Spies, Lies & Rookies: Book One

Adjusting in her chair as the radio waves pitched across the monitor, Romy slotted her earpiece into place.

“Speak to me, heathens,” Romy uttered into the microphone, a wave of commotion feeding down the line.

“Who’re you calling a heathen, demon bitch?” Silas’s monotone voice crackled in response, the wobbly line indicating his headset was in use barely peaking.

Smiling to herself, Romy spun in her chair, turning away from the speaker system to browse the GPS monitor. Two green blips moving slowly across the screen caused a slight scowl to form on her face.

“Check your six, wise arse,” she spoke sharply, clicking a few keys.

“Shit!” Leon responded, but his voice was quickly drowned out by the sounds of rapid gunfire and shouting.

As silence fell in her right ear, Romy kept a close eye on the green blips. Her mouth became a tight line when the four blue blips suddenly became three.

Glancing at the status screen on her right, she scanned across the four names, her eyes landing on the one that had blacked out.

Swallowing hard, Romy glanced up at the main screen taking up half the wall in front of her station just as it flashed.

“Caleb is down,” Romy confirmed to the stern-faced man staring at her through the camera from his desk, safely tucked away at the top of their building.

Their superior tented his fingers, both index fingers tapping against his lips. “And the others?” Alistair responded dryly. As expected, there wasn’t a hint of emotion in his words.

Romy tilted her head as a tirade of barbs, insults, and a few mentions of someone’s foot being shoved up another’s anatomy filtered through the headset. Her mouth drew into a taut line.

“Some rather unholy things are being said,” she mumbled quietly. “I don’t think the team building is going as hoped.”

Reaching across the computer desk, Romy slid off the headset and set the radioed messages to play out loud.

“...you’ll be chewing leather for weeks!” one crass voice echoed around Romy’s station, followed by the thump of metal hitting skin and a loud outcry of pain.

“I think you’re a little lost. Shouldn’t you be in that field—”

“Caleb!”

“—chewing hay!”

The distinctive voices of the two newest and youngest members of the team crackled around Romy. Sinking her teeth deep into her bottom lip to suppress a laugh, her watery gaze found the commanding officer’s on the screen.

Unlike Romy, who desperately wanted to laugh, Alistair looked aggrieved by the rhetoric playing out before him.

Sensing it was time to cut off the conversation, Romy turned to the screen displaying the operatives’ statuses. All but one were blacked out, and judging by the small blue blip still moving around the edge of the screen, someone appeared to have gone solo toward the objective.

How disappointed the man would be upon discovering the ‘reward’ was nothing but congratulations for completing the task ‘alive’.

“Bring them back in,” Alistair ordered, massaging his forehead. “I will come down.”

With that said, the screen blacked out, leaving Romy scrambling to gain the arguing men’s attention.

“Listen up, you testosterone-fuelled apes! The big boss is coming to shove his foot down your throats. Get back here on the double!” she snapped into the headset.

As expected, none of them argued, but a few more unsavoury comments passed between the six men who were supposed to be a ‘team’.

It seemed the mix of old and new blood had not gone over as hoped. With the veterans being made to feel old by the introduction of the younger, more lithe members, several rivalries had quickly cropped up.

The matter was not helped much when Romy pointed out that the older members of the team were approaching the age where they would no longer be active in the field, but rather tucked behind a desk as points of command and the like.

Romy understood how the younger ones felt. Having once been the youngest member the organisation had ever recruited, it had taken time to get her foot in the door and be taken seriously in her position.

Because she was in comms and a computer specialist, they had deemed her just a kid who played too many spy games—completely disregarding the fact that she had been employed after hacking through their own security.

A part of her suspected it was a sore spot for them all; a seventeen-year-old girl had made them look like idiots in a few short hours, holding up their entire organisation as they desperately tried to push her out of their systems.

Though she had never told them, it was her backing off, rather than being kicked out, that had ended the whole matter. Their security had been weak, their firewalls short of a joke, and Romy had merely slipped through and given them the runaround.

The whole situation was made all the worse when they discovered she was the bratty teenage sister of one of their own agents, a man they were all more than familiar with.

