD

— — —

→ Special Instructions:
SHRED UPON REVIEW
under penalty of law

RICHARD FAIRMONT: Let the record state that the interview with Senior Officer Tesh Marionetti has commenced at 12:03 PM, the eighth of October, 2115. Officer Marionetti, do you confirm the accuracy of this statement?

TESH MARIONETTI: Yes. I do.

FAIRMONT: Officer Marionetti, were you acquainted with Operative Rhys Proudfoot?

MARIONETTI: Yes.

FAIRMONT: For how long did you know him?

MARIONETTI: He joined the DPD as a novice operative four years ago under the supervision of my senior operative Harriet Grimm. After his promotion to Full Operative in 2113, I worked directly with Proudfoot as his senior supervisor on international assignments, and Grimm became his handler.

FAIRMONT: And how would you describe Operative Proudfoot’s relationship with the other employees of the Domestic Protection Division?

MARIONETTI: He was universally liked. Trustworthy. No major incidents of dissent or disobedience among my staff.

FAIRMONT: What about those outside your department?

MARIONETTI: Come on, Richard, you know I can’t speak for them. But to my knowledge, no. Nothing. The guy did his job, did what he was told. If there had been a problem anywhere else, there would have been talk. For an agency all about secrets, there aren’t many of them in the halls.

FAIRMONT: How would you describe Operative Proudfoot’s performance in the field when he worked under your supervision?

MARIONETTI: Proudfoot? Jesus Christ, Proudfoot was the best the CIIO has had in years. Or at least since I was in the field.

FAIRMONT: Let’s stay on topic, Officer Marionetti.

MARIONETTI: You knew him too, Richard. Didn’t you work alongside him in Budapest? He was damn good at what he did. Quick on his feet, smart as a whip, cool under pressure. He was born for this stuff, Rich. Even if he messed up—which was once in a blue moon—he found a way to make it all work. He had a true operative’s common sense, too. And that, as you well know, isn’t easy to find in this business anymore.

FAIRMONT: You mentioned Senior Operative Harriet Grimm acting as his handler after his promotion. Where is Grimm now?

MARIONETTI: I honestly don’t know.

MARIONETTI: Well, I have my suspicions. But it’s not my business to tell. I haven’t been in contact with Harriet since the incident, after she left her letter of resignation on my desk.

FAIRMONT: Is it true that Senior Operative Grimm was involved in an intimate relationship with Proudfoot’s field partner on the Tribeca-Antioch mission?

MARIONETTI: They were engaged to be married.

FAIRMONT: And his name was?

MARIONETTI: Her name was Elizabeth Liszt. She was a field operative initially brought in to our department because of her dual citizenship with the West German Republic. After her first mission with the DPD, we brought her on-board full time.

FAIRMONT: Is it true that there was some conflict with Proudfoot due to other romantic interests?

MARIONETTI: It was rumored that Grimm and Proudfoot had an affair while Grimm and Liszt were involved, which supposedly caused a rift between all three of them. The gossip was never confirmed. Frankly, I don’t concern myself with the personal lives of my operatives unless their problems interfere with their ability to do their jobs. There was no evidence, to me, of any conflict at all between Proudfoot, Grimm, and Liszt. Business continued as usual, and their duties were met with the same rigor and high standards I demand of them.

FAIRMONT: Forgive me, Officer Marionetti, but this account calls into question your ability to assess your own people. Is it not part of your job description to monitor the mental and emotional health of your employees?

MARIONETTI: It is, it is. But it was all just talk. There was no evidence to support any of the rumors, and as I said, there was no effect on their mission outcomes. Proudfoot and Liszt worked together only occasionally anyway, and it was rare that all three of them were involved in the same assignment leading up to Tribeca-Antioch.

FAIRMONT: Is it possible that this lack of team-building prior to Tribeca-Antioch, whether or not there was romantic friction in the group, contributed to its failure and Operative Liszt’s death?

MARIONETTI: In my opinion, it was absolutely not an operative issue that compromised the mission.

FAIRMONT: How do you know?

MARIONETTI: You’ve been in this business as long as I have, Richard.

FAIRMONT: That doesn’t answer the question, Tesh.

MARIONETTI: No, but I want you to think on that for a minute. Really think on it. We build the personnel in our departments based on their ability to work together. I don’t know about you, but I transfer the ones who don’t fit in with my established team, and that’s pretty easy to figure out. If they don’t work as a novice operative, they’re sure as hell not going overseas with a promotion in my department. I don’t care how good they are. If they clash with my people, they’re out.

FAIRMONT: Your division is particularly sensitive to these kinds of personnel fluctuations. I don’t think I need to throw the numbers at you—you have one of the highest employee turnovers in the CIIO. I also don’t need to tell you that the administration looks at that with a great deal of suspicion.

MARIONETTI: They can question me all they want. The only numbers that count are the successes. The way I run my department is the way it has to be run, not just for the safety of my operatives, but for the safety of the nation we all swore to serve. I make it work, Richard. I think that’s more that can be said for you, or the PICSUS, or anyone else. I have complete faith in my people, which means that the administration should too.

