Trapezoid (The Base)

Chapter 11

 Today one of the recruits would be sent out the field. It had not been Smith's idea to send one out this soon but M. Donald had insisted that it was time. She could still recall their conversation:

He leaned back on his leather swivel chair. He was as spiffy as ever with his black suit with matching black tie and crisp white shirt. "How are your new interns progressing?"

Not following his example, she sat back- straight on the plush chair on the opposite side of his desk. "They are progressing quite well. Some even prove very versatile."

"Have any failed in any practice?"

"No, sir. None."

"Then we need to send one out—the one who seems most prepared as soon as possible," he stated, leaning forward.

She shifted in her chair, uncomfortable with his decision. "None of them even know the true reason why they were chosen. They have no idea what they are up against."

"Then I suggest you brief them—today."

There was a knock on the door. Smith seated herself behind her desk. "Come in."

The young former military man entered. His posture as he stood before her spoke of that. His magnetic blue eyes were almost expressionless. He was wearing a black long-sleeved top that failed to conceal the fact of his strong build. He kept his hands behind his back for some reason she couldn't define.

"You wanted to see me, D. Smith."

She grinned internally at the way he mentioned her name—exactly as she had told him to. "Please, sit, Mr. Stevens." Still nothing appeared in those eyes as he sat—yet his eye contact was very good. "We got a tip-off from London a month ago regarding some illegal activity happening in the CBD. We were unsuccessful in detecting from where it came. We would have sent out agents in to pair up with MI5 since the threat seems international and since we have out suspicions on who's behind all this. But we knew he'd be expecting that."

He frowned slightly. "I still don't understand why I'm here?"

"We want to experiment with a new division—with only four individuals. All of you display great skills most do not possess." She pulled out a folder from the drawer of her desk. "Manufacturing lethal arms illegally." Opening the folder and sliding it across to Stevens, she continued, "Richard Greenwood is an unquestionable genius. Having majored in chemistry in incredible ways, many wondered why he put so much attention in operating his deceased father's restaurants. While he was still busy with his tertiary education here in the United States, he discovered a formula for a lethal chemical weapon that only detonates at a certain temperature." Smith leaned back in her chair. "We thought little of it until three months ago when twenty people mysteriously got seriously ill at a fast food restaurant owned by Greenwood.

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Levi was almost amused by what he heard about the man in the picture. That clean-shaven, smiling blonde did not fit the description of an evil plotting villain. His handsome features hardly spoke of a mad scientist. "Maybe it was food poisoning," he commented, though knowing better.

"That's what the papers had to report."

Levi nodded casually.

D. Smith's gaze was harder than steel. "For all his appearances, Richard Greenwood is ruthless." She steepled her fingers and leaned forward. "And he is no fool. Rumors have it that a few who've tried to turn on him have died—but we have no proof to bring him to justice." Her voice was completely level but her eyes held the weight. "You are the first we are sending out. As you find out more about this operation and the persons involved, no error will be allowed. If you make a blunder, erase it—at all costs."

D. Smith's gaze always appeared emotionless, but now they glistened with such seriousness, she almost looked concerned. Then they went dead as she leaned back.

"Some agents die on the field. I hope not to attend your funeral."

Did she assume he'd shrink back? If so, she had one thing in error. He never shrank back—not even from apparent danger. Flying this thing solo would prove it all the more—arriving back in a casket was never going to be a reality. "What time do I leave?"

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The guy had introduced himself as Michael—the guy to "prep him up" as he put it. If he knew who Levi was, why was he treating him like a patron he didn't really want to serve? Levi was left to stand as he designed a tattoo in his computer. Michael looked him up and down. Levi wished he could knock out that disapproving smirk. "How in the world did you get to be Joey Grey? Your skin's clearer than a newborn baby's!"

Levi glowered down at the young man, about his own age, sitting slumped on his swivel chair. The short-sleeved shirt revealed heavily tattooed arms—evidence of a probable wild lifestyle. What innocent civilian got a sleeve of marijuana leaves? Was he stating he was proud of it? How in the world did he make it into the CIA? There was no way Levi could hold any more distain than he already did.

He squinted at the screen in disbelief. "Is that a dragon devouring his own tail?"

"Yeah," he replied casually, "I'll tat that one around your bicep—like a cuff."

"Never." There was no way he was getting a tat he hated. There was no way he could live the rest of his life with it. Let the guy say what he wanted to.

"Look, priest. Joey Grey isn't like you. If you play the part, you gotta look the part. Besides, getting a tat isn't too bad. Toughen up!"

Levi's jaw worked as he resisted the urge to inflict a bit of pain. Hinting that cowardice was his reason for not wanting those tats was a grave offence. The guy pulled up another design on the screen as if showing off some genius. "Check this out. The eagle wings will spread across your back." He went on showing more designs for his legs and arms.

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Having been watching Stevens' expressions, Michal knew the man held some dislike for him—but he didn't care. Stevens seemed to hold the standard around here even though probably he didn't know it. He embodied strength, intelligence, and skill. Here he was, about to be sent out—first. For all her appearances, Michael knew D. Smith had all faith in him. Who could deny the star's shine?

But what about the rest of the Trapezoid? Didn't all four sides make it what it was? Michael knew his abilities—and had a feeling they held more value than Stevens'. For if not, the guy would not have been there. Michael's innovative inventions were needed in order for this guy to do his job. But when this whole mission or missions were over, who'd get the crown? The guy who held the gun. And what about the guy who made the gun? Well, no one will really know or care who he was.

Michael glanced at the articles on his desk with satisfaction. A palm-sized casing held a pair of ear studs which he had modified to be recording interceptors. Transparent gloves that would look and feel like a second skin which would be used to leave zero fingerprints, were concealed in a wrapper for two strips of gum. And for the tats, they were "semi-permanent" ones which would erase if lemon juice were rubbed on them. Who was the mad scientist?

He had come up with these ideas before meeting Stevens. If he knew, maybe he'd have done it with less heart. But he had—and still had more ideas. The guy was leaving in a few hours, so he had no choice but to take them. Besides, this was Michael's job now. He was no longer just a custodian. He was doing something he loved—even though recognition wasn't not promising to be a part of the package here either. Right now, what he needed was cash. Other things could wait.

...........................Okay, people. If you've read this far, you would trigger tears to my eyes-- if tears fell from my eyes within the time frame of five seconds. Too bad they take longer......

Ya'll are great!