The Assignment

I make my way slowly to the bar, trying to hide my discomfort as I sidestep men and women in fancy dresses and suits. These shoes are taller than anything I've ever worn, and painfully opposite to the high-top sneakers I usually wear.

I find an open stool at the bar and carefully seat myself, smoothing my long silk dress in my lap. I glance around at the high-class party goers as they sip champagne and laugh amongst themselves, probably about country club gossip and insignificant tax hikes.

The bartender approaches me and raises his eyebrows, silently asking what I'll have.

"Sapphire Martini," I say, as if it's my normal drink. I've never had a martini; usually when I approach a bar it's to half-drunkenly request another round of green tea shots for the group of friends I somehow encountered only five minutes before, and would likely never see again.

The bartender makes a quick mix in a martini glass, tossing in a fancy spiraled orange peel, and sets it gently in front of me on a small, square napkin. I nod in thanks, and shift sideways so that the drink is visible to the rest of the room.

My instructions provided few details. They simply told me to sit here with a Sapphire Martini, and wait. I stir the drink slowly, and notice my hand trembling. In an effort to calm my anxiety, I lift the glass to my lips and take a sip. I quickly have to hide my disgust. I hate gin.

I scan the room again, wondering who the mystery contact is, and why I am meeting them. Is it the slender brunette in the floor-length red gown? Is it the gray-haired man leaning back in his seat as he listens to the rest of the table chit chat? Is it the bartender?

I sneak a glance at the young man as he mixes a drink for another patron at the opposite end of the bar. He seemed relatively uninterested in me when I ordered my drink. If he was my contact, I would think he would have made it known. But, then again, I've never done this before. I am the amateur. Despite my Department training, I have limited field experience, especially unmonitored. My contact has probably met up with thousands of messengers. He knows how to fly under the radar.

Distracted by my analysis of the bartender, I almost don't notice the handsome man who has seated himself beside me.

"Sapphire Martini," he says, "I thought I was the only one." He nods toward my drink, then meets my eyes with a soft smile. He is incredibly good-looking, with greenish brown eyes and dark hair swept across his forehead. He is wearing a neatly pressed black suit with a white shirt and gray tie, and his sleeve reveals a shiny silver watch as he leans forward on the bar.

He raises his eyebrows slightly, and I realize that I have not yet responded to him.

I laugh nervously. "Yes," I say, "I suppose I prefer to stand out from the crowd." What a dumb thing to say. I'm here in secret, to meet a contact. My instructions may have been simple, but they were clear enough that I should know not to advertise my purpose for being here.

"Well," the man says, "I don't think you need a drink to do that."

I can feel my face grow hot, and my hand instinctively moves to my cheek to hide it. He laughs, and extends his hand.

"Peter," he says. I panic. The instructions didn't give me a name to use in this situation. Do I make one up? Do I give him my real name? I don't even know the purpose of my meeting, will I be making myself vulnerable if I divulge my true identity?

"Don't worry," he says quietly, leaning toward me, "you can give me your real name. I never drink these things either."

I breathe a sigh of relief, and return his handshake. "Evelyn."

He smiles brightly, and somehow becomes even more beautiful. I force myself to look away from him. This is a job, I can't go falling for my contact. I probably won't even see him again.

The lights in the ballroom dim slightly as slow, steady music begins to play. Party goers make their way to the center of the room, finding the rhythm as they embrace.

"Care to dance?" Peter asks. I look at him for a moment, then nod, taking his hand as he helps me off of my chair. He leads me to the center of the room, in the midst of the growing crowd of people. He turns to face me, and pulls me in close. He holds my hand to his chest, and I am worried that he can feel my heart pounding. Not only am I unsure of the reason for this meeting, but I feel a pull toward him that I can't make sense of. His other hand is pressed firmly against my back, holding me close to him.

"I'm not supposed to tell you this," he says into my ear. I hardly move, except to follow his swaying movements to the music.

"This was a setup," he says. His tone and demeanor have changed. He is no longer gentle and flirty, he is rigid.

"What do you mean?" I ask quietly.

"You weren't sent here to meet a contact. You were sent here as bait, to be used as a pawn in a war. The people who hired you sent you here under the impression that you would be receiving intelligence from an inside source, someone deep in the organization that I work for.

"My organization doesn't have inside sources. It's a manipulation. They wanted your organization to send someone important, someone with strong ties to the operation. Instead, they hired you. Someone...disposable."

His words twisted inside of me. Disposable. I took this job out of desperation. After being laid off from the Department, and coming up empty in my tedious search for temporary work, I was willing to do anything to keep a roof over my head. Now, it's made me disposable.

I feel the rage boiling inside of me, and my grip tightens in his hand. He looks down at me with authority.

"I was the one sent to dispose of you."

Time stops. Everyone around us moves in slow motion. My knees feel weak. Do I run? Has he effortlessly pulled me into his grasp, trapped me in his deadly embrace?

We are silent, unmoving, for what feels like forever, until he says, "I'm not going to do that."

"Why?" I ask, finally finding my voice. He could be lying, this could be some elaborate scheme to make me feel safe, only to then be blindsided.

"I saw you the moment you walked in," he says. "You're not great at the undercover thing." He smiles slightly, but I don't reciprocate. Now is not the time for lighthearted banter.

"I have my own personal contacts, people I work with independently of my organization. They are all around us. They looked into you, before I ever approached you. They checked your history, your family, your experience. Everything."

I suddenly feel watched, like there are eyes on me from every corner of the room.

"That's when I learned that you meant nothing to your organization. You aren't even part of the organization. You were a bait hire, nothing more.

"I also learned that you have skills. Important skills. You scored top of your class at Quantico, you accompanied a Special Ops unit in Bahrain. You've trained with the best, and were offered the best. Until they betrayed you. Let you go. Budget cuts, right?"

He scoffs. As wrong as it feels, I agree with him. I was trained for exclusive details, high-profile work. From the moment I learned about the Department, I was committed. I sacrificed relationships, friends, family, and countless hours to become the best. Then, once I was the best, they released me with empty promises and minimal resources. My loyalty was worth nothing. Disposable.

"Instead of eliminating you, I have an offer for you," Peter says defiantly. "I think you'll like it."

I glance around us, thinking, then look up at him. "Tell me."

"Build my empire with me," he says, his gaze into my eyes unwavering. "You're what I need."

"How?" I ask. "I wasn't the only one with high marks in my class. I'm not the only one with my skill set. What sets me apart?"

He smiles. "The Sapphire Martini."