“Agent Cassidy, please sit down…”

  ‘Please sit down’…Such a simple phrase, but one that could scare the absolute shit out of someone at the proper moment…

  I stepped forward and sat down, facing my three inquisitors.

  “This is very difficult, you understand. The politics are…well, a false step here will put the United States at a disadvantage.”

  I kept my face expressionless…the oldest of the three was speaking, and he looked like he was having a hard time not sweating. Now, of his partners, the young man looked nervous as well…but the woman simply looked bored.

  “So the investigation has determined that you were the guilty party…”

  He was about to continue, but by raising one finger, I stopped him from speaking, “So…this is including the video evidence?”

  The woman looked at me with a bland expression, “What video evidence?”

  “I see,” this was a possibility. “And what about the secure copy I made?”

  That got a reaction from all three, and her face paled, “You didn’t.”

  This got a shrug from me. No matter how I was really feeling, I was playing it cool and collected. Being a rock had been a useful professional skill, “I have not lied so far, Ms. Frinke. If I had, I’m positive you would have used it instead of trying something so blatant…Man…State and my old Chief of Station must be putting the pressure on you hard. Hell of an embarrassment once all this hits the media and the trial starts.”

  “What?”

  “Unless you Gitmo me…and we both know Deputy Assistant Secretary O’Toole doesn’t have that kind of pull. It probably took every favor he had to get this to this point, after all… I’m going to sue for wrongful everything…bring it all out in public…make sure that that video gets seen on the nightly news. Tell you what, O’Toole wants me gone and not talking. Fine, I’m gone. Believe it or not, my time as a PPO taught me about how politics actually gets done, and I do not want to screw up a foreign mission…but he does not get to slander me…I will hear about it, and that video will be released. You have my badge already, and now you have my resignation. Stay away, and there will be no issues from my end.”

  Frinke stared at me, “Very well, Ms. Cassidy. I have some documents for you to sign…”

  “Not going to happen,” I stood up. “Paper like that can cut both ways; it can be found out about and used as a club. I’m not going to take a beating for that asshole’s piece of mind.” Turning, I headed for the door and was in the hall before they could respond.

  “How’d it go?” Benny, my old mentor, was standing there waiting.

  “As I figured. Thanks for all the help and moral support. Now I need to get clear before I get busted for trespassing or something, so they can force me to sign.”

  “Got it…call me later.”

  Nodding, I slipped through the halls of the Truman building, avoiding the uniformed security, and made it out through the cafeteria doors. Once outside, I looked up at the sky and wondered just what the hell I was going to do next.

  A month later, I was in my tiny DC apartment, still wondering…mainly about how I was going to make next month’s rent. There was no way I was going to get a good job reference from State as long as O’Toole was in the loop, so my job prospects were steadily heading toward ‘Would you like fries with that?’. It didn’t help that my BS in Political Science focused on Counterterrorism was not something that could be monetized if the State Department wouldn’t back me up as my last employer either.

  Staring at my hearty meal of ramen, I sighed. Then my phone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you still interested in going into the private sector?” it was Benny.

  “I don’t really have a choice; O’Toole shut down everything else…Are you talking about a PMC?”

  “Hell no! I heard through the grapevine that someone was looking for a bodyguard for their grandson. Serious money…old money.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “I’m texting you a phone number; the guy you want to talk to is named Coppersmith…He’s the hiring…and everything else, to be honest…manager. Give him a call.”

  My phone buzzed, “Got the text…This Coppersmith, will he care about O’Toole and State?”

  “I don’t see why. Public record is that you simply quit.”

  Nodding to myself, I had to agree, “Thanks, Benny. I owe you again.”

  “No problem. Give them hell, Agent!”

  Finishing my ramen, I stared at my phone for a while and then dialed the number.

  “Yes?” Older male voice, educated, faint trace of some accent…

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Coppersmith?”

  “And you are?”

  “Isis Cassidy…Benjamin Gennaro gave me this number.”

  “I see. This is Coppersmith, no ‘Mister’ is required, ma’am. Why did he suggest you call?”

  “It’s about the personal security position.”

