Present day

The guy running behind Charles on the track looked about half his age, was built like a tank, and was wheezing like a dying donkey. Charles smiled to himself as he neared the finish line with the heavy knapsack strapped to his back. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face, but he hadn’t felt so alive in a long time.

He might be the oldest man running the Cordoba Agency’s obstacle course, but he was in good shape, considering years had passed since he’d pushed his body in such a way. Working in the private sector hadn’t made him soft, but it had sucked the life out of him, and this test of physical endurance had lit an unexpected spark, reminding him of who he used to be—maybe who he still was. He was giving these younger potential agents a run for their money. He wouldn’t finish first, but he sure as hell wouldn’t be last.

As Charles jogged past an attractive, dark-skinned young woman with her hair in a slick ponytail, she recorded his time on an electronic tablet with a stylus. An Arab-looking guy stood in front of the gate and stopped them from exiting the field. Like the two men and woman in front of him, Charles dropped to the ground and did the required number of pushups, counting quietly to himself.

“Twenty-nine… thirty.”

Once finished, he hopped up and ran past the agent, out the gate, and toward the next test. In the gym, he set down his knapsack and moved to the pull-up bar. There was only a short break allowed between stations, and he had enough time to roll his neck and shake out his hand.

Alejandro, a Mexican man, and a fair-skinned, mixed-race man with curly hair watched everyone who came in from the track. He couldn’t remember the second guy’s name. Harper? Hunter?

Didn’t matter. Charles wasn’t there to make friends. His job was to impress these people because he was looking for a job as a bodyguard, a big difference from positions he had held since retirement.

Rolling his shoulders twice to loosen his muscles, he prepared his body with the same steely determination that had made him a deadly adversary during his years as a Plan B operative.

“Pace yourselves,” Alejandro said in accented English, crossing tattooed arms across his chest.

Charles jumped up and gripped the bar, his feet curling behind him. He pulled up with a measured movement.

One. Two.

His form was clean and precise, his chin clearing the bar each time before his muscles carefully lowered him down. He kept his breathing even and held a steady pace.

Seven. Eight.

The sandy-blond to his left was doing a great job, but no surprise there. Charles had learned yesterday during lunch that he was a former Navy SEAL. The brother to his left was struggling, though, his breathing audible, and he grunted on the upswing.

What some of these young people didn’t understand was that these tests weren’t only about speed. The Cordoba Agency was testing endurance and intellect, as well. A good agent understood his body and its limitations. That made him able to adapt to different circumstances, which was important when protecting human life. Lucky for him, he’d been in countless situations where he had learned to adapt.

Clenching his jaw, Charles continued to pull up, feeling the burn in his muscles but refusing to give up. He knew he had more in him.

Sixteen. Seventeen.

One more. Maybe.

Trembling, he pulled himself up and lifted his chin above the bar for the last time—eighteen—before he dropped lightly to the floor.

His chest heaved up and down from uneven breathing. Today had taken a lot out of him, especially compared to yesterday when all he’d done was sit in a classroom and take tests to determine his emotional and psychological fortitude.

He stepped back and watched in silent admiration along with the other potential agents as the Navy SEAL continued doing pull-ups. He was damn impressive.

Alejandro and the other Cordoba agent made eye contact, exchanging a silent message. No doubt the SEAL was exactly the kind of person they wanted on their team. He’d performed well all day.

A niggle of doubt entered Charles’s head, causing him to wonder where he fell in the list of recruits. He was the oldest there, obvious by the gray sprinkled through his curly hair and his almost completely gray beard. He had believed they could use a man like him, but now he was beginning to have doubts. Would he be headed back home with nothing to show for his time here?

He stood on the sidelines as others came in and did their pull-ups. Only one other person did as well as the Navy SEAL, and he was a former football player.

At the end, Alejandro stepped forward. “Thank you all for coming. We know that this was tough, but that’s what is required to join the ranks of the Cordoba Agency. We’ll be in touch next week and let you know if you’ve made the cut.”

He paused as a petite, light-skinned woman with short hair entered the gym. She moved with a confident stride to Alejandro, and he bent his head to accommodate her whispering in his ear. After she finished, he nodded briefly and then looked at Charles.

Or was that his imagination?

The young woman left but Alejandro continued talking, telling them to get their belongings from the temporary housing unit where they had been sleeping during their bootcamp-like trials. Then he dismissed the group.

Charles was headed out the door when he heard, “Charles Grant.”

He turned as Alejandro and—Hunter? Harper?—approached.

“The owner wants to speak to you,” Alejandro said.

