Common Ground

Chapter 8- Forensics

We get back to The House fifteen minutes after the ordeal at the grocery store. I find I have a slight limp but it’s nothing too major; a deep bruise at most. Just to prove I really am fine to a worried Brit, I run through the house a few times.

She let me take a shower before she examines me and asks questions about everything that happened. I don’t say much though because we really aren’t supposed to tell anyone other than the CIA and the head of the WTUA details of our missions. 

Britt settled for the little information I provided and offered me some Advil for pain which I gladly took it but not for all my bruises; for my wrist that has started to act up ever since Jason and I left the store. 

My partner’s been hovering around me since we got back which really isn’t necessary. He should go talk to Darren or something. I suggest some things to him but he shakes his head and refuses all of them. 

“We’re partners,” he says, “I need to know that you’re okay before I do anything else.” 

“I told you, I’m fine.” 

“We stick together.” 

“Yah but we don’t have to spend every waking minute together.” 

He shrugs. 

I spot the box of hair dye on the coffee table, “Why don’t you dye your hair before we head out.” 

“Head out?” he raises an eyebrow. 

I nod, “Carlos is still here, Keith may be too.” 

“I don’t know what your thinking, but I have a pretty good idea and I don’t like it,” but he picks up the box and heads down the hall to the bathroom. 

I look down at Keith’s cellphone that I’m holding and sigh. I have no idea how in the world I’m going to use it to track down his kidnappers. Did I only retrieve his phone for myself, to have something to hold on to? I have no idea how to use it favor for the evidence. The fingerprints have likely washed in the sea. 

I hear soft footsteps come up behind me and stop beside the couch. I look over my shoulder to see the male WTUA agent who gave me the map of Rio this morning, looking down at the phone in my hand. He has black hair and black eyes with very pale skin. If vampires were real, I’d imagine that he would be one. 

“Heard about your incident in the store.” 

“How?”

“I was eavesdropping.” 

I scoff, “Well at least you’re honest about it.” 

There’s a pause and then he asks, “Absorbed in a dead phone are you?” 

“Oh,” I look down at it, “It’s my partner’s. My real partner.” 

“The one you’re rescuing?” 

I nod, “Yah. I found the phone at the bottom of the bay this afternoon. I figured any bit of evidence would help but now I’m second guessing myself.” 

There’s a really long awkward silence between us then I realize that I don’t know his name. 

“I never got your name,” I say. 

“Mason.” 

“What’s your specialty excuse?” I ask. 

Since most everyone at the WTUA lives and breaths missions, none of us have hobbies. So instead of asking, “What sports do you play?”, we use our spying specialties (mine is hacking) as a conversation starter. A ‘specialty excuse’ is the behavioral or criminal excuse cover story that the WTUA uses to hide these skills. Not to mention it fits well with the ‘correction academy’ that the WTUA’s headquarters is posed as.