That was because none of them could see the sixth through twelfth stories.
It was a shame that the lobby of the DVM was one of Washington’s most closely guarded secrets, because it was also one of the most beautiful. Sunlight, a key part of cloaking technology, streamed through the shimmering glass walls in rainbow-hued shades. The high, vaulted ceiling belied the levels of cubicles on the levels above. DVM employees moved on either side of the security gates, all with a sense of singular purpose, collecting their breakfasts from the cafeteria counters on the unsecured side of security, chatting with colleagues about last night’s television programs, or making plans for weekend get-togethers.
Anthony stepped off the elevator.
Applause took over the lobby; every eye turned to him with envy or admiration. The people closest were eager to shake his hand first, unless they were so awed they could barely move.
Anthony forced a smile. Walking through the crowd with a grim expression on his face would have been disastrous. He’d appear aloof and cold, unfeeling and disconnected – and he’d lose their admiration, their attention... and more importantly, their support.
You might not want it, but you need it, he’d been told at the very beginning of his career, back when he was young and green and still thought it was all a fun game. Because the minute they stop caring – that’s when Cicero wins.
Not that Anthony would mind a cold and aloof reputation. When every person who worked closely with him died, keeping someone from actually wanting to work with him was only be a good thing.
Except he’d seen what happened to the agents who didn’t hold the public’s interest. Retired, drummed out of service, stuck teaching undergrads who thought Perestroika was an influencer on Instagram. And their arch-nemesis? Still at-large, still wreaking havoc.
Smile, asshole, Enrique would have said, and so Anthony smiled and hated every moment.
He nodded and waved, acknowledging the applause as he passed through the lobby, through the security check, hearing scraps of conversations around him.
“It’s Dare! He’s back!”
“Oh my gosh, is that a fresh scar on his chin?”
“I knew he’d get back okay, what’d I tell you?”
The last was a knife to the gut. It shouldn’t have been just him walking through the lobby. It should have been two of them being welcomed home.
If it hadn’t been for Cicero... it would have been.
Get him next time.
“Good job, man!”
“Glad to see you!”
“Congratulations on another success!”
Anthony shook the appropriate hands, smiled an appropriate smile, nodded in appropriate directions, and focused on his goal: the elevator on the far side of the lobby. It would whisk him upstairs, away from the throngs of people who only wanted to tell him how wonderful and brave and talented he was.
Nothing he hadn’t heard after every mission before. Words that he’d long since learned to ignore.
The elevator doors were already open and waiting for him. Anthony couldn’t wait to board, because on the elevator, he’d have privacy again. In fifteen years of missions, no one joined him. He always took that ride alone.
Why they held back, Anthony didn’t know. He doubted they were aware of how much he needed the privacy. He hoped it wasn’t because they were afraid of being close to him, as if just riding an elevator was a sure way of having evil thugs drop from the ceiling and try to fight him to the death.
(That only happened one time. It hadn’t even been in HQ.)
Anthony reached the elevator with relief, stepped inside, and turned to face the crowd before the doors closed. The path he’d walked was still clear, as if Anthony had consecrated it merely by walking on it. DVM employees leaned over each other, desperate for one last glimpse. Some almost fell over each other in the effort.
Anthony pressed the button for the top floor and kept the smile plastered on his face until the doors slid closed.
The noise abruptly vanished, leaving behind only the canned elevator music and the echo of Anthony’s relieved sigh. He rested his forehead against the doors and groaned. It echoed in the empty elevator.
One down... and one to go. Without a doubt—the top floor would be worse, because there, at least, they’d remember Enrique.
Maybe, just maybe, they’d remember that his mission hadn’t actually been a success at all.
Anthony clenched his fist and slammed it up against the wall. “Dammit,” he cursed. “How the hell do you keep slipping through my fingers, Cicero?”
The frustration was old, though Anthony felt it keenly every single time.
The cough, however, was new.
Anthony’s eyes sprang open, first on his shadowy, wavy reflection in the elevator doors—and then the reflection of the man cowering in the corner behind him, shaking like a leaf, his face bright red behind the shaking sheaths of papers he held up over his face. His hair was ashy blonde and stuck up in all directions, and his silver-colored wire-rim glasses were cockeyed on his face, doing nothing to block the bright green eyes behind them. They were wide, staring at Anthony in shock.
“What the fuck?” said Anthony, more out of bewilderment than actual alarm.
“Are you serious,” said the man, his voice high-pitched and almost squeaking. He didn’t sound scared or nervous, either—in fact, he sounded angry, as if he wasn’t even aware that he was encroaching on Anthony’s private elevator time. “You really don’t know why Cicero keeps getting away?”
Anthony immediately went on the defensive. The man couldn’t have boarded the elevator by accident. Not when he sounded as if he had a problem with Anthony.
No one at the DVM had a problem with Anthony. Ever.
Either this man was the first person to view Anthony as just another DVM employee—or he wasn’t part of the DVM.
“Who the hell are you?” demanded Anthony, sliding into a fighting stance without even thinking about it. So much for the not-attacked-in-HQ-elevators track record.
“Who the—?” echoed the man.
“I’m asking the questions here,” Anthony reminded him.
“Yeah, no, see, that’s exactly your problem!” yelled the guy, waving his papers in the air. “You never ask anything! I’ve sent you email after email after memo after four-hour-long presentation and you still never ask the right—”
Emails? No one yelling about emails could possibly be a threat. Anthony rolled his eyes and turned back to the doors, checking that his tie was straight. Downstairs was the gauntlet, but the real challenge was his next destination.
The man, of course, was still yelling about emails. The only people at the DVM who went on about emails were...
“Are you even listening to me?” demanded the man.
“Not really,” said Anthony, off-hand. “I’m not all that concerned with how you analyze my reports.”
“What?!?” spluttered the man.
“You are an analyst, right?”
“Yes, and that’s exactly why—”
“Do you mind? I realize you analysts like to hear yourselves talk, but in case you didn’t notice, I’m trying to have a moment of privacy here.”
The analyst stared at Anthony. “Privacy. On a public elevator.”
“Of course it’s not public, we’re in the most secure location in the world. And here I thought analysts were meant to be the clever ones.”