FAIRMONT: There’s no need to get agitated, Tesh. I’m just the messenger.

MARIONETTI: If you really were the messenger, Richard, you wouldn’t be here. I understand that as Proudfoot’s supervisor, I share partial responsibility for Tribeca-Antioch. Formalities and chains of command are how our institution has worked for 168 years. But you and I both know there is more to this than the CIIO is admitting in its official reports from up above. Yeah, let that go on record, I don’t give a damn. Let them know that we know.

FAIRMONT: We don’t need conspiracy theories right now, Tesh. We need real answers.

MARIONETTI: That’s the problem, Richard. We need real answers. And you won’t get them from me, because I don’t have them. A thousand polygraphs won’t get you what you’re looking for. You need information that internal candidates can’t supply, and it seems to me you’re digging for a false mutiny so someone can take the fall and you can go home for dinner or have a beer or whatever the hell else you have that’s more pressing than your real job.

FAIRMONT: That’s ridiculous. It’s not about taking sides.

MARIONETTI: We’ve worked together long enough that I know you know better than this. Of course it’s about taking sides. It’s bureaucratic bullshit all over again.

FAIRMONT: And yet you’re siding with Proudfoot?

MARIONETTI: Operative Proudfoot has my full support.

FAIRMONT: Did you read the reports?

MARIONETTI: Of course I read the reports.

FAIRMONT: Including the autopsy report on Liszt?

MARIONETTI: Are you serious? Yes, for Christ’s sake.

FAIRMONT: And you’re still coming to Proudfoot’s defense!?

MARIONETTI: Is this an interview, or an argument? Or are you trying to persuade me to side with the up-aboves? What are we doing here now, Richard?

FAIRMONT: I’m here to record your perspective on the situation, as well to gather your opinion on Operative Proudfoot’s integrity as a member of this organization.

MARIONETTI:  Well, you’ve got it. Don’t contact me again until you’ve come to your senses, Richard. And I’m going to want to see that transcript.

— — — they always could find us but they never could catch us — — —

In 2047, after a hundred years in existence as a government firm, the United States Central Intelligence Agency became the Consolidated International Intelligence Organization.

The transition came about after heavy globalization, government budgetary concerns, and a sudden domestic economic upswing increased pressure on U.S. defense programs to heighten homeland security and protect deep-rooted government secrets.

The new CIIO—nicknamed ‘Double-I’ by former CIA staff and eventually referred to as ‘Double Eye’ in the subsequent decades—was the Democratic Party’s solution to the issues created by the unpredicted shift in United States stature. In spite of its outright and continued success, however, the change was not a universally supported one, and the immediate benefits of the consolidation were soon accompanied by unforeseen pitfalls that threatened to dissolve and render useless the entire operation.

Despite incredible resistance from conservatives at the time of the merger, the Federal Bureau of Investigation lost its status as a freestanding agency, becoming instead a divisional branch under the new CIIO corporate umbrella. Though its primary function remained much the same—leading large-scale criminal investigations within U.S. borders—its other lesser-known responsibilities, such as leading internal and counterintelligence measures, were absorbed by alternate departments, chiefly the existing Domestic Protection Division, or DPD, under a new, separate director with no ties to the previous agency.

Few history books would speak of it, but the 2050s were perhaps the most virulent of the post-transitional years, with furious Republican politicians acting as the source of prominent unrest in the U.S. Congress and the Senate. The primary reason for their outrage was directly related to the introduction of the CIIO and the disincorporation of the FBI. They had previously relied upon the FBI as a key political chess piece against increasingly heavy gun regulation laws, all of which had been pushed by newly-elected Liberals in office. Without their institutionalized leverage—the support of the FBI’s well-liked administration as well as its continual “production” and publication of violent crime evidence—they struggled to get their footing on a slippery downward slope of political opposition.

Agent Gregory Fitzhugh, a known conservative who had been elected director of the CIA’s DPD several years prior to the consolidation, graciously accepted responsibility for portions of FBI duties in order to soothe the burn of transition to this new era in homeland security. But even his best efforts to keep inter-organizational peace were met with backlash, particularly from people who were angry that the DPD remained almost entirely unchanged through the process of integration. Why, they argued, did the CIA subdivisions get to remain the same when others, like the FBI, were stripped of their autonomy and redistributed like scrap parts amongst other sections?

The new CIIO administration, who had initially rebranded the FBI as the Domestic Crime Investigations Branch, quickly backpedaled as soon as conservative mainstream media began to pick up on the dissent. The purpose of their withdrawal was twofold—to manage (and therefore control) media representation to the public, and to appease those in the government making turbulent waves of dissatisfaction. Although there was little any party could do now that the actual consolidation was on the books, the FBI retained its infamous name and earned a new director, who at the time was to be appointed by a committee headed by the Senate Minority Leader, a Republican representative from Ohio named Martin Spelling. Though the move provided more of an illusion of cooperation than actual compromise, it succeeded in quieting the most prominent naysayers until the arrangement became routine and the storm largely blew over.