  “And where are you now? By that, I mean, what is your location?

  “Washington DC…Where am I calling?”

  He chuckled, “Vermont. Can you be here in a day for an interview?”

  That was quick. “You don’t want my resume?”

  “If Mr. Genearo suggested this to you, I believe an interview would be sufficient. You will be reimbursed for travel, so please save the receipts.”

  “Okay…sure, can I get an address?”

  “Certainly…”

  Once I had written down the address and the call ended, I immediately looked up Brunswick, Vermont… a bustling metropolis with a total population of about 90. It looked like a ten-hour drive if I went non-stop. Checking the bank, I had enough to fuel up the whole way while still being able to make rent and utilities, which were due in a day or two…but no wiggle room.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  After taking out the trash, I headed to bed. Tomorrow was going to be long.

  The next morning, I showered and made sure my head was perfectly shaved. Since Afros were frowned on in the Army and at DSS, and since my hair grew fast, I had gotten used to shaving myself bald, just to reduce the flak. Now, I kind of liked the look. Putting on sweatpants and a t-shirt, I carried the map case that I used as a messenger bag, my overnight bag, and my suit bag down to my four-year-old Camry and made sure my Glock was well secured in the trunk.

  There was nothing else to do but drive.

  Baltimore, Maryland; Wilmington, Delaware; almost all of New Jersey…I cruised steadily up 95, passing through Elizabeth and Newark and then into New York. Crossing into Connecticut, I headed north at New Haven and, after entering Massachusetts, drove past Springfield and kept going. Now, I was paralleling the Connecticut River on the Vermont side, and it was amazing how green the place was.

  After being stationed in Bulgaria and then assigned to New York and DC, I had been stuck in cities even in my free time. Fueling up, right as I turned off the Interstate and onto a State highway, I yawned as I drank my coffee and watched the tank fill. My app said I had about an hour to go, so I should get ready.

  Grabbing my suit bag and my dopp kit, I headed into the bathroom. After quickly shaving my head to get it glistening smooth, I put on one of my gray business three-piece suits.

  Once I had the trousers on and my vest buttoned over my white band-collared shirt (ties may be prettier, but they’re also a weapon that can be used against you) and suspenders, I slipped on my shoulder holster and then pulled on the jacket that was cut to hide the holster, before kicking off my sandals and putting on the well-polished ankle-cut tactical boots that felt almost like cross trainers.

  Putting the bags back in the trunk, I slipped my Glock out of its hiding place and slid it into the holster, along with a pair of spare magazines.

  From what I’d seen of both diplomats and individuals with private security, the principals liked knowing that their people were armed and prepared.

  The last hour took me off the highways and onto country lanes before I was climbing a series of switchbacks to a large powered gate.

  “Yes?”

  “Isis Cassidy to see Coppersmith.”

  There was a buzz, and the gate opened. I drove up a long drive and pulled to a stop in front of an obvious garage and next to a pretty grimy Range Rover. Climbing out, I adjusted my jacket and, picking up my map bag, walked toward the house.

  Meeting me halfway was a white guy in his sixties wearing a seriously sweet black suit, a bow tie, and white gloves.

  “Ms. Cassidy. I’m Coppersmith.”

  “If you’re just Coppersmith, I’m just Cassidy.”

  He nodded calmly, “Of course…this way, please; the Missus wants to meet you before we chat.”

  “The Missus?”

  “Lady Elaine Burton…you should call her Lady Elaine.”

  He led me into the house through a side door.

  “Are you armed?”

  “Yes. I can return it to the car if you want me to.”

  He shook his head, “You’ll need to stay armed if you work here.”

  Raising an eyebrow, I paused, “There’s this much of a threat?”

  He turned to face me, “There can be.”

  “Why?”

  “We’ll talk about that in a bit.”

  “Okay…”

  We continued on into the mansion. The place was amazing for a home in the middle of nowhere, Vermont. Paintings, sculptures, and historical furniture. It looked as fancy or fancier than the show sections of most Prime Ministerial or Presidential palaces I had been to.

  “This place is gorgeous.”

