"Have you seen Agent Ambrose this afternoon?" Director Sullivan asked Cierra as she sat at her desk in FBI headquarters.
"Tom said he had some business to attend to today, so no, I haven't seen him in a few hours."
"Any idea of where he went?"
"It sounded like he was on a personal errand. I didn't feel it was my place to ask. Is there something I can do for you?"
Director Sullivan thought for a couple of seconds. "No, I don't think so. It wasn't about any case issues. But thanks for the offer." Sullivan smiled and walked back to his office.
She thought, That was a little strange. I wonder if anything's going on? Well, as long as Tom is out, I think I'll drop in on Mister Maximillian Moreau.
The drive from Washington to Tyson's Corner was uneventful, if not unduly slow. My gosh! It's after two-o-clock, you would think the traffic would be a little lighter than this on a Wednesday. Shouldn't these people be at work or something?! No rush, though. I just need a plan if Moreau makes good on his 'disappearing' us threat if we ever came to his office again. No matter, without Ambrose, I can be myself if trouble happens.
Cierra flashed her badge at the administrative assistant in Moreau's office. "I'm not even going to tell you why I'm here," she said, "and don't even think of calling Moreau or I'll charge you with obstructing the duties of a Federal Agent."
The administrative assistant nodded and was silent.
There was no polite knock on Moreau's glass door. Cierra stormed through it unannounced, her presence a whirlwind of urgency, only to halt abruptly when confronted by the scene inside. FBI Agent Thomas Ambrose was seated comfortably in Moreau's chair, talking with several bodyguards. The shock of her unexpected entry was evident on his face.
"Tom, what the hell are you doing here?" Cierra's voice betraying confusion and suspicion. "And why are you sitting behind Moreau's desk?" Why is my partner sitting where our adversary should be. Is this an undercover thing? She recalled Sullivan's cryptic inquiry, Tom's so-called 'business' today, unlinked pieces falling into place in a sinister puzzle. Her anger burned with the thought this could be more than a mere misunderstanding.
Ambrose leaned back in the chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight. The expression on his face was unmistakable, pain mixed with defeat, ensnared in an inescapable web of his own making. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture familiar, one she had seen countless times during their years as partners. But now, it felt foreign. She stepped forward, driven by an urgent need to confront the undeniable reality before her.
A bodyguard standing next to her quickly lifted her pistol from its holster as she focused on Ambrose. I can break his arm…but no, not just yet. Keep it for now. I need to keep my up charade as a Gen-1.
"Cierra," he began, his voice low and measured, "you weren't supposed to see this."
"See what?! You, sitting here like some kind of kingpin? Do you work for them? How long have you been lying to me?" She said, her eyes narrowing.
"They actually work for me," Ambrose said.
"What?! You've been one of them all along?" Her voice calm, but her face transmitting her hurt and anger. "How could you betray me like this, and after we were lovers?!"
Ambrose exhaled a long, weary breath, the burden of years filled with lies and hurts pressing down on him. He had anticipated this moment with a mixture of fear and inevitability, dreading its arrival and the unavoidable extinction of their relationship. His voice was barely above a whisper, "I didn't want it to come to this, but yes, I am part of The Collective," his voice a quiet storm of deep regret, loss, and determination. His confession was a dagger thrust into her heart.
Memories flashed before her eyes—late nights working cases, shared laughter, quiet moments of intimacy. Has it all been a lie? Has every touch, every word, been part of some elaborate ruse? "You betrayed me!"
Ambrose's expression softened, but only for a moment. "Cierra," he said, his voice heavy with regret, "it wasn't supposed to be like this. I never wanted to hurt you. But I had no choice."
"No choice?!" she spat. "What are you, six years old? You had a choice, Tom! You always had a choice! You could have walked away from them. You could have come to me, told me the truth. But instead, you lied. You lied to my face, every single day." Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. I want to leave everyone here breathless on the rug! "You were my friend. And you threw it all away for what? Money? Power? Was that it, Tom? Was that so valuable it was worth destroying everything we had?"
Ambrose's eyes hardened, his jaw tightening. "You think it's that simple?" he shot back, his voice rising for the first time. "You think I woke up one day and decided to betray everything I stood for? This isn't just about money or power, Cierra. This is about justice. My parents were killed by terrorists, and the government did nothing. Nothing! They turned a blind eye because it was convenient. I joined The Collective to bring them down from the inside."
"And what about me, Tom? What about us? Did you ever stop to think about what this would do to me? Or was I just another pawn in your game?"
Ambrose's gaze faltered, his shoulders slumping. "You were never a pawn, Cierra," he said quietly. "You were the one thing I never wanted to lose. You were the only real thing in my life. But I couldn't tell you the truth. I couldn't risk it."
"Risk what?!" her volume dropping, words sounding like whispered intimacies. "Risk me finding out that the man I loved was a traitor? That everything we had was built on lies?" She took a step forward, eyes blazing. "You don't get to play the victim here, Tom. You made your choice. And now you have to live with it."
Ambrose's eyes glistened with unshed tears, his voice equally low. "I know," he said. "And I'll carry that weight for the rest of my life. But I can't change what's done. All I can do is move forward."
Ambrose thought for a moment. "Nothing personal, Cierra. In fact, I think you're the most fantastic women I've ever known, and I greatly respect you. We fell in love. I would have done anything to keep this from happening. You have to believe that."
