What You Don't Know (Sequel to "Secret Love")(Hunter Hayes/James Marsden)

Mission

Bethany bit her lip again, staring out at the dilapidated building warily. She checked her GPS again, and saw that she was, in fact, in the right place, assuming Mr. Willakers had given her the right address. She glanced around. There was nothing else here, except a distant gas station, so there was not much chance that she was simply looking at the wrong building.

Should she go in? There were a few cars in the parking lot, so at least she knew she was not alone, but the place was horrifying, and seemed to scream, "Hey! I am dangerous! Stay away! Keep out!"

Despite all of that, she left the car and moved forward, her reliable running shoes rearranging the gravel beneath them. She pushed a lock of her hair out of her face, one of many that had escaped her ponytail, and squinted against the sun. She was only a few feet from the front door now, and she could see that there were no windows to give her a glimpse of what was on the inside. There was no welcome mat, or even a doorbell that she could see, so, bolstering her bravery, she knocked.

Within seconds, a man dressed in a snappy suit was grinning at her and extending his hand.

"You must be Ms. James. I'm so glad you made it." He clasped her tiny hand in both of his, and she blushed. The five o'clock shadow and impressively sculpted jaw line, as well as the obviously muscled shoulders and chest that this man had beneath his white button down indicated that he was probably very handsome behind his midnight black shades. She could do nothing but nod before she followed him through the door reluctantly.

There were desks littered around the large, industrious room, all overflowing with computers and papers and post-its and telephone wires. Men and women crowded the space, all dressed in suits that closely resembled that of the man she had just met, though there may have been a different colored shirt, or a vest with a bright yellow painted "FBI" here and there. They all wore identical, pitch black sunglasses, which she could only imagine were for her benefit, to ensure that she would not recognize one of them on the street someday and blow their cover, or something of that nature.

The broad man who had opened the door led her in a path to a smaller door located on the right wall. By the time she reached it, she no longer doubted this operation's legitimacy. The cluttered desks, the bullet-proof vests, the sunglasses, the frosted windows: everything seemed to be directly out of a film. Even the isolation of  this building lent itself to her belief: no one would think twice about such a run-down old place in the middle of nowhere.

She had to be prodded to enter the office. The frosted glass of the door had offered very little visibility into the room, but now that it was open to her, she could see two gentleman lounging easily in chairs inside. Her terror manifested quickly. These were real government officials. What could they possibly want with her?

She moved into the room and sat down apprehensively, feeling extremely under dressed in her knee-length denim shorts and one of Hunter's favorite old plaid button-downs.

"Ms. James," the man supposed, his hands folded on the cluttered desk. He faced her and spoke in a colorless tone. "We spoke on the phone." He rose and extended his hand. "Jeremy Willakers."

She shook his hand hesitantly, and glanced at the other man in the room, who was perched on the chair beside hers. He was smiling, and she was somewhat comforted by it, and able to smile in return, though drily.

"Reese Thereon," he stated, introducing himself with a wave of his hand. She nodded in acknowledgement, then turned back to Mr. Willakers.

"What's this about?" She crossed her arms over her chest and suppressed a sudden chill.

Jeremy Willakers leaned back in his tall leather swivel, twining his fingers and resting them on his thin stomach.

"How familiar are you with Trenton McDermott?"