“Me? Why?”

He shrugged. “You will find out soon enough.”

“I’ll take you up to the office,” the fair-skinned agent said.

Charles followed him out the door, his mind racing. He’d either done a really good job or a really bad one to be pulled aside like this. Either way, he braced to meet the man himself—Cruz Cordoba.

He was led to a spacious office where Cruz Cordoba was seated behind a sturdy, heavy oak desk. When he stood, Charles drew in a surprised breath. This guy was easily at least four inches taller than him, with a crooked nose that suggested it had been broken and never healed properly. 

“Thanks, Hunter,” he said in an unhurried voice that carried the trace of an accent.

Hunter left. There was a Black man in the room with Cruz, and he approached, extending a hand.

“I’m Raheem Miller, vice president of technology,” he said with a friendly smile. “Have a seat.” He gestured to the overstuffed guest chair.

“I prefer to stand, if you don’t mind.” 

“Not a problem,” Cruz said. “I was watching you out there.” He inclined his head toward the window, which overlooked the parking lot and front gate, but Charles figured he was talking about his performance on the track.

Raheem picked up a tablet and glanced at the screen. “You did very well. Your numbers look good.”

“For an older guy?” Charles asked.

Raheem smirked.

“Older guy or not, with your background, we knew you would do well,” Cruz said.

“Thank you,” Charles said carefully, his gaze shifting between the two of them. He wasn’t surprised that they knew about his background. He knew about Cruz’s background because he had been referred to the company by an old Plan B associate, Miles Garrison.

Like Charles, Miles had also been part of the cleanup crew for Plan B, little more than a kid when he worked his first extraction with Charles, under the code name Eagle. They had worked together a handful of times over the following years. Miles eventually became a handler for Plan B agents and now, in his mid-forties, held a cushy job in Homeland Security, with a direct line to the President’s National Security Advisor.

According to Miles, years ago Cruz had fallen for the woman he had been sent to investigate in an off-the-books assignment. After they got married and settled down here in Hopevale, Cruz had started the Cordoba Agency. 

“Why did you come to us?” Cruz asked.

“I’m looking for a job,” Charles answered simply.

“There are lots of jobs out there, and positions with other agencies,” Raheem pointed out.

“I did my research,” Charles said. “You’re among the best, and I want to work for the best. Frankly, I’ve been restless ever since the organization shut down, and the jobs I’ve held since haven’t kept my interest.”

“Says here you’ve worked as a security guard, a cashier, and…a customer service rep at a call center?” Raheem raised an eyebrow.

That last one was his least favorite. Charles shrugged. “It’s hard to find interesting work when you can’t tell potential employers what you used to do for a living.”

“You’re looking for more excitement?” Cruz asked.

“Something different than what I’ve been doing, for sure.”

Cruz and Raheem exchanged a glance. “We might have a job for you, if you can start right away.”

“I can,” Charles said quickly. He didn’t care what the job was, he was interested.

Raheem tapped the tablet and then extended it to Charles.

“We received a new client recently,” Cruz explained. “Middle-aged widow, wealthy. Her sons want her to get a bodyguard. Her car was vandalized, and she received a threatening note that has them worried. She doesn’t think the incidents are related and believes her sons might be overreacting, but she is not opposed to having close protection. Her only request was that she does not want people in her circle to know she has hired someone or why.”

“What’s my cover?” Charles asked, scanning the notes in the file.

“You are her new boyfriend.”

He lifted his gaze. “Excuse me?”

In his role as a spook and assassin doing cleanup, he had played many roles, but he had never been a fake boyfriend before. 

“We pitched the idea, and she accepted it,” Raheem said. “That way you can stay close to her without arousing suspicion.”

Charles scanned the tablet. “Based on what I’m reading here, looks like it’ll be a babysitting job.”

“Maybe. But you never know what could happen,” Cruz said.

True, Charles thought. He swiped left to reveal the face of the principal. Nora Pemberton, fifty-one years old.

He enlarged the image, his gaze scrolling over her honey-colored skin and long black hair sweeping around a face defined by high cheekbones and chestnut-brown, almond-shaped eyes. His gaze lingered on her glossy-red lips, which displayed a hint of a smile. 

Lovely woman, he thought appreciatively.

“Interested?” Raheem asked.

Guiltily, Charles looked up but realized Raheem was talking about the job. “When do I start?” he asked.

“Monday.” Cruz extended his hand. “Welcome aboard.”

___

Next week you’ll meet the widow, Nora Pemberton, and find out what she thinks about her new bodyguard. What do you think her reaction to Charles will be?