Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
And not in the way I’d like.
“You’re doing good,” Bayo says in my ear. “Like riding a bicycle, right? We got this.”
We got this. It feels good to hear him say that. I’d been relegated to my desk for the last three months after Operation Black Ice went tits up. This mission with Vanguard is my first one back, and I’ve got more than enough to prove.
“Thanks,” I whisper as I pause by a tall table and swallow back more champagne. I’m getting appreciative looks from the men, some of them dignitaries, one I think a famous theater actor, and some of the women are either giving me the sneering once-over or meeting my eye with a smile, the kind that means conversations I don’t have time to get sucked into.
Then, I see him.
Across the reflecting pool, in conversation with the Prime Minister, is none other than Vanguard himself. The last few years, while he’s become America’s darling, I’ve seen that damn face every single day, in the holographic news reports that scroll across buses, in ads that pop up on my phone, on social media networks, and in the classified documents of counterintelligence meetings. He’s become the symbol for a new America, someone who represents hope and picking up the pieces after the Dark Decade.
And yet, as I stare at him, I’m hit by two things. One is that it doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen his face—I’m still starstruck to see him in person. The man is larger than life, larger than a god in many ways. He’s at least a foot taller than me, his shoulders broad and wide, a solid frame that can withstand any storm. When Global Dynamix unveiled him as their first super soldier, an ordinary human enhanced by genetic engineering, he had a clean shaven face that showed off his strong jaw and cheekbones and these dimples that flashed when he smiled. Very all-American.
Now, his dark hair is a little longer, and he sports scruffy facial hair that often morphs into a full-on beard (cue the social media darlings calling him ‘Daddy Vanguard’), making him seem older and more respectable. No matter how you spin it, though, the man is absolutely, infuriatingly gorgeous.
And the other thing I’m realizing is…I’m envious.
Which is a fucking weird thing to feel, but it’s true. He’s standing there both at ease and on alert, his smile quick and sincere as he talks and laughs with the Prime Minister. His shoulders are back, his stance wide and powerful, especially in his tuxedo. He’s just oozing confidence. Sure, some of this might be performance (I have always assumed most of it is), but the fact is, this is a man who does not know the word fear. He doesn’t feel it. In his brain, in the very heart of him, fear is something that has no place in Vanguard’s life. It just doesn’t apply.
And then, there’s me. I desperately needing this win to feel like myself again, to prove myself to the team—and fear is the only thing I can feel right now.
Fear might be the only thing I’ve ever truly felt.
“What is going on in that head of yours, Mia?” Bayo whispers. “Your heartrate is increasing again.”
“Sorry,” I say behind another swig of my drink. “I’m just taking stock.”
“Well, get ready to pounce. Once the PM moves on to someone else, I reckon you have just a few seconds before you lose your chance.”
“I won’t lose,” I tell him, finishing the glass and placing it on the tray of a waiter walking past. I straighten my shoulders and walk toward the edge of the pool, noticing the security around the PM, his usual crew. I quickly scan around Vanguard, noting the groups of people slowly inching closer, having the same idea I have.
Except they want selfies with him.
And I’m attempting international espionage.
The closer I get, the more it seems the Prime Minister and Vanguard get into deeper conversation, the PM’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing as he leans in. He’s too far away for me to read lips properly, and I can’t exactly stare at him either. I slow, heading toward a waiter standing with a tray of canapés, keeping with the vibes of a meandering guest who isn’t used to champagne, perfecting the art of looking like I’m not waiting.
“I’m sending in Fi,” Bayo says. “Hold your position.”
I’d nearly forgotten Fiona was at this party. She’s new to our team, and I’d taken her under my wing as a mentee. Young, funny, but totally green around the edges, she isn’t quite ready to be out in the field as a NOC (Non-Official Cover), but she is really good in situations like this, where her background in improv shines.
“Holding,” I whisper around a bite of a crustless cucumber sandwich the size of my thumb. I give the waiter an appreciate smile before noticing Fi approach the PM and Vanguard from behind. She’s wearing a black dress much more demure than mine, designed to blend in rather than stand out, her black hair held back in a low barrette. Her heels are dangerously high, though, and she’s teetering as she walks, as if it’s her first time wearing them, liquid sloshing out of her glass. She heads toward them at an angle, her gaze focused on a potted plant on the other side of the reflective pool.