While, to a certain extent, Cope influenced the missions I was assigned, he certainly wasn’t the person who ultimately decided what they were. That was a couple of steps above his pay grade. He did make sure, though, that I was put front and center for every mission related to China—including those in Hong Kong.
Most of my other assignments had enough downtime that I could continue looking for patterns in what appeared to be systemic execution. There had to be something that tied the deaths together—other than China, which both Cope and I believed worthy of more investigation. How they were involved specifically, though, remained a perplexing mystery.
Today, like every other time we met on the subject, we were careful about where and when we talked. We set off from the CIA headquarters in separate cars and drove an hour to Annapolis, Maryland. Once there, we left our cell phones in our vehicles, met at the public docks, and rented a boat.
It was a warm mid-September day that felt more like summer than the beginning of autumn, so we chartered a thirty-two-foot cruiser. Once we were far enough out in the Chesapeake Bay, Cope cut the engine.
“Does the name Malin Kilbourne mean anything to you?”
“She’s one of the agents you handle, right? Code name Starling.”
“That’s right.” Cope looked over his shoulder. There was nothing but water within a couple hundred yards of us. “She’s picked up a lead on something I’m going to let her run with.”
“Let her run with? Isn’t she brand spanking new?”
“To me, yeah, but she trained under Dutch Miller. She’s got chops.” Cope looked over both shoulders a second time. “I’ll monitor her closer than she realizes.”
“What the fuck has she gotten herself mixed up in that has you so tightly wound that you keep looking over your shoulder?”
“Somebody from DHS gave her a tip on money coming into a super PAC.”
I knew there had to be a hell of a lot more to it than that. “Get to the point, Cope.”
“She starts looking into it, and within a couple of days, Ed Montgomery steps in and assigns her a mission in Afghanistan.”
“Whoa. Back up. Isn’t he with Congressional Affairs?”
“Yep.”
I cocked my head, trying to figure out why someone Cope didn’t report to was giving missions to an agent he handled.
“Is there a new chain of command I’m unaware of?”
Cope shook his head. “Right? Striker asked me what the fuck I thought I was doing.”
“And?”
“I told him to ask Stevens.” Striker Ellis was Cope’s and my boss. Ellis reported to Paul Stevens, who was the head of the National Clandestine Service branch of the CIA. Stevens answered directly to James Flatley, Director of the CIA. Ed Montgomery was nowhere in that chain of command.
“What did Stevens say?” I asked.
“He told Striker to stay in his lane.”
“Striker? Not Montgomery?”
“You heard right.”
“Whatever this super PAC is, someone doesn’t want Starling poking her nose into it.”
“Don’t call her that, by the way. She hates it,” said Cope.
“So, what’s the deal with the super PAC?”
“No clue. All information about it has been burned.”
“What’s Kilbourne know?”
“I’m going to let her lead me to it.”
“You don’t think she’s going to drop this even though she’s been assigned something else.”
“Hell, no.”
“What’s her mission, anyway?”
“Infiltrate the Islamic State.”
I shook my head and looked out over the water, finally understanding why Cope and I were discussing Starling and the super PAC. “Montgomery wants her out of the picture—permanently.”
“You got it.”
“How closely are you monitoring her?”
“Close enough that if someone kills her, I’ll have a lead on who’s behind it.”
“But not close enough to stop it.”
“Look, Irish, she’s one of how many now?”
I didn’t respond. In three years, the list had grown from fifty to sixty-four. Sacrificing one more, even if it led us to why agents were being killed and by whom, wasn’t something I could condone. I didn’t give a shit about the greater good.
“Irish?”
“Fuck off, Cope.”
“Come on, you have to agree it’s what needs to be done.”
I turned my head and leveled my gaze at him. “I will never agree. Never.”
6
Flynn
Crested Butte, Colorado
Four Years Ago
In the eight years since my brother Holt and I went to the same school at the same time, the bullying and taunting had gotten progressively worse to the point where I considered either dropping out of school or running away. Some weeks it got so bad, I thought about killing myself.
The worst part was that the more they called me a fat cow, the more I ate, and the more weight I put on.
Recently, along with the heifer jokes, my classmates had also started calling me a lesbian. While most of the girls in my class had outgrown their own tomboy stages, I hadn’t. For me, it wasn’t as much about outgrowing it as having no means to look more like a girl.
My father continued buying me jeans and western shirts, the only shoes I had were cowboy boots, and I’d taken to cutting my own hair just so he wouldn’t do it.
Maybe I could’ve talked to my brothers about it, but were they really that dense? Holt especially, since he knew how bad the taunting had gotten in elementary and middle school.
On the other hand, they had their own issues with our dad, especially since Buck left. His share of our father’s bullshit was divided equally among the three remaining boys.
Right after I turned sixteen, Roaring Fork Ranch’s cook, Johnny, died of a heart attack while making what he referred to as “morning chow.” Since I’d spent so much time with him both when I was told to when I was younger and more recently just because I wanted to, I stepped in to help while my dad looked for another cook.
After three weeks of me handling all three meals every day, I think my dad stopped looking, and consequently, the job became mine—not that he paid me to do it. I didn’t mind, though. I loved