Finally hearing that the order was acknowledged and that they’d be back in ten, Romy disconnected from the headset and shut off the screens to the training fields. Just then, the metal doors to the left of her desk slid open, and Alistair stepped in, in the flesh.

Peeking above the top of her main computer screen, she gave a slow smile to the imposing man.

Alistair moved with purpose until he stood on the other side of her desk. With his hands held behind his back, he cocked his head, but only slightly. “ETA?”

Tapping the spacebar of her keyboard with her thumb, she glanced at the small clock in the corner. “About ten minutes,” she answered softly, pushing back in her chair to unfold her legs and sit more appropriately.

Receiving the information, Alistair nodded—just a fraction, a barely-there movement—before he turned and propped himself on the edge of her desk.

It was the closest to relaxed the stiff man ever seemed to manage, and it left Romy wondering how his wife managed to get even an inch of affection out of him.

Harper was a bubbly woman by nature, and Romy could not have imagined a pair more polar opposite than those two. However, something worked between them, as they’d been together for twenty years.

In fact, Romy remembered being a flower girl at their wedding, with her brother acting as the best man. It had been quite the event.

Especially when Harper—in her excitement—had bounced down the aisle quicker than her bridesmaids could move.

Thankfully, by that point, Romy had done her part and was standing next to Nate, all smiles and proud of the mess she’d made with the flowers from her basket.

Departing from the memories of the past, Romy glanced again at the clock. The time appeared to creep by slowly, more than likely dragging as the guys took a little longer than necessary to return.

For Romy, it wasn’t awkward being in Alistair’s company; they’d known each other for years. It was more the creeping silence that made her feel uncomfortable.

“Would you ever consider going active in the field?” Alistair asked suddenly.

Startled by the out-of-the-blue question, Romy’s knee jarred sharply against the corner of the desk as she spun in her chair to look at him.

“Well,” she started, uncertainty creeping into her voice. Her brow furrowed as Alistair peered down at her; his question was a serious one.

Sucking her lips back against her teeth, Romy reflected on the last occasion they’d put her out with the others.

Espionage by profession was not Romy’s forte. Not in the sense of being out in the field, away from her many computer screens.

If a mission required hacking or anything of the sort, Romy aced it. Being out among people and having to be inconspicuous was another matter altogether.

“You hold my arm any tighter,” Leon whispered lowly, “it will fall off.” Looking down at where Romy held his forearm in an iron grip, Leon made a subtle adjustment to make her release him.

Pulling away the hand that had been digging into Leon’s arm, Romy apologised. Trying to relax as ordered, she took a deep breath as they entered the main hall of the casino.

Slot machines, blackjack tables, and more made up the floor.

Feeling a soft tickle in her right ear, Romy tried not to reach for the device hidden under her hair, especially when a voice entered as if the speaker were standing right beside her.

“Just relax,” Silas grumbled in a monotonous sigh. “You’re going to blow your cover before we even get into the heavy stuff.”

Pinching her mouth shut, Romy refrained from making a snarky remark. Instead, she chose to try and heed the advice, slipping a glass of what looked to be whisky off a passing waiter’s tray.

“I shouldn’t even be here,” she spoke quietly, using the whisky tumbler to hide her moving lips. Romy kept close to Leon’s side as he advanced through the slot machines and led them to the tables.

“We needed a woman for this. You’ll be fine, just follow our direction,” Alistair added over the comms in an attempt to soothe her nerves.

Remaining in Leon’s shadow, Romy allowed him to take the lead. The flashy gown that hugged a little too tightly in her most prominent areas made her feel overexposed, and she swapped her empty glass for another.

“Don’t get yourself shit-faced,” Nate warned. His aggravated tone made Romy wholly aware that she was out of her depth.

They could see her, but she had no idea where they were.

Romy was intended to be the honey trap, without giving the honey. It was a plan that had gone well right up until their target was whispering into her ear.

Unable to respond as expected—especially with four men listening, one of them being her brother—Romy had to cut her headphone to keep up the pretence.

