The Blonde

2:30 a.m.

CI-6 Headquarters (Undisclosed Location)

The call was placed, buried, then reburied beneath a sea of thousands of other phone calls being made across the United States at any given second. It was hidden, even from DHS. She knew better than to make it from her office, an anonymous flat two-story stuccoed box with emergency staircases made of concrete. The building had been around since the 1950s; kids in the neighborhood grew up without even wondering what went on in there. She went down the street, into an apartment building, and then downstairs to a laundry room in the basement. A pay phone she knew about. She used a prepaid calling card.

God, if anyone else in CI-6 knew what she’d been doing for the past six weeks …

“We have her.”

“I’m getting on a plane now. Where am I going?”

“D.C.”

“Where is she right now?” “On her way.”

“Not in a fucking plane … don’t tell me she’s in a plane.” “I said, We have her. She’ll be here in a matter of hours.” “Yeah yeah.”

“After all this, I get attitude? Do you know how much—” “I know how much, dear.” “I wonder.” Silence.

“Where are you?”

“Close enough to be there in a few hours.” “Then I’ll see you soon.”

“When you see that slut,” the Operator said, “tell her I’m coming for her.”