Covert Affairs: Partnership
A Covert Affairs M/M Romance (Book One)
Valerie Vaughn
Copyright © 2020 Valerie Vaughn
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without writtten permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Warning
Intended for an 18+ audience only. This book contains material that may be offensive to some and intended for a mature, adult audience. It contains graphic language and adult situations.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Epilogue
About The Author
Books In This Series
Acknowledgement
One
It was half a bottle of cheap tequila and three sheets to the wind Syler who decided hacking into the CIA would be a reasonable way to distract himself from being dumped. His rational self, wherever that had fucked off to, would like the record to show that he knew absolutely nothing good happened after two a.m., nor under the influence of alcohol, and especially not mixed with electronics executing questionably legal programs of his own design. Though—
“You call this security? Honestly? My dead grandmother could do better than this!” Syler sounded decidedly offended on her behalf, continuing his merciless prodding of weak points along the agency’s firewalls.
He shoved an errant dark curl roughly out of his face as he marked down yet another firewall vulnerability in shorthand that he might just be able to decipher come morning. As he pushed his glasses roughly back up the bridge of his nose, he snorted derisively at the figure he must've made. Hacker chic, complete with overgrown bedhead. He really was such a catch...
“‘Really, Syler, I’m just concerned that you have no ambition,’” he snarked, slamming aggressively on the return key. “‘I know you’ve only recently finished your doctorate, but I just can’t possibly see myself building a future with someone who doesn’t even have a steady job.’ Oh, if you could see me now, you absolute bastard. I’m making them look like children! Tell me again how I’m not worth sticking around for!”
The security at the CIA really was atrocious; he was hacking drunk and distracted. He’d have to forward them his notes for their own protection, poor little hapless idiots.
‘America’s best needs work,’ he thought, malicious indignation focused entirely on the wrong target. Although, in his defense, present events probably didn’t speak well of their ability to safeguard national secrets.
He wasn’t particularly interested in the contents of what he was finding so much as how readily he was able to exploit vulnerabilities in search of ever more classified information, all without anyone in the agency mounting an active defense. All the same, he continued taking notes on needed improvements, complete with proposed solutions that likely wouldn’t make sense to his future self’s sober brain much less a stranger.
“Oh, yes, title things so they’re easy to find, why don’t you? If I cared what you were doing in Russia, this would be fascinating, truly, but I’m too appalled by the knowledge that this was coded by a first year compsci major dropout to really appreciate the finesse I’m sure you’ve reallocated to covert operations!”
Hitting that truly marvelous point of alcoholic invincibility that dared one to do bold, inherently stupid things all while barely holding onto consciousness, Syler threw his metaphorical hands up (or, rather, redirected them to locating the agency director’s personal inbox) and submitted his findings, complete with a copy of his resume, before disconnecting from the network.
He stumbled to bed, shucking his pants halfway off as he went. Giving the rest of his clothes up as a bad job, he poured himself face first into the mattress, glasses imprint and consequences be damned.
---
Syler woke up to the sort of blaring headache that defies description and tastes like regret, squinting at his still lit bedside lamp and wondering why his jeans were bunched around one ankle. He blinked one hazel eye fully open, vision foggy and impeded by a hopelessly smudged lens, then shut it again as the room spun.
Not regret, he corrected, moaning pitifully. Tequila.
His plans to burrow back into his mattress, and, ideally, tunnel directly to the light-less center of the earth where such mortal concerns as hangovers were rendered irrelevant were utterly derailed by an entirely too cheerful chirp from his phone. He reached for it blindly, knocking the lamp off the table altogether, and managed to pry a single eye open just long enough to register an email notification.
“I, and I cannot stress this enough, do not give a single flying fuck, damnit.” Accenting his point, he slammed his phone face down on the mattress and returned to his pity party for one.
His phone, apparently sentient and sent directly from the techno gods to punish him for all of his tequila-soaked sins, chirped yet again. Syler whined, prying himself up by sheer force of misery, and pulled his phone close enough to his face to go cross eyed.
Subject: Re: You Need Serious Help. Seriously.
“Mr. Perrin -
Your interview will begin at 0730.
V/R,
J. Boothman
Director
Central Intelligence Agency”
"What.” A statement, not a question.
Syler blinked, owlish, then shut his eyes and counted to five slowly, before reading it once, twice again.
“What?”
The knock at his door came before he could think on his transgressions further.
Two
Jeanette Boothman had not maintained her position as Director of the CIA by lacking in creative problem solving skills. Step one–identify the problem.
“Good morning, Mr. Perrin.” The agents accompanying her as security seemed superfluous in the face of the bedraggled youth who was gawping at her from his half-opened apartment door, all too long limbs and shaggy hair. “I’m Director Boothman. Your interview is scheduled to begin now. Please let me in before we can run behind.”
“How did you even find me this fast?”
“Your address was helpfully included in your resume.” She stared meaningfully at his
