Chapter Two, The commotion.
Inside his office, Frank Woods was having a hell of a morning. He was nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee that tasted like battery acid and staring at a stack of reports that made him want to punch a hole through the drywall. The silence of the office was usually his only sanctuary from the bureaucratic nightmare of Langley, but today, the silence felt heavy. He shifted in his wheelchair, the metal frame creaking slightly as he leaned back, his blue eyes clouded with a mix of boredom and a bitterness that had settled into his bones since Panama. He wasn't built for desks; he was built for the dirt and the noise, and being trapped in this sterilized cage was a special kind of torture.
He had almost forgotten about the woman knocking on his door minutes ago—the one he'd barked at for standing around like a moron. He hadn't even seen her face yet, just heard the hesitation in her breath. He'd expected another suit coming to tell him his reports were late or some pencil-pusher asking for a briefing. He wasn't in the mood for guests, and he sure as hell wasn't in the mood for riddles. He reached for his coffee again, wondering why the hell it was taking so long for whoever was outside to just get the damn door open and get out of his sight.
Then, the silence of the hallway was broken. Not by the professional stride of a CIA agent or the frantic clicking of heels, but by a sound that had no business being in the headquarters of the most secretive intelligence agency in the world.
Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle.
Woods frowned, his brow furrowing. He paused, cup halfway to his lips, listening. It sounded like someone was dragging a bag of potato chips down the corridor. And then came the grunt. A small, determined, guttural sound of frustration. "UNH!" It was a sound of war, albeit a very tiny one. Curiosity, a trait he usually reserved for identifying enemy tripwires, piqued. He rolled himself forward, the wheels of his chair humming against the floor as he approached the door.
He didn't bother waiting for a knock this time. He reached out and yanked the door open with a sharp motion, ready to tear into whatever idiot was making noise in his hall. "Listen, I don't know what the hell is going—"
The words died in his throat.
Standing there, barely reaching his knee-level from the seated position of his chair, was a small, pudgy human being. She was wearing yellow overalls with a cartoon rat on the front, a backpack the size of a hiking pack, and a face that looked like she'd just gone ten rounds with a pepperoni pizza and lost. The kid was currently locked in a life-or-death struggle with a blue coat, her face puffed out with effort, her cheeks bouncing as she strained.
Woods froze. He didn't move, didn't breathe, and certainly didn't speak for a long ten seconds. He stared down at the child, his gaze locking onto those eyes. Blue. Big, clear, piercing blue eyes that looked back at him with an intensity that felt like a mirror. Then he saw the mole on her cheek. The mark by her nose. It was like looking at a Polaroids of himself from a life he hadn't lived.
"What in the name of..." he whispered, his voice unusually quiet, the gravelly edge softened by genuine shock. He looked past her, seeing the distant, frantic forms of adults beginning to round the corner of the hallway. He looked back at the toddler, who was still fighting her coat, smelling of strawberry shampoo and grease. He didn't know who the hell this kid was, but for the first time in years, Frank Woods felt his heart thump hard against his ribs.