By the mid-2070s, the majority of personnel who had been involved with the homeland security consolidation had either retired, died, or otherwise left the agency. The same was true of the politicians in office. The CIIO became an unquestioned norm both internally and externally, with new generations of staff perpetuating the change and progress intended by its establishment in the first place.

In 2085, political unrest in Europe prompted a vast expansion of two major CIIO departments. The highest ranking administrators, most of whom were former expert field operatives, belonged to an elite management team known as the Protection of Internal Clandestine Services of the United States, or PICSUS. Modeled after the CIA’s former National Clandestine Services division, PICSUS was a highly secretive group whose general clerical tasks were the only actions visible to anyone outside its ranks, including other members of the CIIO. Their general mission had less to do with gathering information than it did protecting it. Their sole responsibility was to ensure the absolute safety of the United States government’s most sensitive data.

Meanwhile, tensions remained high across the Atlantic. The American government kept everything especially close to the vest, perhaps more so than it ever had. Then-President Joshua Bristol and his cronies believed that the country’s continuous economic growth and relative prosperity would make the nation a target not only for acts of terrorism in light of Europe’s struggles, but also for secrets on how to emulate its affluence. PICSUS agreed, locking down nearly all government travel outside the country and monitoring all communications in to and out of the District of Columbia and all state capitals.

The public reaction was not unlike the Red Scare over a century past in the 1950s, and perhaps with good reason. As a result, the CIIO put through and approved a motion to relocate its main headquarters from the east coast in Langley, Virginia to a landlocked, difficult to access compound in the Midwest. Chicago, known officially since 2061 as Chicago City in light of its rapid suburban expansion, became its new home. Apart from a massive, unmarked construction effort along the shore of Lake Michigan, the relocation was kept relatively quiet, with PICSUS managing to keep the story from hitting the popular news stations and media outlets. After only six months, the new CIIO headquarters was christened the Fitzhugh-Bristol Building.

With PICSUS taking care of things within the U.S. borders, the DPD focused its attention on international espionage. The DPD’s numbers swelled exponentially, with dozens of new field operatives, handlers, and technological masterminds working together under a new hierarchy of senior operatives and two directors, a main and an assistant. With coverage all over Europe, including the more hostile regions of Belgium, northeastern France, and western Germany, the DPD was on top of its game. A select group of undercover agents even foretold the end of the conflicts, delivering news weeks before the official announcement that a new western German republic was forming in response to the 2088 unrest.

In the aftermath, the DPD’s numbers dropped by only a few personnel, with the majority making their departure as a result of departmental transfer. Since then the division had remained the CIIO’s top producing branch, rivaled only by the FBI.

Its success rates and proud history were two of many things that drew a young Rhys Proudfoot to the CIIO training center as an eager student in 2110.

The rest, as cliché told, was history.

— — — someone's in trouble somewhere tonight — — —

The generic shriek of a cheap motel alarm clock pierced the humid morning. From beneath the threadbare comforter, a reluctant hand emerged to silence the device’s unwelcome cries.

Thick drapes shielded the small, cigarette-scented room from the glare of the half-risen 6 AM sun. From beyond the rickety door, a siren wailed and an angry dog barked. Rhys threw back the stained sheets with a sigh, staring at the ceiling as the reprieve of sleep gave way once more to active thought. Another day. Another twenty-four hours. Another hundred grand.

He dragged himself to his feet and padded to the bathroom, repeating the words under his breath like a groggy mantra. One day. Twenty-four hours. A hundred thousand dollars. Wasting no time in waiting for the shower’s stream of water to warm, he stepped beneath the icy torrent and quickly washed away the previous day’s grime. He didn’t bother to dry himself off before slipping into his clothes—a ragged pair of light denim, a dark cotton t-shirt, and a gray hoodie, nondescript enough to blend in, baggy enough to conceal his supplies.

No amount of caffeine could wipe the tiredness from his system; even with six hours’ sleep, he felt the weight of his perpetual exhaustion weighing down his eyelids and squeezing his heart. It was an affliction no amount of slumber could cure—and lord knew he’d tried. He hadn’t been the same since Tribeca-Antioch, and he doubted he ever would be again. Nevertheless, when the chime of the single-serve coffeemaker sounded, he poured himself a cup and returned to his makeshift desk.

The bluish glow of his laptop screen bathed his sun-bronzed face in an eerie light. As the machine booted up, he traced with his eyes the outline of his reflection in the glassy display. He did not look like a man capable of running this kind of sophisticated technology; as he sat, with his wet tousled hair, ragtag clothing, and dark circles beneath his eyes in a cheap dated motel, he appeared more the type to  steal such equipment than operate it. He offered his reflection a sour smile and repeated the words. One day. Twenty-four hours. Another hundred grand.

