Authors: Nicola Claire
Maybe it was just because of Adam.
I’d changed. And this man was responsible. But I couldn’t seem to get angry over that fact.
What had my life been like before? A whirlwind of danger and intrigue and broken ribs and bruised knuckles. I still felt drawn to those things. Probably always would be. But they’d been couched in secrets and innuendo and lies and betrayal. Caleb and Ava had saved me.
But what the fuck had Mal and the Director ever done?
I trusted this man, I realised. I trusted him to catch me.
But how far would we fall?
“You,” I said, and he frowned in puzzlement. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“You don’t need to protect us,” Adam started.
“She’s right,” Nick interrupted him to say. Then he shifted his icy gaze to me. “But it’s too late, specialist. We’ve already seen inside the warehouse.”
Guangzhou. He might not have been there, like Caleb had been, but he knew. He knew about the drugs and the cartel. About Wayne Pascoe and Jacques Thibault. And about the Director.
I turned my gaze to Ava. I’d pulled her far enough in to this now too.
Guilt washed over me; a strange sensation. They all knew too much. Ava they’d handle like they were somehow handling Caleb and me; headaches, nausea, memory loss. But what would they do to ASI?
It was too late for them to retreat. Too late for them to run.
It was too late for all of us.
“My training started when I left university,” I said, my voice steady and strong, even if my insides were hollow.
“Mine started when I entered a government sponsored orphanage at twelve,” Ava offered. My breaths all but stilled. The room spun.
I couldn’t seem to get off the merry-go-round. One minute I was cool and collected. The next… I was not.
Caleb started chuckling. “Fucking orphans,” he spat. “They’re a dime a dozen and no one gives a flying fuck about them.”
His eyes met mine. And I knew. He was an orphan too. A different orphanage than mine or Ava’s. Different foster homes too, at a guess. Or maybe they were the same, just visited at different times so we wouldn’t cross over.
But one thing was probably similar, although I couldn’t remember clearly enough to be sure.
All of them would have been sponsored by the Department.
All of them would have been controlled,
directed by
, the Director.
“Operation Evolution,” I whispered. I’d always thought it referred to the evolution of the future, moulding our country into a safe haven, protecting it from the natural disintegration of society seen around the world. We’re the front-line. The silent wave you never see before the tsunami of the military. We slip in, we cut off the problem at the root, and we slip out again, unseen.
We protect our country. We die for our country, if need be. So no one else has to.
“Operation Evolution,” Caleb repeated on a murmur.
Not the country’s evolution, but ours.
I doubled over and regurgitated what was left of my lunch all over the interview room floor; sweat coating my body, trembling throughout my limbs.
“Charlie!” I heard Adam yell, or it could have been a whisper.
And then nothing but black. And pain. And a sheer piece of fabric blowing in a non-existent wind.
I
'd never known
fear like this. I'd never been incapacitated by it. I'd never allowed myself to feel. But what else could it be that made me so vulnerable in front of so many people?
If not fear then what? And that was the problem, wasn't it? I feared what it could be.
I wasn't where I had expected to be, I knew that much. For a moment my fear precluded awareness, but the softness of the bed beneath me and the silence of the room, save Adam's slow breathing, finally registered in my mind. I was not alone and I was no longer in the interview room.
My head pounded; a matched staccato to my heartbeat. My chest hurt; a tightness that bordered on panic. I could feel a fine sheen of sweat grace my skin.
I shivered and Adam stirred. He probably wasn't even asleep; I couldn't have been out for long. But I kept my eyelids closed and feigned slumber, while my body reluctantly caught up with reality.
I'd fainted. At least, I guessed that's what I'd done. Puked up my guts and passed out in the epitome of “damsel in distress.” A temptation impossible for a man like Adam Savill to ignore.
Hell, it was probably impossible for Nick Anscombe to ignore, too. But Caleb and Ava? They would have been appalled.
"I know you're awake," Adam's soft but deep voice announced. "And in case you're wondering, we're alone."
"I know we're alone," I said, resigned to my fate. I slowly opened my eyes and took in the familiar surroundings; the bedroom we'd shared. One of many available to staff within ASI, set-up to handle any length of lockdown.
I checked my watch, suppressed the sigh that wanted out when I realised I'd been out for more than an hour, and then pushed myself to a seating position; back to headboard, legs drawn up to my chest - ready to move if need be - eyes locked on Adam, sitting opposite in a chair.
He hadn't done anything as cliché as hold me while I recovered. But he hadn't left my side either. I glanced at the door and then the position of his seat and offered a rueful smile.
"You're guarding me," I said. "The question is, are you guarding me against them or them against me?"
"What do you think, Charlie?"
I didn't know what to think. My life had turned upside down and inside out. Back was front. Top was bottom. And spies couldn't be trusted.
"Where's Caleb and Ava?" I asked, instead of offering an answer. It’d been rhetorical, I was sure. At least, I chose to take it that way.
"Contained," Adam replied succinctly. He looked me over; purely professionally, little emotion showed on his face right then. "How are you feeling?"
