Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(215)

“Oh I think I’ve already been to you special place, señor.” I barely finish laughing the words out of my mouth before he starts to hit me. They all start to hit me, in fact.

By the way, my hands are cuffed to a pipe above my head, and there are four of them. South American prison; comprende?

I can take a beating. Well, I could take a beating, a long time ago back when I was a fighter and before I sort of let myself go. But nine months of hard time in El Muerto have me back to lean muscle and hungry fire inside. Not that it does a bit of good when you’re cuffed and outnumbered.

I groan and sag against my handcuffs as the men in uniform step away, spitting on the ground around me as they wipe their hands of me. Gustavo is grinning at me again, slowly nodding his head; “Hope you packed your swim-suit, hijo e puta.” He says slowly; “Because you’re going for The Swim.”

Oh, shit.

I’ve heard stories of problem prisoners being taken out for The Swim and being made to disappear, but it’s always third or fourth hand talk from guys who’ve been here too long. The Swim is a one-way ticket three miles off shore. Full stop. Do not pass go, do not collect $200, and don’t bother trying to swim for it because if the sharks don’t get you, exhaustion will. It’s a bad dream; a scary story like the boogey man the guards tell us to keep us in line.

Except from the look on the Warden’s face, this is anything but a made-up story.

I want to tell him he “can’t do this”, or he “doesn’t have the right”, but in reality, we both know he can and he doesn’t fucking care. I’ve managed to go the last ten years or so of my life without, or at least squashing down any regrets, but something tells me that streak is about to change. Because for the first time maybe ever, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I’ve gone too far.

Shit.

Gustavo leans in close, his breath hot on my face as he pats my cheek and grins wickedly at me; “Te veré en el infierno, motherfucker.” See you in hell.





2





Chelsea




The silver and glass hallway that leads towards The Vault is innocuous enough for what it needs to be. It looks like any other office hallway in the world I suppose, except you can’t help but feel a little shiver of excitement when you walk down this one, knowing what’s waiting at the end. It’s not the kind of excitement you might find in another job; not in a normal job.

Of course, I’m still fairly new at the Center, which might contribute to the excitement, but it’s also just the general feeling of the place. For instance, I doubt normal jobs have two armed personnel guarding the doorways to areas that require a retina scan in order to enter.

I take a deep breath as I approach the two men in black tactical gear holding machine guns. They’re parked next to a frosted glass screen with only the briefest shadow of a person standing behind it.

“Agent, please state your identifying code.”

The voice sounds metallic behind the glass, and I force myself into composure as I look evenly into the retina scanner and speak as clearly as I can; “Six oh wilco wilco charlie alpha eighty eight.”

The door hisses silently open with the small click of a lock, and I nod as authoritatively as I can despite my nerves at the two men standing guard before I step into the cool, darkened ambience of The Vault. It’s my first time in here, and the sudden reality of that has me pausing just for a fraction of a second to take it all in. The projector is already on, casting a bluish glow on the far wall, and I realize that the others are already there, sitting around the dark mahogany conference table with the lights low.

The Director looks up and nods curtly to me; “Ah, Agent Archer, we’re just getting started. Please, have a seat.” I nod quickly at a few familiar faces around the debrief room before I take an empty seat next to Agent Koufax, my supervisor. I can hear the door sealing shut behind me, and I’m aware from the debrief I received on The Vault last week that by now, my cell service is at zero, and that anything and everything I say in here is being recorded. What’s discussed here is for here only, and it’s only for matters where secrets need to stay in the dark. You bring nothing in here, and you take nothing out.

Yep, welcome to a typical Tuesday at the Central Intelligence Agency.

“Glad you could make it, Agent.” Koufax whispers harshly as he turns and glares at me, his eyebrows knitting and his silvered goatee mustache twitching.

“I just got the notice five minu-”

“Just try and keep up, rook.”

Rook; as in, “rookie.” I narrow my eyes at his back as he turns, knowing it’s useless to even try and come back with anything, He’s hardly my superior, and I know even if I am one of the younger people here, most of his bullshit is because of my gender rather than my experience with the Agency.