Hired by the soon-to-be-victim’s venture partner, Rhys Proudfoot’s target was a suburban businessman named Henri Yankton, a corpulent middle-aged go-getter from North Philadelphia, Pennsylvania with a shiny leather briefcase and a thin comb-over. He drove an expensive vintage Mercedes-Benz SUV that he paid for in cash, bought Armani suits that he didn’t bother to have tailored, and drank only bottled water imported from Peru between meals at trendy exotic restaurants. Unfortunately for the lux-loving financial tycoon, Rhys had proven his client’s suspicions to be true—that Mr. Yankton had embezzled upwards of twelve million dollars from his company stockholders, using it to fund not only his own questionable material tastes but also those of the woman with whom he was having an affair—a woman also happened to be Rhys’s client’s wife.

It was not up to Rhys to decide what sort of misdeeds should be punished by murder. No, that was up to his clients—all of whom were willing to pay a pretty penny for a thorough investigation and a quick, smart, expertly-dealt execution. They tracked him down via the internet, navigating a vast, startling network of underground forums and exchange boards known as the Deep Web. This particular level of interconnectedness was available for access only to those who knew how to reach its impressive cyber depths. It was the ultimate virtual black market for goods and services condemned by most nations, with business conducted on a covert, purely anonymous basis with untraceable connections and even, in some instances, digital currency.

If you could break through the limitations of regular net browsing to explore these particular trenches, it was not difficult to find someone, somewhere, willing to sell you what you sought. Street drugs, narcotics, prescription pills; human and animal organ trafficking; medical experimentation and status reports; assassins for hire; and much, much worse—it was all there, lurking in the murky waters of an indisputably fucked-up online community.

Rhys’s first exposure to the deep web had been at Double Eye, where the DPD’s technology specialists and handlers had used its system to track the movement of illegal weapons. Though he was no computer expert, Rhys had been around them long enough to pick up a few tricks, including how to interact with the people who hid behind usernames and to convince them he “wasn’t a fucking cop.” It was a type of field operation without actually venturing into the field, and it took just as much planning and strategizing as any in-person mission in which he’d participated over the years. There may not have been threat of gunfire through a computer screen, but there was risk all the same.

Including the risk of getting himself caught.

But if there was one thing about Rhys Proudfoot that differed from other deep web service providers—and he actually hoped there were many things that set him apart—was that despite his name, he was not at all proud of what he did. He was good at it, yes. He was good at being a hit man, killing people, at eliminating someone from existence, at covering his tracks. He’d learned how to hide at the Double Eye training facility with the best mentors in the business, and he’d put it all into use during his years as a DPD field operative. But as deeply as he already loathed himself, his self-hatred burned a little hotter with each subsequent job carried through to the end—which, strangely enough, only fueled his desire to complete more work.

Taking life garnered absolutely no joy for Rhys. It was a paycheck and nothing more, a means to the substantial amount of money it required for him to maintain his laptop…and keep his connections severed. It was often said that no one could hide from Double Eye forever, but Rhys intended to try—and to do so required continual passport renewal, bi-monthly identity changes, and more travel than he’d ever done as an operative.

There had been no formal charges pressed against him after the Tribeca-Antioch disaster, but his resignation had been an unspoken condition of the investigation, one he had taken in spite of Director Tesh Marionetti’s insistence that he stay. He couldn’t have remained there. All the praise in the world couldn’t get rid of the nightmares or banish the cold midnight sweats; no amount of convincing could ease the burden of guilt from his shoulders. Liza Liszt’s ghost was everywhere in those steely gray halls, and no matter where he went he could feel Harriet Grimm’s piercing glare wishing it was he who had perished in the blast.

— — — the steam's in the boiler, the coal's in the fire — — —

THREE WEEKS POST-TRIBECA-ANTIOCH INCIDENT
Fitzhugh-Bristol Building (HuBris), Chicago City

“Grimm?”

It was Tesh Marionetti’s voice that interrupted her thoughts.

“Harriet.” The director’s voice softened when the senior handler didn’t immediately respond. She looked up from her computer, meeting his dark eyes with her own, her face as startlingly devoid of emotion as Tesh had ever seen her.

She saw him hesitate to continue, and she furrowed her brow. “You don’t have to tread lightly, Tesh. A wrong word isn’t going to trigger the waterworks, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Jesus, Harriet, that’s not it.” Marionetti sighed. “I know you don’t break that easily.”

Didn’t she? Harriet looked down again, her gaze locking on the matte gold shine of the engagement ring sitting unceremoniously on the desk next to her keyboard. She couldn’t bring herself to wear it anymore, yet neither could she let it out of her sight. Grief and anger seized her throat, and she forced herself to relax her hands that had balled into tight fists on her lap.

“Harriet,” Marionetti began again softly.

“Just…out with it, Tesh. Please. I have work to do.”

“Proudfoot’s been discharged. He’s coming in today for questioning.”

She froze. The dark-haired woman’s teeth cut into the inside of her cheek, the bitter, metallic tang of blood washing over her tongue. “Fine,” she said tightly. “Whatever. I don’t care.”

