Page 1 of Saved by my Baby Daddy Spy
Prologue
Holden
TheoldItalianvillaheld echoes of memories, both cherished and painful. It had been years since I set foot here, and the creaking floorboards seemed to protest my return. The vacation home that once rang with laughter, the warmth of family, and the comforting presence of my adoptive father, now stood silent and haunted by unanswered questions.
My journey into the labyrinth of secrets began when I stumbled upon a flash drive that held the key to unraveling the mysteries of my past. Adopted by the Goulds at the age of twelve, my childhood was molded by the love and stability they provided. They adopted me, but they loved me like I was their own, and I loved them too.
As I walked through the rooms, each step echoed the weight of memories. The flash drive, concealed within a secret compartment behind my favorite book, 'The Art of War' by Sun Tzu, lay dormant, waiting to reveal its truths. My adoptive father, a brilliant scientist and businessman, had perished in a plane crash a decade ago, and the pain of that loss had left scars that time could not erase.
The drive, discovered in his private library, contained confidential documents revealing that the crash wasn't an accident. Instead, it was a calculated act to silence the advancements in sustainable energy research that my father, unbeknownst to me, had been spearheading. The realization that his death was not an accident, but a targeted attack, clawed at my core, stirring emotions I thought were long buried.
The very thought that my father's death was orchestrated sent shockwaves through me. My dad, aware of the dangers surrounding their groundbreaking research, had hidden the flash drive, entrusting its discovery to the son he'd raised to be resilient, a son who had learned to navigate the complex landscape of emotions through nightly readings of ancient philosophy.
Confucius, Sun Tzu, and others became my companions as I faced anxiety and struggled with a stutter during my early years with the Goulds. Reading aloud to my father every night became a ritual, a therapeutic exercise that not only calmed my nerves but also strengthened the bond between us. Little did I know that the very act of reading, the shared moments of reflection, would shape me into the man I am today.
Now, standing in the quiet embrace of my father's library, the memories of those nights resurfaced. I reached for 'The Art of War,' the familiar texture of the book bringing a flood of emotions. As I opened its pages, the secret compartment revealed itself, and I retrieved the flash drive.
The responsibility it carried, the weight of my father's unrealized dreams, pressed upon me. The drive contained not just scientific data, but the hopes and aspirations of a brighter future, a future that had been stolen from him. My mission, more than handing over a piece of technology to the government, was to honor his legacy.
One Month Later
I just need to get through the next few hours, hand off the flash drive containing my father’s research, and then I can relax.
The San Francisco air has been nostalgic; the city brings back a rush of memories—memories that I am not ready to deal with yet. I have to keep my mind focused on delivering the flash drive. The research in there is way too important; I can’t risk getting sidetracked.
Yet, one little drink on my first free night in a year isn’t going to hurt, is it?
After spending the last year doing various undercover missions overseas, I think I’ve earned a drink.
The bar I’m meeting my contact at is a tiny little hole-in-the-wall kind of place. Years ago, I would have called it a dive bar, but it’s too noisy and energetic to be considered that. Young people are laughing and milling around in the corners, and vibrant energy courses through the room. Bartenders work quickly and precisely behind a sleek black counter that shimmers in the neon lights, mixing drinks in a bustling atmosphere.
This is the kind of place where people meet to hand off packages. It is busy enough to remain hidden, but I still have the risk of being seen by dozens of people before I make the drop.
I pull my ball cap a little lower and make my way to a table in the back—a habit I picked up from my many years in the espionage field. My hand slides into my pocket, and I toy with the little locked box that contains the flash drive.
Hand off the package. Get a drink. Spend time with family before my cousin, Preston, marries Audrey and they take off on their honeymoon. Then I can get back to the other reason I returned to town.
I look around the bar, taking in the patrons that linger between the drinks and the dance floor. None of them stand out as the man I’m supposed to be meeting.
As I do another pass of the room, a familiar face stands out in the crowd. I flip up the collar of my leather jacket and make sure the shadows from my hat are hiding my face.
When I get up, I glance at the man again. If Rigby sees me before I can get out, we’re going to have a problem on our hands. There is no way that I can allow the competition to get their hands on the flash drive.
Bodies bump against mine as I weave through the crowd near the door, keeping my head down but walking as if I have nowhere to be. Any hurried exit will alert Rigby. He’s a good spy, but I’m better.
Whatever happens, I know that this flash drive cannot fall into the wrong hands. A lot of people have died because of this little thing; I’m positive it is the reason why my father died.
He was on a flight to Geneva, Switzerland to attend a global energy summit, with my uncle and their business partner. I vaguely recall him telling me that “the research my team is working on will change the world. We hope this research will make the world a better place.” He was going to present his findings at the summit.
All his research burned up in the crash. Months, even years, after the crash, various investigators from the governmental and scientific community went to our family mansion in San Francisco trying to find back-up information on his research. The loss of his research took the advancement of renewable energy back decades.
The doors swing open, and a crisp breath of fresh air greets me. It's a pitch-black night, with only a few stars trying to break through the bright lights of the city. Moving toward the alley next to the bar, I can no longer see the faint twinkle of stars—the city lights have successfully drowned them out.
As I head for the alley beside the bar, the breeze blows stronger.
I step into the alley, and I see the man I was supposed to meet slumped against a wall. I sigh and send a message to my handler before walking away as if I hadn’t seen anything.
Until my handler can set up another meet, I have the night off. Maybe even the next few days. Depends on whenever the CIA feels like. Sometimes, I hate working for the CIA. Every mission is covert, which means they don’t get to be blamed if something goes wrong. Well, that is the whole point of being a spy. I have to do the CIA’s dirty work, and if it goes to shit, I have to take the fall. I sigh and pull my coat closer around me as I walk through the evening's cold.
