Mystery ~ MV1

002. Only circumstantial

[Agent A]

The fluorescent lights of CIA headquarters in Langley seemed unnecessarily harsh this morning, their sterile glow making my temples throb in protest of another sleepless night.

The coffee in my hands – my third since dawn – was doing little to combat the exhaustion seeping into my bones.

I'd spent the fourteen-hour flight from Paris analyzing every millisecond of yesterday's operation, mapping out where I could have been faster, smarter, better. The taste of failure still bitter on my tongue, sharper than the expensive French roast I was currently drinking.

"You're doing it again," Raymond's deep voice cut through my mental replay. I didn't startle – years of training had eliminated that reflex – but I did have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

Even in my heels, Raymond Hearst cut an imposing figure at six-foot-four. His charcoal suit was as pristine as ever, a stark contrast to my slightly rumpled white dress shirt and loose dark brown slacks. The fluorescent lights caught the silver at his temples, a reminder of the two decades he'd spent running the division.

"Doing what?" I matched his pace down the corridor, the click of my heels against the polished floor echoed in perfect rhythm with his measured stride. As we walked, I noted how other agents subtly stepped aside. Whether it was for him or me, I'd never bothered to analyze.

"That thing where you turn your brain into a supercomputer and try to process every possible variable until you give yourself a migraine." He gestured to the coffee. "Which, by the way, isn't helping. When's the last time you actually slept, Adler?"

I took a deliberately long sip, avoiding his penetrating gaze. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Paris was a failure, Sydney, i know that and so do you, but-."

"He was there, Raymond. Right there. I could smell his cologne when I walked into that office." The coffee cup crinkled slightly in my grip before I forced my fingers to relax.

"-But you took down two of his new security personnel, gathered intelligence on his movements, and got him to make direct contact. That's more than anyone else has managed in five years." We reached my office door, the frosted glass displaying my name in simple block letters. Raymond paused, reaching into his jacket. "Which is why I'm giving you this."

The manila folder he handed me was unmarked – unusual for official documentation. More unusual was the way his eyes scanned the hallway before he passed it over, his large frame subtly shielding the exchange from any possible observers.

"This doesn't exist," he said quietly. "And as far as anyone else is concerned, neither does your involvement with it. Clear?"

I opened my mouth to question him, but he was already walking away, his broad shoulders disappearing around the corner before I could form the words.

Typical Raymond – dropping bombs yet managing to vanish before the explosion.

My office was exactly as I'd left it before Paris: walls covered in maps and timelines, desk buried under case files and satellite photos. The air still held the faint scent of marker ink from my last brainstorming session. I dropped into my chair, fishing my reading glasses from the top drawer. The anti-migraine lenses had been a concession to Luke's constant nagging about my health, though I'd never admit they actually helped.

The folder's contents spilled across my desk, and suddenly sleep was the furthest thing from my mind.

Nicholas Vega, impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than most cars, stood outside a gleaming glass and steel building. The Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team headquarters in Brackley, UK, according to the caption. The photo was dated three days ago – less than twenty-four hours after he'd left me that note in Paris. His posture was relaxed, confident – a man who believed himself untouchable.