New Hope

Chapter One

Thud
Thud
Thud

A tennis ball hit the wall over and over again.

BigBang blasted through the speakers of the studio apartment. As the sole occupant danced, or more accurately jumped around the small space.

Take out containers from vegan salad, sandwich, smoothie, and juice places overflowed the trash.

Workout equipment that was once neatly shoved into one corner was scattered throughout the apartment.

Thud

The pink tennis ball flew across the apartment. A pale hand reached up, catching it. The owner not even seeing the ball, as their eyes were obscured by thick, dark hair.

Pulling their arm back they froze at a soft knock on the door, middance step with arm back to toss the ball again.

They counted the seconds,

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Two sharp knocks.

Standing, they pulled a gun from their wasteband as they headed toward the door. Holding the gun up, they opened the door.

"Well hello to you too, Zoraida."

She smiled at the dark skinned, bald man. Lowering the gun, quickly letting him in, glancing around the hallway before closing the door. She locked the handle, three bolts, and two chain locks before turning to her guest.

"Please tell me you bring good news Dre. It's been four months. I'm starting to go insane here."

Dre turned her music down with the remote and put some food he brought in the fridge before saying anything.

He's staling. Great. Bad news it is.

"Come on Dre, tell me what's happening out there. The only connection I have is the daily papers and magazines." She tossed a stack of papers from the counter at him, which Dre dodged. "And you know that doesn't tell me what I really want to know." Zoelle whined.

Dre crossed his thick arms over his toned chest, "I have half good news."

"Which is always bad news." Zoelle mumbled.

"We have the information leak under control enough that you can go outside."

Zoelle pumped her fists in the air.

"Don't start celebrating yet. You still can't leave the country."

Zoelle's shoulders slumped. "I can't leave the country....Dre, that's basically still house arrest for me. A CIA agent is no good in America, I have no jurisdiction here. - don't, don't you dare say they're giving you me a desk job. Might as well just shot me now." She held her arms out dramatically, squeezing her eyes shut.

Dre looked nervous as he pulled out files from his bag. "Not a desk job. But, you aren't going to like this any better."

Zoelle raised an eyebrow, opening one eye. "... not training again? "

"Not after what happened last time." Dre laughed.

She sighed, "You waterboard one student and no one ever let's it go." Her arms flopped down to her sides, blowing a piece of hair out of her face.

"From what I heard it was more than that one incident Zo."

"Hey, I was just preparing them for the real world. This new granola munching, politicaly correct, bull curriculum is going to get those kids killed after only days on the job."

Dre gave her a look that screamed let it go already.

Sighing, she slumped onto the worn couch. "What is this never have fun again assignment you have for me?"

"To better interdepartmental corporation there's an exchange program of sorts happening. Since you can't leave the country, but your skills shouldn't go to waste you've been chosen to participate."

Zoelle closed her eyes. "Please tell me it's the NSA."

Dre was silent.

"Pentagon?"

"DoD?"

Dre sighed. "FBI."

Zoelle's eyes flew open. "What!? I'm supposed to work with glorified cops? They're just a bunch of paper pushers!"

Dre dropped the large stack of folders onto the small dining table between ankle weights and a foam roller. "Not this unit. They like to get themselves in trouble. You should be able to get to shoot one person by the end of the year." He walked to the door, unlocking all the locks.

"One!?! By the end of the year! Dre, its February!"

"Then you have plenty of time. You start Monday." He shut the door right as a glass water bottle crashed into it.

Huffing angrily Zoelle locked the door once again. Turning her music back up she sang along, trying to change her now sour mood.

Plopping into her single dinning chair she pulled the top file. Reading,

BAU

Behavioral analysis unit? Oh, so I'm not just working with a bunch of glorified paper pushing cops, but a load of fancy shrinks too? Wonderful.