"Yeah, you would have done anything short of being honest! How could you?!"
Ambrose sighed again, his eyes flicking away from hers. "You are correct, though. Besides justice for my parents dying, it was also the money. Don't you get frustrated when we're scraping along with our government pay while criminals are living like kings? Don't you want anything more in life? Don't you get tired of the constant struggle to make ends meet? It was the money. I thought a person could live both lives and pull it off if they were careful."
"Yeah," she spat, "I wanted much more in life, too. I wanted You! But that dream was just shattered! What happens now?"
Ambrose's lips moved into a faint, regretful smile. "Now? Well, now I walk off into the sunset with my money, and you guys try to find out where I went. You'll never find me."
"I can arrest you now!" Cierra snapped. "I don't need my gun!"
Ambrose chuckled darkly. "Ah, you obviously forgot you're surrounded by my guys, and they have their guns, while your only weapon is a dazzling smile and a smokin' hot body."
Cierra's glare could have splintered glass, but she forced herself to stay still and not take action, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. I so desperately want to break every bone in your body! But NO…at least not yet.
Ambrose turned to his men, his voice calm but commanding. "Gentlemen, can I have one car please drop her empty Glock off under the trash can in front of the African American Museum on 14th St. NW. Put her in a second car between two armed guards. Get her to the museum ten minutes after the first car makes its drop. We don't want her to have to explain how she lost another gun." He paused, his expression softening for a fleeting moment. "And try your best not to hurt her if you can help it at all. She's closer to my heart than any other human has ever been. Call me when it's done."
Cierra's eyes burned with defiance. "I'll call you myself!"
The sleek black SUV glided along the highway, its tinted windows masking the tension inside. The world outside blurred into streaks of color as the vehicle sped forward. Cierra sat sandwiched between two hulking gunmen, their 9 mm pistols trained on her with unflinching precision. The driver hummed along to the soft strains of radio elevator music.
"Hope you don't mind the music," the driver said, his tone almost cheerful. "But I felt like something light would be appropriate. Generally, when we take someone somewhere like this, it don't work out all that well for them. We're dropping you off healthy, so this is almost like a celebration."
Cierra's jaw tightened. Great. A thug with a soft spot.
Her eyes flicked to the pistols aimed at her. "I see you both have the G19-Gen4 Glocks," she remarked, her voice steady, sweet, and low.
The man to her left raised an eyebrow. "Impressive. You know your firearms."
"I'm FBI, meathead." she said coyly. "My question is, the Gen4 is for law enforcement only. Why do you both have one?"
The man to her right smirked. "Ambrose liked the slightly better rate of fire from them. He has contacts within the police force that can supply him with what he needs."
"Shut up, jerk!" the left man barked. "Why are you telling her that!? You know she's going to investigate now. Wanna' get us killed?" He turned back to Cierra, his tone suspicious. "By the way, how did you know they were Gen4? They look the same as a regular G19."
Cierra allowed herself a small, disarming smile. Good. Talking. The first level in building empathy. "Two reasons. Number one, I already mentioned I'm FBI. And number two, it's printed on the side of the slide." The men exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. Let's see if I can push them to level two.
"As long as we're chatting," she continued, her tone light, "can I fix my skirt a little? It's bunched up under me, and it hurts to sit on it. Would it be okay with you gentlemen if I moved my hips a little to straighten it out?"
The man to her left hesitated, then nodded. "Sure, go ahead. But remember, our fingers are on the trigger."
Cierra nodded and raised herself an inch off the seat. She pulled her already-short black leather skirt up several more inches. "There," she sighed, "that's sooo much better."
The men couldn't help but to stare at her long honey brown legs.
"Thanks," she added. "I can even spread my knees apart a little more to get comfortable."
They kept staring. Keep looking, guys.
The SUV slowed and parked at the curb as it pulled up to the museum. "This is where you get off," the man on the left said, gesturing with his pistol toward the trash bin on the corner. "Your gun should be under that bin."
The man on her right turned to open the door, his gun momentarily shifting away from her. In a flash, Cierra moved. Her hands shot out, grabbing both pistols. She forced them downward. The deafening roar of gunfire filled the car as bullets tore through the floor, the sound reverberated like exploding bombs in the confined space. The men recoiled, their ears ringing with pain, their grip on the guns loosening.
Cierra twisted the weapons free, her movements fluid and precise. She slammed the butt of the pistol in her right hand into the back of the driver's skull as he fumbled for his own weapon, sending him slumping forward into the steering wheel. In one seamless motion, she drove her elbows into the heads of the men on either side of her, their bodies crumpling under the force.
Breathing hard, Cierra reached over the unconscious man to her right, yanked the door open, and climbed out of the SUV. She leaned back in, snatched a cell phone from the vest pocket of his suit coat, and dialed a number.
"Is it done?" came the cool, controlled voice on the other end.
"Oh yes, it's done all right!" Cierra snarled, her voice trembling with barely contained rage. "Your guys will wake up with headaches, and I'm coming after you."
The sound of her snapping the phone in half with her hands was punctuated by the faint groans of the men inside the SUV. Cierra stood tall, anger blazing in her eyes. "This isn't over. Not by a long shot," she whispered to the sidewalk. I wonder if anyone else is hiding a secret identity?