Mission Partner, Recognition, and Disappointment

“So, what’s the catch?” I ask Malcom—my boss—crossing my arms over my red suit jacket as I arch a dark eyebrow, unimpressed.

“There’s no catch, Becs,” he grumbles in a deep voice, the unlit La Prosa cigar stuck between his yellowed teeth bobbing in my face.

“There’s always a catch,” I remark, my rouged lips pouting at the word.

I graciously turn around, nonchalance a second nature of mine by now, to be on my way. The heels of my matching red stilettos clacking loudly through the tiled hall, the echo bouncing off the walls to announce my coming.

“Where are you going?” Malcom growls behind me.

A mischievous smirk smears my face as I hear him walk after me, panting heavily to show just how unfit he is despite his official title of Colonel of the US Army.

“Will you slow down, woman!” he snarls, now on my left, his chest heaving so fast I fear he might collapse soon. “You’re right…”

“Pardon me?” I tweet innocently, my eyelashes batting, while I casually continue my stroll down the dark corridor.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Smith!” he fumes, getting a hold of the cigar from his mouth to tuck it behind his ear instead. “Fine, there is a catch…” A sharp cough escapes his mouth as he struggles to catch his breath. “Jones is your partner on the mission—”

“Jones!” I snap, stopping dead in my tracks to lock eyes with him. “Dick Jones?”

Malcom sighs, his flushed face shaking, The calloused flesh of his palms now over his hips. I glare at him, squinting intensely, my nostrils flaring at the indignation of being assigned a partner I do not need.

“What can I say? He’s the best.” Malcom shrugs, his dry lips closing in a thin line. “Tough luck, kiddo…” He pats me on the back like I am some kind of immature child, the motion rough against my shoulder blade. “Your ride leaves at eighteen hundred sharp.”

I stare at him, bleak, and he doesn’t bother waiting for a response. I watch as he effortfully drags his saggy ass away, probably back to his office for a lie down to calm his heart rate. I roll my eyes to the back of my head.

What a clown!

I have been here working my butt off for five long excruciating years, and yet I am still due the respect and recognition I deserve from my male counterparts—It is tough being a working woman in 1950. When I finally think I am done proving myself, another white man comes along, calling me “kiddo” and assigning me a babysitter.

Why ask me to go on the mission at all then?

Why not let the big tough men do it all?

I take a deep frustrated breath, checking my reflection in the pristine glass window in front of me and commanding my features to remain undisturbed as to not give anyone reason to call me “sensitive” or “crazy” as well.

If it weren’t for Daddy, I wouldn’t be working here. I hate it here. This place is filled with toxic masculinity, the air embedded with testosterone. But it pays well, despite the fact I have a vagina—because somehow, the organ I have between my legs is what dictates my salary in this modern day and age, not my skills.

And I am goddamn skilled at what I do!

I know it is unusual for women to work at the Army, but only because the patriarchy permits it…

When the war broke out, Daddy—who was already a commissioned officer—got me this position, just like he did my big brother and his best friend before me. It was supposed to be temporary, and I wasn’t supposed to come back to New York, but I did anyway.

Daddy’s superiors needed a spy to infiltrate the enemy’s base in Germany; someone who wouldn’t attract too much attention. A nobody. So I volunteered, only for my selflessness to reflect well on Daddy and for my name to appear amongst those who contributed to the war effort. That, and the pay was good!

But there was a catch.

The mission was simple on paper—the spy would collect information about the enemy’s plans and report to the US Army. Clean. Easy. But when Malcom walked me outside the facilities, here in New Jersey, to wait for my ride that fatal evening, he also handed me a gun.

“You must remain anonymous at all costs.” His hoarse voice was a deep rumble in his chest, his eyes bright and shiny under the full moon.

I swallowed hard, understanding the assignment. An icy shiver travelled up my spine as my fingers wrapped around the cold firearm to tuck it safely under my rain jacket, away from wandering eyes.

And I never looked back because, as I said, I am skilled at what I do.

I was on the path to success, the one leading to a four-star officer rank—a first for a woman in the United States of America. But Richard “Dick” Jones was relocated to our branch two months ago, making heads turn and agents fight to be his partner. I have been paired with him twice already, and frankly I don’t see what the commotion is all about.

The attention should be on me.

I am the star double-agent who dismantled an entire criminal organisation from the inside out at the young age of nineteen. No man ever achieved that, did they? Especially not Dick! And yet, three years later and I am still waiting for the recognition I deserve. I didn’t get a promotion, or a raise, only a mere thank you and the usual pat on the back.

But when Dick Jones shows up from freakin’ Houghton, Michigan, everyone is suddenly in wow, because he rescued a couple of children from a frozen lake. I can do that too—There is nothing special about him. He would even probably describe himself as a “small town boy who never thought he would someday have the opportunity to fight for something bigger than himself.”

Barf.

But I will not quit until I receive what I am due. They will not break me.

“Miss Smith!” the irritable voice grits my ears.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear…

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second but keep on walking nonetheless, ignoring him.

