Forty dollars later, she was back in the car, ready to return to the Hummingbird. Sarah’s last words haunted her.
Finish your mission.
Jolaine smacked the steering wheel. Goddammit, she hadn’t signed up for this. She hadn’t even applied for the job. The job had recruited her.
She’d just come back from her second tour as a civilian gunslinger in Afghanistan. The money was great, and the job was simple — until it wasn’t. Her responsibilities mostly involved personal security for Afghan muckety-mucks who were important enough to require bodyguards, but not quite important enough to have the best. Not that she wasn’t good at what she did — in fact, she considered herself to be damn good — but the outfit she worked for, Hydra Security, didn’t have the clout to get big-money contracts. As a result, she’d been stuck with old-school M4 rifles and M9 sidearms while the big boys got the fancier MP7s and much lighter body armor.
Jolaine had been shot at plenty in her two tours in Afghanistan, but the intended targets had always been the people she was supposed to protect. Her response had been to lay down cover fire — a blanket of bullets that was more intended to keep bad guys’ heads down than to kill identifiable targets — and to shove her protectees into their armored vehicles. The work was mentally engaging and exciting. And since she was still breathing — as were her clients — she liked to think of herself as pretty good at the job. When she was on her last break before her contract expired, she’d decided to sign on for another two years.
Then, three years ago, she was sitting in a Starbucks in Vienna, Virginia, enjoying a grande coffee and a blueberry muffin when a blond supermodel sat down at the table next to hers and made a point of staring at her. Jolaine tried to ignore her, but after ten minutes it became unbearable.
“Can I help you?’ Jolaine asked. At the time, she’d assumed that it was a lesbian come-on, and she’d girded herself for the confrontation.
“You’re Jolaine Cage, aren’t you?” the lady asked.
Jolaine’s protective shields shot up. “Who wants to know?”
The superhot blonde flashed a gold badge from the pocket of her slacks. “Can we take a walk?” she said.
Jolaine recognized the distinctive shape of the FBI shield. “Am I in trouble?”
The blonde smiled. “Not hardly. I just want to talk to you, and it’s too crowded in here.”
At the time — in the moment — Jolaine felt a surge of adrenaline. Within the community of freelance security folks, stories abounded of clandestine meetings in which operators were recruited to be Uncle Sam’s muscle. “Sure,” she said. Jolaine rose from her little table and started to walk away from her coffee.
“You’re probably going to want that,” the lady said, pointing to the paper cup.
Jolaine grabbed the cup by its insulating band and pulled it close to her body. “Where are we going?”
“Just out.”
They stepped out into chilly October sunshine. Traffic on Maple Avenue was heavy more or less all day, thanks to traffic lights on every block. At this hour, about eleven in the morning, it was as light as it was going to get.
“Let’s walk north,” the lady said.
Jolaine noted that the left turn out of the Starbucks led them toward CIA headquarters, six miles down the road. “I won’t get into a car,” she said.
The lady laughed. “This isn’t a rendition,” she said. She extended her hand. “My name is Maryanne Rhoades. I’m with the FBI.”
Jolaine shook her hand. “I got the FBI part in there. And you already know who I am.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why do you know who I am?”
“We’ve been watching you.”
A danger bell rang in Jolaine’s head. She stopped walking.
It took Maryanne a few steps to realize that she was alone, and she turned. “You look unnerved,” she said. “Don’t be. This is all good.”
“Then I think you should get to the good part,” Jolaine said.
Maryanne smirked, as if hearing a joke that was audible only to her. “Do you like working at Hydra Security?”
A second bell rang in harmony with the first. “That’s a question, not an answer,” she said.
Maryanne cocked her head. “I’m getting the vibe that you don’t trust me.”
“If you know what you claim to know, then you should understand why. Over on the dark side of the world, you guys don’t know what it means to play fair.”
Maryanne shrugged. “War is hell.”
“We’re done,” Jolaine said. She turned and started back toward the Starbucks. If this pinup bitch had been within a thousand miles of a shooting war, Jolaine would eat her own arm.
“Please stop,” Maryanne said.
Jolaine stopped but she didn’t turn.
“We want to hire you,” Maryanne said.
Now that got her attention. “Hire me as what?”
“A contractor,” Maryanne replied. “For personnel security.”
Jolaine turned and regarded the other woman. “And why does the FBI, with four point three bajillion agents, want to hire me as a contractor?”
Maryanne shrugged. “I told you. We’ve been watching you. We like what we see.”
They say that flattery will get you everywhere. While Jolaine was as vulnerable as the next girl, she also recognized the blowing of sunshine. “Not good enough,” she said. “If you were watching me, then you were watching others. And if you were watching others, you’d know that there are tons of people out there whose work is exemplary.”
The smirk didn’t fade. “Your attributes are special,” she said. When Jolaine didn’t rise to the bait, she clarified, “You’re a woman. This job is specifically for a woman.”
Jolaine’s imagination went right to a mission to sleep with the enemy, and she rejected it out of hand. “No,” she said. She started walking again.
“Dammit, Jolaine, will you quit doing that?”
She stopped and turned. “You’ve got two sentences to show your hand,” she declared.
“It’s a bodyguard gig,” Maryanne said. “For a young boy. The parents want the bodyguard to be a woman.”
And just like that, she was intrigued. She took a few steps closer. “Are we talking witness protection?”
Maryanne’s head bobbled noncommittally on her shoulders. “Not exactly, but that’s close.”
“What’s closer?”
Maryanne smiled. “For that, we have to keep walking.”
Jolaine approached, and then together they continued north. “Why is walking important?”
“Motion makes eavesdropping more difficult.”
They stopped for the light at Center Street.
“Who would be listening in?”
“In this town, anybody,” Maryanne said with a chuckle. With its proximity to CIA headquarters, sleepy little Vienna, Virginia, was one of the spookiest towns in the world. “In our case, it could be one of several parties. Unfortunately, at this juncture, I’m not at liberty to share that information with you.”
The light turned and they continued walking northward. “Makes it kind of hard to evaluate your offer.”
“I’m sure it does,” Maryanne confirmed, “but I’m also sure you can see the chicken-and-egg problem. Unless and until you’re on board, we can’t afford to share details. You know how this business works. Sometimes you say yes to the unknown and just hope that you’re not signing on for a suicide mission.”