“You do care, and you know it.”

Her eyes strayed back to the ring. She wanted to touch it, but her hands refused to cooperate.

“You were his handler for three years, and his novice supervisor for two. You care, whether you want to or not. Richard Fairmont alluded to some shit that I’d left alone up until now, but if there’s any truth—”

“You don’t know anything about us,” Harriet snapped, interrupting. She didn’t specify whether it was she and Rhys or she and Liza or all three of them to whom she referred, but it really didn’t matter. They were tangled in this mess together—or at least they had been—and it was impossible to separate one from the other, even in the aftermath.

“I don’t. You’re right. Maybe it’s time you fill me in.” Marionetti’s concern had turned to frustration, and it manifested in his tone as bitter irritation.

“Fuck you, Tesh.”

“I can’t have my personnel keeping secrets from me. I’ve kept my nose out of this until now, but dammit, Grimm, I need to know what’s up.” Tesh shook his head incredulously. “I mean, Christ, Harriet, Liza is dead, Rhys almost didn’t make it, and you still think it’s okay to keep your mouth clamped shut about whatever it is that’s going on?”

“Why don’t you ask Proudfoot?” Harriet shot back, eyes wide and accusatory.

Marionetti pursed his lips. “Fairmont’s gonna have me in a polygraph room any day now, and he’s already asking questions about you three. I sure as hell hope you don’t expect me to cover for you if you’re not willing to read me in.”

Harriet shook her head. When she spoke, her words were a rushed whisper. “I wish I could, but I can’t. I can’t.”

“Harriet?”

She heard Tesh emit a soft gasp, and she looked up in shock. The new voice that spoke her name was barely recognizable—hoarse and low, nothing like the clear, musical baritone to which she’d grown accustomed. His face, too, was the visage of a different man. Though his familiar light blue eyes peered at her through the same veil of long, feminine lashes, the surrounding flesh was swollen, bruised, and marred by half-healed serpentine lacerations. His right arm was suspended in a sling, and when he trudged into the doorway to take his place next to Marionetti, his gait was stiff and he limped on his left foot. Her heart leapt and sank at the same time.

“Harriet, I—”

“Get the fuck away from me!” The outburst was past her lips before she could control herself, with tears welling unbidden in her eyes. Without thinking, she swiped the engagement ring from the desk and threw it at Rhys, knocking her chair to the floor as she flew to her feet.

Proudfoot, in the split second she caught his eye as he retreated, looked hurt and panicked, and she almost—almost—apologized. Instead, she marched to the door and slammed it closed as they backed away, leaving Tesh and Rhys in the corridor while she slid down the wall to the floor in her office and buried her face in her hands.

— — — the wind blows away all of yesterday's news — — —

The silence after the deafening crash of the slamming door was thick with emotion. Wordlessly, Rhys grimaced, carefully bending down to pick up what Harriet had thrown. Marionetti steadied him as he straightened again, closing his eyes against the spinning room and the pounding in his temples. He didn’t need to look to know what he held in his left fist, but he did anyway, his breath catching in his throat nevertheless at the small gold band in his palm.

Marionetti looked sympathetic, guiding the injured young man down the hall to his office.

“You look like shit,” Rhys croaked as he sat down.

The comment coaxed a surprised laugh from the director, who promptly handed the operative a glass of filtered water. “Well, good thing we’ve got you to class up the joint, then,” Tesh replied.

Rhys didn’t seem to hear him. It was a marvel he was on his feet at all, let alone at HuBris; the doctors had barely agreed to discharge him, signing the papers only when he threatened to leave against medical advice—something Double Eye, particularly PICSUS, would not like. He’d had time to heal in Antioch before the charter had flown him to an American facility in Washington, he’d argued. Nevermind that he’d been in a coma for eight days. And his stay in Chicago City had followed a two day stay in a government hospital in DC. Nearly three weeks in intensive care was quite enough, he reasoned, and in all that time he’d only required two resuscitations, none within the last two weeks. Mostly, he just couldn’t live with himself alone with his thoughts in those hospital rooms.

“You’re an idiot, Proudfoot,” Tesh said, as though reading his mind. “You need at least another five days of observation. What are you doing here?”

Rhys sighed softly, his broken ribs sending a jolt of pain through his torso as his lungs inflated. “The PICSUS task force—”

“—can wait for medical permission to continue the investigation,” Marionetti finished firmly, arching his brows.

“It’s not that simple.” There was a long pause, and Rhys once again opened his palm to study the ring Harriet had thrown so violently at him. “I don’t think she would want me to touch this,” he said pointlessly, absently. “When is Liza’s funeral?”

“It was five days ago.”

“I missed it.”

Marionetti nodded gravely. “It was a beautiful service.”

Rhys said nothing. Like Harriet, he too seemed unable to tear his gaze from the band.

“Looks, Rhys, I know this is hard, but…I need you to read me in on what’s going on with you and Harriet and Elizabeth. Did you and Grimm have an affair?”

