Page 16 of A Touch of Treachery
Charlotte stopped typing and looked at me, her eyebrows raised in a silent question.I wondered if her synesthesia was whispering that we were in danger, but I couldn’t ask with everyone staring at me.
Whywere they staring at me?Sure, my mission with Charlotte had been a failure, but this level of scrutiny bordered on disturbing.
“Ahem.”Someone cleared her throat.
The woman sitting at the desk in front of Charlotte swiveled around in her chair.She had long black hair, light blue eyes, and rosy skin.Like everyone else in the bullpen, she was wearing a pantsuit, although hers was a cheerful sky-blue instead of the somber blacks, navy blues, and dark grays the other agents were sporting.
Joan Samson was my closest friend at Section 47, and she had been my liaison on dozens of missions.She was a powerful transmuter, someone who was able to transform the physical properties of an element or object, like shifting glass to sand or reducing a wooden block to splinters.Joan was also a Legacy, and several of her relatives had worked at Section 47, although her family name didn’t garner the same notoriety as being a Locke or a Percy did.I envied my friend her distinguished reputation, along with that of her family.
Joan had also been involved with Graham.With his dying words, Graham had told me how much he loved Joan, and he’d begged me to watch out for her.Joan had never revealed how she’d truly felt about Graham, but the ice-blue aura around her heart always dimmed whenever she said his name, indicating she felt his loss as keenly as I did.
“I heard about the mission, Dez,” Joan murmured.“Sorry it didn’t go as planned.”
I shrugged.“These things happen.”
Joan’s cool gaze flicked over to Charlotte.“Yes, things always seem to go off the rails whenevershe’sinvolved.”
An accusatory note colored her voice.Charlotte rolled her eyes in response.
Gia and Evelyn had tasked Charlotte and me with discreetly tracking down Henrika Hyde, at least until we could make sure Henrika didn’t have any more moles inside the D.C.station, but I suspected Joan had figured out what we were doing.She was one of the smartest people I knew, right up there with Charlotte, and she had dropped several hints that she would be happy to help me with the mission, but so far, I’d played dumb.I didn’t want Joan to get caught in the crossfire of the dangerous game Charlotte and I were playing with Henrika.
Joan kept staring at me, as though waiting for me to say something.Most of the other cleaners and liaisons returned to their work, although a few kept glancing over their shoulders at me.
That uneasy feeling swept over me again.“What’s going on?”
“You haven’t heard?”Joan asked.
“About what?The emergency debriefing?Yeah, I know about that.”I frowned again.“Wait.Is somethingelsegoing on?”
Sympathy crinkled Joan’s face, which only added to my unease.She opened her mouth, but before she could answer me, a door buzzed open in the distance.Everyone in the bullpen straightened in their seats, as though guns had just been shoved against their spines.Charlotte stopped her typing, once again picking up on the sudden tension.
In the distance, footsteps sounded.Even though they were muffled by the carpet, my chin immediately lifted, and my shoulders squared, as though I was a soldier called to attention.I’d been hearing those swift, heavy footsteps my entire life, both inside and outside Section 47, and they always filled me with a sense of weary, wary dread.
Everyone froze, still maintaining their impossibly stiff postures.No one moved, no one whispered, no one fidgeted.I don’t think some people even bloodybreathed.
The footsteps stopped, but a familiar presence loomed behind me like a dark storm cloud.I slowly turned around.
A sixty-something man was standing in the middle of the aisle.He was roughly my height, six feet tall, although his body was broader and stockier than mine.His wavy silver hair had been brushed back from his forehead, and his skin had the deep, permanent tan of someone who had spent years outdoors.Lines grooved into the skin around his light blue eyes, and the matching aura pulsing over his heart was such a pale blue it was almost translucent.
He was wearing a navy jacket over a matching shirt and tie.To him, it wasn’t a suit but just another uniform, and it was as neat, crisp, and sharply creased as any military garb he’d worn over the years.
General Jethro Percy, the head of the board of directors, one of the most powerful people at Section 47—and my father.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHARLOTTE
Desmond’sfaceremainedsmooth,but his hands fisted at his sides, his knuckles standing out in stark white contrast against his tan skin.
The two Percys stood there, facing off, with the cleaners and liaisons gathered around like moviegoers watching an intense scene on the big screen.Forget hearing a pin drop.It was so deathly quiet I could have heard a feather float down to the floor.
General Jethro Percy tipped his head the tiniest bit to his son.“Desmond.”
“General.”Desmond returned his father’s greeting in a flat, toneless voice.
General, notFatherorDadorPops.Desmond almost always referred to the older Percy by his Section 47 title.Over the past few months, Desmond had told me more than once how strained his relationship was with his father, but this exchange was frostier on both sides than I’d expected.
Two men stepped into the bullpen behind the General.From the rumors I’d heard, Percy always had at least a few bodyguards in tow.
