LITMIR.BIZ

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Reidigger wore plated tac vests—and why the training facility was only open to Spec Ops agents, which Zero found himself once again being.

      After the fiasco in Belgium, in which the two of them had confronted Russian President Aleksandr Kozlovsky and unearthed the secret pact he had with US President Harris, to say that Zero and Reidigger had landed themselves in hot water would have been a monumental understatement. They’d become international fugitives wanted in four countries for having broken more than a dozen laws. But they had been right about the plot, and it didn’t quite seem justified for the two of them to spend the rest of their lives in prison.

      So Maria pulled every string she could, sticking her neck out in a big way for her former teammates and friends. It was nothing short of a miracle that she somehow managed to have the ordeal retconned as a top-secret operation under her supervision.

      The trade-off, of course, was that they had to return to work for the CIA.

      Though Zero wouldn’t admit it aloud, to him it felt like a homecoming. He had been working hard the past month, hitting the gym again, target-shooting at the range daily, boxing and sparring with opponents almost half his forty years. The weight he’d gained in his year and a half absence was gone. He was getting better at shooting with his injured right hand. Maria was right; he was very nearly back to his old self.

      Alan Reidigger, on the other hand, had resisted at every turn. He had spent the last four years of his life with the agency thinking he was dead, living under the alias of a mechanic named Mitch. Coming back to the CIA was the last thing he wanted, but given a choice between that or a hole at H-6, he had reluctantly agreed to Maria’s terms—but as an asset rather than a full-fledged agent, hence Zero’s digs of him being a “part-timer.” Alan’s involvement would be on an as-needed basis, providing support whenever able and helping to train up younger agents.

      But first that meant that the two of them had to get back into fighting shape.

      Reidigger wiped at the green paint on his pants, only serving to smear it further across his thigh. “Let me clean this up and we’ll go again,” he told Maria.

      She shook her head. “I’m not spending my whole day in this stuffy place watching you take shot after shot. We’ll pick it up again after the holiday.”

      Alan grunted, but nodded anyway. He had been an excellent agent in his day, and even now had still proven himself to be sharp-witted and useful in a fight. He was quick despite the extra weight he carried around his midsection. But he’d always been something of a bullet magnet. Zero couldn’t recall how many times Reidigger had been shot in his career, but it had to be approaching double digits—especially since he’d been tagged in the shoulder during their Belgian escapades.

      A young male tech wheeled out a steel-topped cart for their equipment while a team of three others went about resetting the training course. Zero cleared the round from the Ruger’s chamber, popped the magazine, and set all three down on the cart. Then he tore at the Velcro straps of the tac vest and tugged it over his head, suddenly feeling several pounds lighter.

      “So, any chance you’ve reconsidered?” he asked Alan. “About Thanksgiving. The girls would love to see you.”

      “And I’d like to see them,” he replied, “but I’m gonna take a rain check. They could use some quality time with you.”

      Alan didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t need to. Zero’s relationship with Maya and Sara had been severely strained over the past year and a half. But now Sara had been staying with him for the past several weeks, ever since he found her on the beach in Florida. He and Maya had been talking over the phone more and more—she had almost jumped on the very first plane when she’d heard what happened to her younger sister, but Zero had calmed her down and convinced her to stay in school until the holiday. This week was going to be the first time in quite a long time that the three of them would all be under the same roof. And Alan was right; there was still substantial work to be done to repair the damage that had separated them for so long.

      “Besides,” Alan said with a grin, “we’ve all got our traditions. Me, I’m going to eat an entire rotisserie chicken and rebuild the engine of a seventy-two Camaro.” He glanced over at Maria. “How about you? Spending time with dear old dad?”

      Maria’s father, David Barren, was the Director of National Intelligence, essentially the only man other than the president that CIA Director Shaw answered to.

      But Maria shook her head. “My father is going to be in Switzerland, actually. He’s part of a diplomatic attaché on behalf of the president.”

      Alan frowned. “So you’re going to be alone on Thanksgiving?”

      Maria shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. In fact, I’m way behind on paperwork, thanks to spending so much time down here with you two idiots. I plan on putting on some sweatpants, making some tea, and hunkering down…”

      “No,” Zero interrupted firmly. “No way. Come have dinner with me and the girls.” He said it without fully thinking it through, but he didn’t regret the offer. If anything, he felt a stab of guilt, since the only reason she’d be alone on Thanksgiving was because of him.

      Maria smiled gratefully, but her eyes were hesitant. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

      She had a point; their relationship had ended barely more than a month prior. They had been living together for more than a year as… well, he wasn’t sure what they had been. Dating? He couldn’t remember ever referring to her as his girlfriend. It just sounded too strange. But it didn’t matter in the long run, because Maria had admitted that she wanted a family.

      If Zero was going to do it all over again, there wouldn’t be anyone else in the world he’d rather do it with than Maria. But when he took a good introspective look, he realized he didn’t want that. He had work to do on himself, work to repair the relationships with his daughters, work to exorcise the ghosts of his past. And then the interpreter, Karina, had come into his life, in a too-brief romance that was dizzying and dangerous and wonderful and tragic. His heart was still aching from her loss.

      Even so, he and Maria had a storied history, not only romantically but professionally and platonically as well. They had agreed to stay friends; neither of them would have it any other way. Yet now he was an agent again, while Maria had been promoted to Deputy Director of Special Operations—which meant she was his boss.

      It was, to say the least, complicated.

      Zero shook his head. It didn’t have to be complicated. He had to believe that two people could be friends, regardless of their past or current associations.

      “It’s a great idea,” he told her. “I won’t take no for an answer. Have dinner with us.”

      “Well…” Maria’s gaze flitted from Zero to Reidigger and back again. “Okay then,” she relented. “That sounds nice. I guess I should go get started on that paperwork.”

      “I’ll text you,” Zero promised as she left the warehouse, heels clacking loudly on the concrete.

      Alan pulled off his own tac vest with a long grunt, and then replaced the sweat-stained trucker’s cap over his matted hair before casually asking, “Is this a scheme?”

      “A scheme?” Zero scoffed. “For what, to get Maria back? You know I’m not thinking about that.”

      “No. I mean a scheme for Maria to be a buffer between you and them.” For a covert operative who had been living the last four years as someone else, Alan had a brutal candor about him that sometimes bordered on insulting.

      “Of course not,” Zero said firmly. “You know there’s nothing I want more than for things to be the way they used to be. Maria is a friend. Not a buffer.”

      “Sure,” Alan agreed, though he sounded dubious. “Maybe ‘buffer’ wasn’t the right term there. Maybe more like a…” He glanced down at the bulletproof tac vest lying on the steel cart in front of them and gestured to it. “Well, I can’t think of a more apt metaphor than that.”

      “You don’t know what you’re talking about,”

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