Page 144 of Only the Wicked
When the CIA flipped my career on its head, I certainly didn’t hold the warm fuzzies.
“Or they’re all in it together and we just watched a charade.”
“No. That’s not it.” I dismiss Jake’s notion with a wrinkled nose.
“You sure about that? It’s hard to keep your head on straight when you’re shagging the daylights out of the?—”
“Will you shut the fuck up?” I push up from my chair with enough force that it slams into the counter behind me. “I’m not wrong about Rhodes. He’s playing them at my direction.”
Jake’s condescension ignites fierce defensiveness. I’ve spent my entire career being underestimated—first as a woman at Langley, then as the “emotional” operative after the France debacle. Intel from operatives like me informed Jake’s military operations. A little respect would be nice.
My certainty isn’t just emotional—it’s analytical. Rhodes had multiple opportunities to betray us but didn’t.
“Right. It’s not possible he’s playing both sides and concocting a deal for a get out of jail free card.” Jake’s disbelief is palpable, his expression suggesting I’ve lost all objectivity.
I thrust a hand at Jake. “Hundred bucks says I’m right, you’re wrong. Rhodes is working with us, and Crawford doesn’t know what’s going on. Dristol and Reid—those are the two we want.”
The childish bet is beneath me, but something about Jake brings out my competitive streak.
His country boy grin spreads wide. “You’re on, spy girl.”
Nerves fire off as I twist the knob to the suite, checking for tampering signs on the door or lock. Nothing. But the sensation of stepping into uncertain territory remains.
Rhodes is a good guy. I know it. We prepped for this together, and unlike many partnerships I’ve had in this business, and in life, this one feels balanced—respectful rather than manipulative.
I step past the foyer and Rhodes looks up from a laptop, his expression intense, focused. He’s sitting on the sofa, bent over the coffee table, one socked foot peeking out from the side, the picture of concentrated work.
The room smells faintly of coffee and the subtle notes of his cologne—now familiar enough that I associate the hints of cedar with safety and comfort. The dichotomy isn’t lost on me.
“That was interesting,” I say, tackling the elephant head on, observing his eyes for any micro expressions that might reveal deception. There are none—just the same clear, intelligent gaze that has become increasingly difficult to distrust.
“Before you say anything,” Rhodes says, his fingers still moving across the keyboard, “I’ve got a plan. It’s been in the works since ARGUS’s early days. A failsafe, already built, for situations just like this. An Override Protocol.”
He turns his laptop screen toward me, showing complex encryption schemas and network architecture diagrams that would be incomprehensible to most people. But my tech training helps me recognize the sophisticated firewall systems and mirrored servers. But that’s recognition, not comprehension.
“What does it do exactly?” I ask, scanning the snippets visible on the screen.
“At its core, it blocks unauthorized access at a fundamental level?—”
“Wait.” I lean forward, studying the screen, recognizing the architecture patterns. “These are mirrored servers, aren’t they? You’re not just blocking access—you’re redirecting it.”
He nods, manipulating the diagram to expand a section showing nested security protocols. “Exactly. Creating what appears to be a nearly impenetrable barrier between ARGUS’s actual systems and any external intrusion, while actually giving them access to something else entirely.”
“A digital trap.” The elegance of it hits me. “You’re not just defending—you’re gathering intelligence on who’s trying to break in.”
“The system was designed from the ground up with the assumption that eventually someone—government, competitors, hackers—would try to force their way in. So why not learn from their attempts?”
“You’ll pretend to give Dristol access. He’s a midwestern senator’s chief of staff. You realize a ton of those men talk a big game. All smoke, no substance. There’s a good chance he can’t deliver what he promised.”
“True,” he says, “But we didn’t get much in that meeting. But with this, we will.” His eyes light up with animated intensity—the look of a brilliant mind solving an intricate puzzle. “Let’s give Dristol what he wants, but on our terms. I’ll design a global view dashboard—visually impressive, loaded with just enough real data to seem legitimate. I’ll show it to him and insist on guarantees. Make it seem real. We’ll see who he brings in. Who he gives it to. What he does with the data. I’ll give him the motherlode. A window that appears to have access to every single one of our clients.”
He pulls up another screen showing a sophisticated interface mockup—graphs, maps, data visualization tools that would convince most intelligence analysts they’re seeing the real thing.
“I’ll mirror interfaces, make it look real. You said KOAN is looking to monitor US corruption among those who wouldn’t otherwise be investigated. With this, we can see everything. Find out who’s flying right?—”
“And who’s crooked.”
What he’s suggesting could cause massive intelligence chaos. If someone accessing the mirrored, false data, leaked it…it could send all sorts of false signals around the world with untold consequences on geopolitics. Intelligence is the ultimate butterfly. A flapping of a wing in Malaysia can be felt in the Baltics within twenty-four hours.