A big no-no by their books.

Still, Romy had gone through with the plan. She slipped the man the sleeping agent while they were in the back of his overly flashy car, and by the time they’d reached the bedroom, he was sparked out.

Once the man was out, she brought the headset back to life. Before any one of them could utter a reprimand, she spoke. “I’ve got it. Now pick me up.”

During the drive back to the rendezvous point, Romy spent the time avoiding Nate’s eye in the rearview mirror and diverting Leon’s questions.

Being used to lure a man with nothing more than looks and assets had left Romy feeling cheap and used, an experience she never, ever wanted to repeat.

“No,” she finally answered the lingering question resolutely.

Never again did Romy want to feel the way that night had left her. Not again.

Meeting Alistair’s gaze, he nodded once. His posture soon went rigid at the low thrum of footsteps and the echoes of many voices crashing together.

The team had arrived. As the doors slid open, Alistair stood up, his face set firm and his gaze burning intensely at the six men who trooped into Romy’s workstation.

Silas appeared first, his flat expression showing a pinch of irritation. Leon followed, ducking slightly under the doorframe. Coming in after him was Nate, busy scratching the back of his head, and after him came the youths of their team: Caleb, Dylan, and the brute that was Rhys.

They thinned out to stand in a line. With Leon being the senior officer among them, it was him Alistair focused on first.

“So,” Alistair started, hands once again behind his back. “That was a waste of time.”

As though Alistair’s words were the plug being pulled, a verbal flood started from all six men. They stopped short of physically pointing fingers, but judging by the words and barbs being catapulted up and down the line, they may as well have.

Sinking lower in her seat, Romy hid a laugh behind her hand. Yet Alistair didn’t miss it; a side-glance tossed at her silenced her in a second, and she sat back up, poised and more professional than a second before.

The verbal calamity showed no signs of slowing, so Alistair focused on trying to shut them all up.

Something he managed just by raising a hand.

At once, the men became quiet, all of them standing upright, feet apart as though they were suddenly on parade.

“If you cannot complete a simple task without fighting like a bunch of schoolgirls, then you leave me only one choice,” Alistair started, his gaze falling to his hands as he rubbed his fingers together.

It left all of them in suspense. They all knew and understood that teamwork was essential. They had to be in some form of tandem; otherwise, they put not only themselves at risk in the field, but civilians too.

“Until you can prove that you can work together, you will be pulled from the A-rank missions assigned to this department. Team B will take them,” Alistair stated bluntly, leaving no room for arguments.

All at once, the faces of the six gathered men sank, as if all their little hearts had broken simultaneously at the news their rival team would be getting their work.

But Alistair wasn’t finished. There was one more thing he had up his sleeve, and he purposely delayed giving it to them.

Holding the faintest of smiles on his mouth, hands once again behind his back, he continued. “You will be living together for the next six months. In that time, I expect you to get yourselves in order.” He added the final part of their punishment with the closest thing to an amused smile he’d ever shown.

If not for the fact it wasn’t physically possible, Romy was sure their jaws would be on the floor.

Alistair turned suddenly, facing Romy. “That includes you.”

Stunned that she was being punished alongside the others, Romy started to object, but Alistair shook his head.

“You’re part of this team as well,” was all he said, before striding towards the door.

“Make all necessary arrangements,” Alistair ordered. “You will be living in the middle of nowhere,” he added, with what might have been a laugh or just a clearing of his throat. “You leave in the morning.”

With that, Alistair left them in their stupors.

Six months, stuck in the middle of nowhere. Romy could not imagine a worse scenario for the men, who were all currently shooting deathly stares at each other.

“Well, boys, the quicker you learn to get along, the quicker we get back to business,” Romy injected, hoping to stave off the brewing argument they were starting with looks alone.

None of them responded. They didn’t even spare a glance toward her as they stormed out of the room.

Exhaling slowly, Romy resigned herself to her new fate.

Six months. That meant half a year stuck in a house full of testosterone and inflated egos.

“What could possibly go wrong?” she asked herself sarcastically, switching off her station. There was a lot of packing to be done.