“Yes.” The point-blank inquiry did not shock Rhys; indeed, he knew it was only a matter of time before his supervisor stopped conveniently looking the opposite direction and demanded details. However, speaking the answer aloud caused a new pain in his chest unrelated to his injuries, and he winced.

“God damn it, Proudfoot. Did Liza know?”

“Not at the time.”

“Did she ever know?” Tesh arched a brow.

“It came to light in Antioch.”

Tesh’s jaw dropped. “What?” He lowered his voice. “Was…was it a…did she…?”

Rhys looked horrified. “Did she walk into the blast on purpose? Oh God, no. Of course not. Liza Liszt would never commit suicide.” He cringed against the ache in his bones, and he stretched out his good leg in an attempt to alleviate some of the stiffness. “The affair wasn’t the issue. I mean, it was an issue, but that’s not the whole deal.”

“I’m the director of the DPD, Rhys. There’s no way in hell I’d think that was the whole deal.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his palm, leaning back in his office chair. “What were you thinking, man? Harriet isn’t—”

“She’s bisexual, Tesh.”

“That is not what I was going to say.” Marionetti shook his head incredulously. “Harriet was engaged, Rhys. I don’t know what she was thinking either. Liza was a good woman.”

“Neither of us said she wasn’t!” The outburst sent a shock of pain down his spine. “We didn’t mean for it to happen. It just…I don’t know. It just did. Liza was in Tokyo for ten months, and things sort of…changed.”

Tesh stared at Rhys, his expression unreadable. “Liza’s stint in Japan was two years ago.”

“Yeah.”

“Christ. That long?” Marionetti pursed his lips. His best operative and handler team had not only committed adultery against another fine agent, they had also developed romantic feelings in spite of being operative and handler—a professional relationship defined by a closeness and trust, yes, but with strict personal parameters. It was frowned upon for that bond to go deeper than friendship. It was simply too risky during sensitive missions. Love clouded judgment, and a spy’s chief weapon in the field was clear-headedness. “This is worse than I thought. Just wait until Fairmont gets word of this—whew, this is not good. Not good at all.”

The wounded operative shifted in his seat. Despite Marionetti’s inquisition, the man was dancing around the worst and most pressing topic—the fact that Operative Elizabeth Marta Liszt was dead, and her blood was on no others’ hands but Rhys Proudfoot’s.

Sensing the shift in atmosphere and Rhys’s heightened discomfort, Tesh lowered his eyes and waited a moment to continue. “You did what you had to do, Proudfoot,” he said finally. “It could have been any of us.”

Emotion welled in Rhys’s throat, and he failed to choke back a sudden sob that rasped forth from his lips. Salty tears rolled from his swollen eyes in thick beads, stinging as they washed over the cuts on his face. He hadn’t cried since the incident, but now, surrounded by the familiar dark walls of the DPD, the confrontation with Harriet, and the appraising stare of Tesh Marionetti, he no longer had the strength to hold it all back. The ring in his hand was of no help, either.

“Put the it on my desk, Proudfoot.”

It was a command, and so Rhys was able to obey. He reached over with a groan and slid the ring across to Marionetti.

“Now pull yourself together.” Tesh cleared his throat. “Your re-entry interview is set for tomorrow at noon. Which is one of the many, many reasons why you’re a fool to discharge yourself from the hospital so soon. They’re already trying to leap down your throat, and you’ve still got stitches in your head. And you and Grimm can’t be in the same room together for longer than, what, five seconds?” The senior officer sighed. “I want to be your friend as well as your supervisor, Rhys, but you’re making it damn hard not just to be your boss.”

“Will you be my boss for much longer?” Rhys asked, clearing his throat. His tone was bleak. “Even if this turns out okay for me, they’re not going to want me working for the DPD anymore. Especially not as an operative.”

“Out of the question,” Marionetti retorted, more forcefully than he’d intended. “I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“It’s going to happen,” Rhys argued. “It’s just a matter of whether or not it’s before or after the task force decides to press charges.”

“I said I’d make sure that doesn’t happen. You’re valuable to this institution, Proudfoot. Double Eye functions on logic, not luck, but damn, were we fortunate to snatch you up. PICSUS knows it, I know it, everyone knows it.”

“That’s the thing,” said Rhys. “You’re only lucky until you’re not. You’re only useful until you’re not. Look at me now.” He arched his swollen brows and lifted his cast-wrapped forearm with a wince. “I was dead twice in that hospital bed. Twice. I shouldn’t be alive.” And Liza shouldn’t be dead. The unspoken phrase hung unvoiced in the air, rendering the air bitter.

Marionetti was unsure how to break the extended silence that followed. After several minutes, he watched, expressionless, as Rhys hauled himself to his feet and limped out the door, neither man exchanging a word.

It was the last time Tesh would see Rhys.

