The Cyclops Initiative Read Free

didn’t have a good answer. He couldn’t very well tell her that he’d called because he was lonely. Every time the two of them spoke it cost taxpayer money. Maybe something more than that, too. He knew she worked with other field agents—­even Wilkes knew who she was, though he said he’d only worked with her once, and briefly. Maybe right now she’d been in the middle of saving somebody else’s life and he was distracting her. Though he supposed she would have told him so, or just not answered her phone.
    â€œWhat about that other thing I asked you to look into? Did you turn up anything more on Wilkes?”
    â€œI’m still not sure what you’re hoping to find,” she said.
    â€œI just want a better idea of who I’m working with here. I need to be able to trust this guy when push comes to shove.”
    Angel sighed. “You know I can’t tell you much. He’s a Raider, as I’m sure you’ve already figured out.”
    Chapel didn’t need any great detective skills to turn up that piece of information. Wilkes had a Marine Corps logo tattooed on his arm and the distinctive haircut of a jarhead. If he was working for Hollings­head’s directorate (the Directorate for Defense Counterintelligence and HUMINT, or DX), that meant he was special ops—­specifically the United States Marine Corps Special Operations Command, MARSOC, the Raiders, the newest branch of secret warriors in SOCOM. He would be what the ser­vice called a critical skills operator, which meant he would be trained in everything from unarmed combat to language skills to psychological warfare.
    All well and good. But there was something about Wilkes that bothered Chapel. The guy was just too self-­contained. He never gave anything away, never spoke of himself, never so much as blinked at the wrong time or laughed at a private joke. Chapel had met plenty of vets with PTSD, ­people who were stuck inside their heads, reliving a bad moment over and over. They acted a little like that, but in Wilkes’s case there was something more. He didn’t seem like he was stuck. Instead he acted like a panther in a cage at the zoo. Watching the world through hooded eyes, giving nothing away. Waiting for something to happen. Maybe he had some dark secret he didn’t want Chapel—­or Hollingshead—­to know about.
    â€œAnd you say his record is clean. No red flags anywhere in his file.”
    â€œNone,” Angel replied. “He served a bunch of tours with military intelligence in Afghanistan and Iraq. When he got home, about three years ago, he was recruited by Director Hollingshead personally. He checks out—­I vetted him myself.”
    â€œAnd you worked with him, too, on a mission,” Chapel said.
    There must have been a certain tone in his voice. “Are you getting jealous?”
    Chapel forced a laugh. “Hardly.”
    â€œYou know I’m yours, first and last,” Angel said. “You were on mandatory vacation. A mission came up, and he and I were just free at the right time. Don’t worry, Chapel. Nobody’s replacing you in my heart.”
    It felt damned good to hear that.
    He just wished he was sure Director Hollingshead felt the same way.
    Chapel respected and trusted his boss implicitly. He would even admit to loving the man, the way a soldier loves a worthy commanding officer. Hollingshead was fair-­minded and he took good care of his ­people. But he was also a pragmatist.
    If he was going to replace Chapel, then Wilkes was a perfect choice. Chapel was rushing toward his midforties, way older than any field agent should be, while Wilkes still had plenty of good years in him. Chapel had been badly wounded in combat, and in Siberia he had screwed up a vital mission by misjudging a foreign asset. Wilkes was tough as nails, smart as a whip, and had no bad marks on his record at all. It would just make sense to