Trying to pull on some of my well trained reserves, I smiled. It didn't feel right; not calculating or manipulative. Nothing that I could use to take control of the situation.
"I'm fine," I offered, barely preventing myself from snapping.
Adam let out a sigh, clearly not believing me. I wouldn't believe me either. I was so far from fine, I might as well have been back in fucking Guangzhou.
"Hart wasn't surprised," Adam suddenly announced.
"About what?"
"About you collapsing." And there you have it; the elephant in the room.
"Not that he'd let you see anyway," I offered.
Adam leaned forward on his seat, elbows to knees, eyes still locked on mine. The deep blue looked troubled, but only fleetingly. He was acting more and more the spy as I became less and less one. It would have amused, but nothing about this was funny.
"What do you know about PSYOPS?" he asked out of no-fucking-where.
Or not. That sickness that plagued me of late took on a whole new meaning. I suddenly realised I was rubbing my stomach. I stared down at my hand in acute mortification, my breaths coming in small uneven pants.
Operation Evolution
.
I lifted my eyes to Adam's face and swallowed.
"Eric knows a little about it," he went on, as if I wasn't just having a major meltdown. "Took part in some experiments when he was back in the Army. Says it's progressed from his days, but what he does know is enough."
He leaned back in his chair again, the first sign that he was agitated talking about this. He was hiding it well, but it was there. In the constant need to be moving as though the topic itched at his flesh.
I let out a breath, in the hopes it would release some tension, and did what I had to do to survive. Survive this moment. Survive this fucked up situation. Survive the Department.
"We're trained to utilise tactical psychological operations whilst in the field," I admitted.
"Eric said as much."
We both fell silent, neither willing to go where this conversation was taking us. But I am no coward. Never have been. Maybe I was never given the chance to be. Maybe Eric was right.
"I'm not aware of it being used on our people," I said, my words nothing more than a whisper. Correction: I hadn’t been aware of it until now.
"Caleb still remembers most of his upbringing. Ava more so. Both say the same thing."
I didn't want to hear this. I didn't want to face it. I held Adam's gaze and nodded my head for him to go on.
"Your training began as soon as you entered the foster care system.” The words felt likes knives in my stomach. “Neither can recall details, just fleeting memories.” Acid burned. Bile surged. “Some clearer than others. But one thing is certain, the Department moulded you from the start."
It took a moment, but I eventually swallowed the visceral reaction I was having and breathed. Simply breathed.
I’d trusted them. They’d been my only family. My parents had died when I was young; too young. I barely remember them now. Just words in a dossier I opened once a year to remind me. Activists. Socialists. One “ist” away from terrorists.
Why would the Department want me?
“The Director once told me,” I started, leaning my head back against the wall, closing my eyes to futilely stop the throbbing, “that common belief has got it all wrong. Blood is
not
thicker than water.” I let a huff of a breath out in a poor imitation of a laugh. “He’d been referring to the fact that the Department was a family. The Director our father and provider. The Handlers our caring uncles. Our fellow spies brothers and sisters. He could see, I think, that I didn’t fit the mould. Never had. A lone wolf, amongst a pack of wolves. I played the part, but he could see through it. I’d admired him,” I growled. “Fucking admired his observation skills, his ability to read a person. To get their number. And all the while he was trying to control me,
mould
me into something that didn’t fit.”
I opened my eyes and met deep blue. Adam hadn’t moved, but somehow he felt closer. Leaning forward in his chair, avidly listening. Elbows to knees, steady gaze on my face and nothing else.
“Why?” I asked. “Why did he go to such lengths to prove to me that I belonged? Why?” He didn’t do it with anyone else. Just me. His
imperfect perfect protégé.
“I don’t know why,” Adam said softly. “But now you know.”
“Know?”
“Now you know that he lied.” That all of it was lies.
A soft sound of distress left me. Embarrassing and liberating all at once. Maybe the Director had always planned to use me as a scapegoat. My parents had been trouble makers. Outspoken and dedicated to many a controversial cause. I fit the role of rogue spy on paper. All the Director had to do was trigger it.
“Charlie?” Adam asked softly, worry and concern edging into his gentle tones.
I shook my head, dismissed the sudden fear that had engulfed me, and said, “My name is Charisse.”
Silence; a mix of heavy reality and the lightness of truth. Who would have guessed? Honesty feels good.
“Charisse Catherine Bryce,” I added, and watched as Adam slowly stood from his chair and walked to the edge of the bed, looking down at me with dark, emotion-filled blue.
“Hello, Charisse Catherine Bryce,” he said, a smile playing on the edge of his lips. “Thank you,” he whispered in a rough voice. Then, “It suits you.”
“No it doesn’t,” I scoffed. Maybe my parents had thought I’d become a lady. A ballerina or the wife of a businessman. “I’ve been Charlie for so long that I can’t be anyone else.”
“I like Charisse,” he insisted. “And there’s time to become whomever you like.”
“Is there?” I didn’t think we had long. The Director was on his way, or God forbid one of my “brothers” or “sisters.” Sooner, rather than later, time would run out.