— — — they've locked up their daughters and battened the hatches — — —

Camden, Central Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Henri Yankton climbed out of his SUV with a paper cup of coffee in one hand, his clean-shaven face rosy in the crisp morning air of mid-autumn. The businessman stopped at the high-rise Hilton twice a week to deliver a skim, sugar-free mocha latte to the thin woman at the front desk, an unspoken favor in exchange for keeping her mouth firmly closed in regards his frequent stays with his prominent business partner’s wife.

Rhys Proudfoot watched nonchalantly from a bus stop bench along the sidewalk, his hands buried in the front pockets of his nondescript hoodie. He knew with certainty that if Yankton left the vehicle without his briefcase, he would be very quick to return—which meant quick action was imperative. It was his client’s deadline date, the latest date Rhys had promised by contract that the deed would be done, and he was ready for the charade to be over. Though he’d been on Yankton’s case for only two and a half weeks, he’d already spent three months in Philadelphia, which meant he was overdue for an identity refresh. “Jason Kitchener” was becoming too familiar a face in the metro area.

Yankton disappeared behind the rotating doors. Because he parked half a block from the main entrance (for discretion, most likely), it was easy for Rhys to stride up to the black Mercedes unseen. Because it was a vintage model (expensive, but insecure), overriding the computerized alarm with a transmission jammer was a simple matter of broadening the frequency range and planting the small device in the front wheel well. The rest was a swift series of basic lock-picking maneuvers, and in thirty seconds the operative-turned-assassin was huddling in the spacious leather back seat, awaiting his unsuspecting prey like a hungry leopard crouching in the savannah grass.

Huffing and puffing, the portly Henri Yankton climbed into the driver’s seat in an obvious hurry. Before he could turn the keys in the ignition, however, the assassin struck—sliding one gloved hand around to clamp over his target’s mouth while the other slid a long needle into the pulsing artery in the man’s throat.

Yankton made no sound as he lost consciousness, slipping into a deep slumber from which he would never rouse. Rhys reached forward, tripping the lever that allowed the seat to recline. He slid over to the passenger side in the back seat and leaned over the businessman, surveying the site of the injection. He located it quickly and inserted yet another needle into the same miniscule pockmark; this was the final blow. The solution in the syringe was a strange cocktail of organic and synthetic chemicals, a combination of his own invention that was so convoluted—and virtually unprecedented—that even high-dollar blood analyses came back inconclusive. It had taken several trials to perfect the recipe, which he had cobbled together with pieces of other, similarly successful serums from Double Eye and competing foreign agencies.

Despite its high scores on the blood tests, Rhys’s goal was that such a thorough panel would never be necessary. As long as it stopped the heart and could pass the coroner’s basic preliminary testing, that was good enough. His client’s wishes were that it appear a perfectly natural death—a desire Rhys definitely agreed upon, as bodily disposal was not part of his package—which was, in this case, relatively straightforward. Yankton was a big man who looked at least ten years older than his age, and conveniently, he was a relatively newly diagnosed type-one diabetic. As a man unaccustomed to mandated change who very much liked his expensive chocolate gelato (and disliked heeding anyone’s warnings, let alone a nutritionist’s), it would not require any stretch of the imagination to assume that he administered an incorrect dose of insulin after indulging and subsequently—if accidentally—met his end.

Rhys tugged Yankton’s limp body to the side so that the man’s torso rested on the passenger seat. The assassin climbed over top of him to perch beneath the steering wheel, then slid his legs over the center console out of the way. With the keys in the ignition, it was easy to turn the switch and drive peacefully away, heading toward the man’s house—which Rhys had naturally already located and scoped out. He pulled into the driveway, opened and closed the automatic garage, and repositioned the man to sit slumped over behind the wheel. Behind the closed door, he carefully positioned the syringe of insulin he’d used himself (the same brand as Yankton’s, of course) to look discarded in the cup holder.

The man had felt dizzy at the hotel—surveillance would have seen him come and go with his usual coffee delivery—and quickly drove home, where he never made it out of the car.

There were holes in the story, of course; Rhys did only enough to cover his own tracks, and whatever trail authorities might find would lead only to his client. But with Yankton’s social and medical reputation, he doubted many would question his demise.

Feeling empty, the former field operative departed the Yankton estate and returned to his grungy motel room.

— — — someone’s in trouble somewhere tonight — — —

How Rhys found himself in this particular situation, he couldn’t say.

“It’s a fine Tuscan vintage,” the dark-haired man was saying, the wrinkles around his mouth stretching into a broad, decidedly menacing smile. “Have a drink. I insist. Truly.”

Rhys released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I’m going to have to decline,” he said, his throat tight with concern. It wasn’t wise to insult Murphy Colstorm, a man whose reputation preceded him as a very important, infamously violent advisor to the Vandalays, one of the top-dog mafia families in North America.

Predictably, Colstorm’s expression darkened. “Nonsense. Have a drink.” He reached forward, pushing a crystal chalice roughly across the table.