  Coppersmith inclined his head in acceptance slightly, “Thank you. We are all very proud of Light Hall and try to be good tenants.”

  “I can see why.”

  We continued down a grand marble-floored hall and stopped at a pair of giant wooden doors. Coppersmith opened them and nodded at me to enter.

  Reclining on a chaise lounge that looked like it was out of a 1940s Hollywood film was an elegant woman wearing a set of silk lounging pajamas. She was wearing a white silk turban with a massive cluster of gems pinned as a brooch to it, a pair of wraparound dark glasses, and a red silk dressing gown. Her skin was darker than mine.

  “Miss Cassidy?”

  Her voice was melodic and low, with none of the tremors or rasps of age and with just a trace of some kind of accent.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied. “Just Cassidy is fine, though.”

  “I see why Coppersmith would like you…The same taste in forms of address…You do have a first name?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Isis.”

  “Yes…A good name. Your mother’s or your father’s choice?”

  “Mother, ma’am. My great-great-grandparents were born in Cairo, and my mother was always interested in Egyptian mythology.”

  “I’m a grandparent too. The person you would be protecting is my grandson, Zachery. He stays with me whenever his parents are out of the country working for one of our companies.”

  “And he is at risk?”

  “Through no fault of his own…but sadly, yes. Can you protect him?”

  “It is what I’m trained for, ma’am.”

  “Come here,” she said and gestured me over with her delicate hands. I did as she said, and she touched my wrist. Her skin was nearly jet black compared to my comparatively lighter tone. “Now,” she said as I looked into my reflection in those wide dark glasses, “you swear that you can and will protect my grandson?”

  “Well, yes.”

  She smiled, “I think you will do. Coppersmith?”

  The man walked over, “This way, Cassidy.”

  He led me into a small office on the second floor. The absolutely beautiful desk had a very prosaic computer monitor and keyboard sitting on one side. He gestured toward a chair, and I sat down.

  “Isis Amara Cassidy, born in Atlanta, Georgia, on the 4th of October 1987. Your mother died when you were ten, and you were raised by your grandparents, joined the Army after high school to get college money, and served as a Military Police Officer with the 503rd Military Police Battalion for eight years, including tours in Iraq and Afghanistan as part of the Criminal Investigation Division….”

  He recited this without looking at anything as I just stared, “It’s been less than 24 hours, and all you had was my name…”

  “When you have access to a lot of money, many things are possible, Cassidy. Shall I continue?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “You performed remote education at all your duty stations, and upon completion of your service contract, you attended the University of Maryland for two years to complete your degree in Political Science and played on the Women’s Basketball Team during that time. Then you joined the Diplomatic Security Service, and that has been your calling, first as a personal protection officer, then as a member of a DSS Counter-Terror advisory team. This employment ended recently due to an issue in Bulgaria. Aside from that, your record has been exemplary with Army Achievement and Commendation Medals as well as the Soldier’s Medal, the State Department Secretary’s Award, the State Department Award for Heroism, and two Purple Hearts.”

  I just sat there.

  “Is any of that incorrect?”

  “No,” was all I could think to say. This guy clearly had gotten access to my 201 file and my OPM folder.

  “Good. I won’t go through the minutiae of your certifications and qualifications. I stated what I did so you would be assured that I have read those as well. Do you want the position?”

  What? “I think I’m supposed to ask about pay and benefits,” I replied, stalling to collect my thoughts.

  “One hundred fifty thousand dollars a year, full medical coverage, of course, food and lodging…Is that sufficient?”

  “150K?”

  He nodded, “There will be annual raises.”

  “Don’t you need to do a background check?”

  “I have read your SF-86…”

  “My Tier 5 security clearance docs…How? That’s national security stuff.”

  “A lot of money.”

  “So, what do I need to do?”

  “Say yes or no to the position.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all. I will arrange to have your apartment packed and your belongings shipped here, then we will board the helicopter and fly to New York, where you will meet your charge, Master Zachery.”

  “New York?”

  “He is attending a private school there.”

  “So I would be starting immediately?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I’m in.”

  “Good…we will also need to contact the Missus’s tailor. You will need some nicer suits…”