Adam started to slowly and purposefully remove his jacket, and that one move alone made my heart rate triple. My mouth grew dry by the time he’d laid it carefully on the nearby set of drawers. My skin flushed with anticipation once he’d finally turned back around.
Talking of triggers…
“Life is not meant to be easy,” he said, interrupting my erratic and swiftly devolving thoughts. “It’s a challenge you have to rise to every single day. We’ve all got demons inside us. We’ve all got secrets that could drag us down into an abyss. But that’s what’s so exciting about it. The chance to beat back our pasts, to shape our futures, to be who we should be, not who we can be.”
“It’s not always that simple,” I argued, watching him reach up to behind his neck and pull his t-shirt off over his head in one swift, muscle rippling move.
“No. It’s not,” he agreed. “But a wise man once told me, life offers us as many chances as we need. You just have to get off your arse and take one.”
“And who exactly was this paragon of wisdom?”
His top button came undone on his leathers. I had to work hard not to show how eager I was for the next. Of course, I knew what he was doing. Well, other than the obvious. He was making me forget. He was offering me a chance to be someone else. Even if just for a moment, in this room, right here. Once we walked back out through those doors, life - and death - would invade once again. Steal our resolve. Infiltrate our conscience.
I had no idea what would happen. How I would act. Who I would be.
But in here, right now, I could choose to be Charisse. Turn my back on Charlie. Be the person I
should
be, not the person I
can
be.
It was tempting. I licked my lips as a second button came undone. Fucking tempting.
“Who else gives such sound advice?” Adam quipped, bringing me back to the topic in question.
What was it? Oh, yes. Chances. And taking one.
I knew I’d take
this
one, because walking away from Adam had never been easy.
“Nick,” he said, just as well-worn bike leathers were peeled down superbly toned legs.
My mind stalled on Anscombe’s name for a second, and then Adam stepped out of his boxers.
OK. Who gives a fuck who said what.
I watched him crawl up the bed towards me, feeling entirely too overdressed. I started undoing my own leathers, fingers fumbling with my need, only to be stopped by one of Adam’s large hands.
“Uh-uh,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You’re not Charlie here. Out there,” he whispered, starting to slowly undo my buttons for me, “you better fucking be her. You better fucking pull on every single thing you’ve ever been taught.”
He knew. He knew this wasn’t real. Or, maybe, that it was just a moment in time we’d never get to repeat.
And for once in my too rapid life, I wanted the clock to stop. Right here.
“But in here,” Adam murmured, following the leathers down my legs with his hot breath and soft lips, “you’re Charisse Catherine Bryce. No secrets.” Another kiss against my thigh. “No hiding.” A soft stroke behind my knee. “Just one man and one woman.” A kiss to my ankle, the arch of my foot, each toe. “And you’re mine.”
The leathers were gone, my singlet followed, leaving me in only my bra and panties.
“Beautiful,” Adam rasped, kneeling above me, eyes darting from breast to stomach, to hips, to thighs, and back up to my eyes. “Absolutely perfect,” he whispered, and then collapsed down on top of me as though his legs couldn’t hold him aloft any longer.
His weight pressed me into the mattress, his lips ran a hot path up my throat to my mouth. His erection rubbed in exactly the right spot, in exactly the right way; hard, persistent, fierce.
But he didn’t devour me, it was more of a savour. Soft licks, delicate nips, firm but careful strokes of his fingers. I wanted more. I was used to more. This was a kind of torture I hadn’t been taught how to combat. His hands came up and framed my face, one on each cheek. He held my eyes, ensuring I could see him, that I understood what he was about to do.
And then he kissed me. Body undulating as our tongues delved and danced and heat unfurled from the tip of my head to the bottom of my toes. A full body kiss, one that stole all thought and reason. One that consumed as if by fire. One that lifted me off that mattress and sent me flying.
I’d never been kissed like that before. So completely. So reverently. So… beautifully. I’d never had such wonders as this in my life.
My legs wrapped around his thighs, my back arched bringing us closer together, shifting my wet centre against his hard cock. I made a sound, and then another, and then as if a flood gate had been opened, moans and whimpers and pleas for more fell out. Tumbling off my lips in between his ardent kisses. Floating on the air as though they too were lifting us higher.
How could he get me so involved in so little time with so little effort? If it was a distraction technique designed to disarm then it succeeded. I writhed beneath him without thought of my surroundings. Without attempting to plan my next move or counter attack my opponent. I met him lips to lips, tongue to tongue, body to body. He met me moan for moan, rock of hips for rock of hips, feverish hands grasping.
His tongue found my nipple, soaking the fabric of my bra in seconds. He softly bit the tip, then sucked hard enough to make the world spark in a flash of colours. His free hand wrapped around my neglected breast, kneading, moulding, tweaking.
“Adam,” I begged, well aware it
was
a beg.
“Who are you?” he demanded, working to free my breasts from their constraint, and then stealing my breath of speech to answer when his lips melded, skin to skin, against my nipple.