The dark liquid contents sloshed in the bowl of the glass, and Rhys’s stomach turned. The aged Bordeaux looked far too much like blood. Reluctantly, the curly-haired young man brought the glass to his lips and took a sip. He forced a smile. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s good.”

The chuckled response contained no humor. “Have more.”

Rhys gritted his teeth, bile rising in his throat. It was a requirement of every spy, even former ones, to possess a supreme set of instincts that could do many things—detect untruths, predict future action, judge character, and warn of danger. In this particular case, despite their tranquil surroundings on the balcony of a high-rise New York City penthouse, Rhys Proudfoot’s gut was telling him—no, screaming for him—to run.

With the exception of an occasional twinge of soreness in his knee, he’d been back to full physical function for quite some time. The injuries he had sustained during the Tribeca-Antioch incident in Turkey had taken no lasting toll on his body. But the wounds that continued to plague him were the invisible ones; they were the ghosts of memory and the demons of panic, haunting him beneath every thought, within every dream, behind every move he made. His head pounded with explosions at night, keeping him awake and clammy and shaking; during the day, it was a constant internal war to keep the devils far enough at bay to function. And sometimes—times like these, when he felt just as trapped and cornered as he had during the incident—he wondered how (and why) it was he had survived so long.

Rhys, heart slamming in his ears, tipped the last of the wine into his mouth and swallowed.

“Good lad,” Colstorm said approvingly, traces of an Irish lilt coloring his tone. This stretches a lot farther than this continent, Rhys thought automatically. “At last we can get down to business.” The man cleared his throat. “Your previous client, John Erickson? Oh yes, we know about Henri Yankton.” The mobster had mistaken Rhys’s blanched expression for surprise. “Were it not for the way you handled that particular scenario, you would not be here today. So count yourself lucky, my friend. Yankton was no saint, but neither was Erikson, who referred you to us given your unique…qualifications. It was a test, of sorts, and you were the first of many to pass.”

His smile was filthy, and Rhys pursed his lips, maintaining a neutral expression. He preferred not to know just what had become of those Colstorm hadn’t deemed worthy.

“Our organization is large, Mr. Proudfoot, and I admit, we have men amongst our ranks already who are more than capable of doing the job. But none of them have your background, or your grace, and that is what we want. We need finesse, Mr. Proudfoot. Finesse, dedication, and experience. Which is why we are hiring you.”

Are hiring. Colstorm was presenting it like a choice, but there was no decision to be made in this; Rhys could accept their offer, whatever it may be for whomever it might be, or face consequences he didn’t want to think about having been privy to so much already. He also suspected that matters would not be so simple as Mr. Colstorm presented.

“You will meet with a team downstairs just three floors, in the lower level penthouse,” Colstorm continued, leaning back in his chair and knotting his fingers together over his stomach. “Myron and Dixon will escort you, where your credentials will be assessed by Mr. Vandelay and associates and you will be briefed.” He rose to his feet. “More wine for the road, my friend?”

Rhys shivered at the repeated terms of endearment, then shook his head. “I prefer to be in control of my faculties, sir,” he said robotically.

Colstorm laughed, this time with genuine amusement, and it was unclear which version of his guffaws were worse. “Of course, of course. I will show you to the elevator.”

The electronic silver doors opened once they were inside, and the former operative stepped inside the elevator sandwiched between two tight-lipped, well-dressed bodyguards. As the barriers slid shut, Colstorm waved using just the tips of his fingers from across the room. “Good luck,” he called ominously, and the bell signaled the start of their descent.

— — — if you ask how i am, then i’ll just say ‘inspired’ — — —

The conference room in which the meeting took place was a long, narrow chamber with tall packed bookshelves and even taller windows. Sunlight streamed in straight geometric beams through the dusty air, the particles sent aflutter as Rhys stood from his chair and strode calmly, if quickly, towards the oversized sculpted wooden doors.

His dismissal really had not come soon enough.

He expected to find the reception area empty. The space was more of an academic study than a waiting room, with a large old-fashioned brick fireplace, rich green oriental carpet over polished wooden floors, and yet more bookshelves filled to capacity. Plush armchairs in crimson and gray sat angled in each corner, their vibrant color dulled somewhat by a thin layer of dust from disuse. Strange, that an organization who claimed to be so technologically progressive would model its meeting chambers after Victorian-era libraries (and in a cold, streamlined contemporary office building to top it all off). Even the air smelled of pipe tobacco and musk.

Rhys pushed his way through the second set of double-doors, catching a sudden and unexpected glimpse of gunmetal black as he stepped over the threshold. He’d barely registered the presence of a firearm before his training kicked in, and he wrapped one hand around its short barrel while the other grabbed its wielder’s forearm. He used her own limb across her body to press her against the oak door as it closed. Clearly, she had anticipated him as much as he had anticipated her—likely the only reason he'd been able to maneuver her out of the way.

He kept his voice low so as not to draw the attention of the men still in the meeting.

“Who are you," he hissed, "and who are you after?”

— — — and you're better off dead if you haven't yet died — — —