“Miss Rebeca!” he calls again, and I hate it that he knows my name. “Becs—”

“Do not call me that!” I snap, spinning around to glare at his pale freckled face and brassy brown hair. “Only my friends get to call me that.”

“I heard Malcom—”

“What do you want, Dick?” I cut in sharply, irritation making my blood boil in my veins. I check the vintage Bulova watch around my wrist. “Make it quick.”

He startles, taken aback by my animosity. “I thought it’d be a good idea to go over the mission together is all.”

“I have already read the report and special notes,” I tell him, deadpan. “I am familiar with the facility I need to infiltrate and the members of staff.”

“I have no doubt you’re up-to-speed, but I think we should sit down and talk about it anyway,” he argues, casually sliding his tall hands inside the pockets of his army-green uniform. “To be on the same wavelength.”

“I don’t think so.”

I turn back around, my chin high, to head toward the stairs, my teeth grinding so tight my molars might crack.

“I’ll see you soon!” he chirps.

“No, you won’t,” I growl, looking back at him to see the dopiest of grins brighting up his stupid face. I squint in response, hating the amusement he gets out of this.

“I’ll find you,” he confirms, winking at me before walking away. "You like coffee, right?"

I ignore him, cursing myself for running into him in the first place. My hands close into fists, my nails digging through the raw flesh of my palms as fury courses through me. My murderous eyes land on the garbage can by the stairs and I kick it hard, the metal container flying across the room in a bang, empty packagings raining over the floor.

Someone will clean up the mess…

Fuck this!

I take a deep breath, smoothing the red material of my blazer, before hurrying down the stairs to reach the ground floor. The sharp yet comforting clacking on my heels against the concrete is the only noise I hear, the only one I need to regain my confidence, as its echo rings in my ears. My heart thumps in tandem in my ribcage, the familiar pinching energising me in a way nothing else could. I anxiously check my watch again.

Right on time.

I pause when I reach the last step of the staircase, swiftly readjusting my breasts under my blouse and making sure my black curls are still defined and bouncy. I patiently wait for the familiar footsteps to come nearer.

Stomp.

Stomp.

The corners of my lips curl upward of their own volition, my stomach quivering with excitement and impatience at the person I am to “unexpectedly” run into next.

Three.

Two.

One.

I gracefully step down and swiftly turn around the corner only to purposefully bump into Christopher Murphy, my brother’s best friend. His broad frame wraps around me, the rich citrus aromas of his cologne enveloping me in a warm and familiar cocoon. I instinctively bring the palms of my hands to his chest, his pecs swollen to perfection under his uniform.

“Oh, sorry!” he voices mechanically, his muscly fingers protectively gripping my shoulders to steady me. “I didn’t see you there—”

“Chris, hi!” I chirp, faking my astonishment. “What a surprise…”

I smile innocently, our eyes locking. I dive into the deep ocean blue of his gaze, suddenly forgetting where we are and allowing myself to revel in the delicious sensation twirling in my insides and down further.

“I should be used to this by now. We always bump into each other!” he chuckles, pulling away.

“Oh, yeah, I hadn't noticed…” I nod calmly, keeping my composure despite the turmoil of emotions raging in my frantic body. “It must be fate!”

Christopher smiles warmly, like he always does, before looking past me to signal to his teammates to wait up for him. He reverts his full attention to me next, making my stomach twist delightfully.

“Since you’re here, Becs, I wanted to know…” he starts and my heart stutters, hope sprouting in my chest. “Uhm… Have you seen Bash?”

“Oh…” I mutter, unable to hide my disappointment.

Of course, he is looking for my brother…

“No,” I exhale the single syllable with a forced smile.

He sighs, nodding slowly. “I’ll find him, don’t worry about it,” he says next, before patting me on the head like I am still the ten year old who used to beg him to sit down with me in the sitting room of my family home to play doll.

He walks away to meet his friends and a lump grows in my throat, deception and shame unfurling in my middle at the interaction I just had with Christopher.

No matter what I do, I am never good enough.

Growing up with my crush means he will always see me as the little brat he once knew.

I couldn’t wait to work with him at first, ecstatic to see him on a daily basis, but to my utter disappointment, that too came with a catch. Spending this much time around Christopher means I get to see him flirt with other women right under my nose. I have cried over him so many times over the years I stopped counting—It was just too sad…

I take a deep breath, bracing myself to live another day unseen by Christopher Murphy, when my eyes meet Dick. My mission partner stands across the hall from me, two cups of coffee in his hands. A beaming smile twists across his face as he joins me.

“I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation with Captain Murphy—” he starts, handing me one of the mugs.

“He isn’t a captain,” I correct, crossing my arms over my chest, holding his stare and ignoring the hot beverage.

“That’s what everybody calls him.” Dick shrugs, waving the white container at me. “A dash of milk and a sprinkle of cinnamon. That’s how you like it, isn’t it?”

I arch an eyebrow. “You researched me?” I ask coldly.

“Of course, you’re my partner!”

“You’re a creep,” I blurt out, walking away.

“Oh, c’mon, Smith! Meet me half way here…” he begs behind me, both mugs still in his hands.

Never.