Patriot M.A. Rothman (free ebook reader for iphone .TXT) 📖

Connor tapped his chest. “Agency personnel aren’t sanctioned to work inside the US.”

“You’re kind of slow on the uptake, aren’t you? We’re telling you that you don’t work for the CIA anymore. Not if you don’t want to. And we aren’t constrained by those rules or regulations. We operate wherever we need to.”

“Are you in?” Thompson asked.

Connor crossed his arms, taking a moment to consider everything these men had told him. If even a fraction of what they’d said was true, he was entering the line of work that he’d always envisioned himself doing. Making a difference.

It didn’t take him long to make his decision.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m in.”

Thompson clapped him on the back. “Great. Let’s get moving.”

“Moving?”

Thompson opened the conference room door. “What, did you think we’re just going hang out in the office all day and talk about what-ifs and game plans and TPS reports? We’ve got work to do.”

Connor appreciated the man’s frankness. He followed him out into the main room. “So when do I get my decoder ring?”

Richards laughed. “No decoder ring today, Mr. Hunt.”

“Do I at least get a cool car with ejector seats and rockets behind the headlights?”

“Not quite. But I think you need an official ID and for that, you need to meet our gadget guy.”

Chapter Nineteen

Thompson put his hand on the fourth palm reader and looked into the fourth retina scanner they’d come to since leaving the main chamber. A green light passed over his palm, a soft two-tone chime signaled approval, and the door clicked open.

“You guys really do like your security systems, don’t you?” Connor said, following Thompson through.

“Can you blame us?” Thompson said, holding the door for Richards. “The one thing you’ll learn about us is that we don’t take shortcuts and we’re nowhere near as trusting as the CIA.”

Connor frowned. “I didn’t realize the CIA was that trusting.”

Richards laughed. “How many double agents have come out of that place in the last fifty years? At least six. You want to know how many we’ve had since our inception?”

Connor took the bait. “How many?”

Richards held up a hand, making an ‘O’ with his fingers. “Zero.”

“Pretty impressive.”

“It’s because we’re extremely careful about who we invite into our ranks,” Thompson said. “It’s one of the benefits of being an invite-only organization. We’ve actually had our eye on you for about two years. So congrats: you’re trustworthy.”

“Good to know.”

“And not only that,” Richards added, “anyone we find in here who’s not supposed to be isn’t going to find themselves in a jail cell, much less a court of law.”

Connor understood the implication.

They stepped into another large room with a low ceiling composed almost entirely of illumination panels. The slate-gray wall to his right was lined with racks of equipment, and to his left, rows of HDTV monitors. A waist-high table ran almost the entire length of the room, covered with strange bits and pieces of tech that Connor didn’t recognize.

The strong aroma of scented candles filled the air. Connor had never been a candle guy—though he’d had several girlfriends that would buy them for his apartment—but he was almost positive this was a sandalwood or driftwood or something like that. Some name that had no connection to any real smell.

A short man looked up from the far end of the table, where he’d been hunched over something laid out in several tiny pieces on a rubber mat. The man was maybe five feet two, a bit on the chunky side, with a well-trimmed beard. His long brown hair was combed over to one side, leaving the other, shaved side of his head uncovered.

He set down a pinky-sized screwdriver and pushed his wire-framed glasses to his forehead. “Another rookie, huh?” he said, smiling.

Richards made his hand into the shape of a gun and pointed it at the man. “You know, Martin, I think you must have been a detective in another life.”

Thompson motioned to Connor. “Martin Brice, meet Connor Sloane. Connor, this is Marty. You can think of him as the souped-up quartermaster for the Outfit.”

Brice set the glasses down on the mat and moved around the table, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you, brother. Welcome to the Outfit.”

Connor pumped the offered hand hard and was more than a little surprised by the man’s grip. He didn’t look like he hit the gym on a regular basis, but he was strong. “The guys tell me you’re supposed to hook me up with an umbrella gun and an invisibility cloak.”

“Ha! I’m sure they did. Unfortunately, my stash from Deathly Hallows is fresh out.”

Richards moved along the table, eyeing the equipment. Brice turned and pointed. “Don’t touch anything, Richards. You break it, you buy it.”

The agent held up both hands, stepping back from the table. “I didn’t touch anything.”

“Uh-huh.”

Connor studied the equipment on the shelves. Some things were recognizable—computers and other handheld gadgets—while others were not. Many of the items looked like they’d been taken apart and had never been put back together again. But Connor’s gaze was drawn to a partially disassembled weapon on a low shelf. Even with his many years around firearms, Connor didn’t recognize it. It was about the size of an M240b machine gun, but it didn’t match anything in the SF arsenal or stuff he’d seen that was built overseas.

Richards had moved to a table in the back, where he sniffed at a mug of steaming liquid. A stylistic version of the Bat Signal was painted in black across the mug’s white porcelain. “What’s the flavor this week?”

“Black Coconut Husk,” Brice said. “It’s not as coconutty as it sounds though. Kind of disappointing.”

“Hmmm.” Richards straightened. “It smells like burnt water.”

“You should try it.”

“No thanks, I’ll stick to coffee.”

Brice grimaced. “Talk about burnt water.”

“First things first,” Thompson hitched his thumb toward Connor. “Our boy needs an ID.”

“Okay,” Brice motioned for Connor to follow him and said, “let’s get you your coin and put you into the system.”

“Coin?” Connor asked.

“I’ll get to the coin in