If I Spy Young - Sneak Peek
- Brittany Brinegar
- Nov 5
- 12 min read
The Mission - Hondo Steffanelli
I drummed a restless rhythm on the cold metal filing cabinet, the flimsy thing groaning under the weight of my elbow. Two hours. Two hours trapped in this sterile box, forced to replay the highlights reel of my worst day. My gaze drifted to Dr. Barstow, perched like a matronly vulture in her club chair, legs crossed, hand scribbling, dissecting my every nervous tick. But she wasn’t the only one reading the room. Between dodging her psychological curveballs, I picked apart her secrets.
Her office was a wasteland of personality: no photos, no quirky desk trinkets, nothing to suggest a life beyond these beige walls. Yet, a wedding ring glinted on her left hand. She sipped from a disposable hotel coffee cup from the Grand Summit. Fancy for a Friday. Her clothes, a tailored silk blouse, a string of pearls, whispered ‘designer,’ not ‘civil servant.’ Our company might not pay well, but someone was living large.
I paced toward her desk, my eyes snagging on an ancient Rolodex, a relic I surprisingly appreciated in a world of digital screens. The top card: a local mechanic. Boring. But a crooked card near the back caught my eye. As she droned on about my ‘feelings,’ I turned my back, a magician concealing his sleight of hand, and thumbed to the askew entry.
“Do you feel ready to return to work after the loss you suffered?” Her voice was a broken record, the question a dull thud against my patience.
My eyes scanned the card: a high-profile divorce attorney. Dr. Barstow’s big secret, perhaps? I popped a piece of cinnamon gum into my mouth, the spicy kick a welcome distraction. Taking a seat, I bounced a ball of rubber bands in the air. “As I’ve answered in numerous ways, Doc, my loss isn’t going to affect my job performance.”
She removed her thin, wiry glasses, her severe gray eyes narrowing. “There’s no reason to lose your patience, Mr. Steffanelli. It is my job to ensure you are fit. As of right now, I’m still torn.”
The rubber band ball felt heavy in my palm. The calm, cool, collected tough guy angle? Not working. Barstow was too sharp and too used to facades. Time for a different approach.
I twirled the wide-brimmed fedora, a hesitant, almost nervous fidget. “Losing a friend is never easy. Skinner wasn’t just a colleague; he was family. And it wasn’t easy seeing his wife look to me for answers I couldn’t give for national security reasons, knowing she thought it was my fault. But I’m dealing with it.”
“Are you?”
“I was there. I’m the one who has to answer for the mistakes we both made in Belarus.” I gave a theatrical shrug, just a hint of ‘poor me.’
“Was it your fault?” she asked, her voice flat.
I hated these sessions. Psychiatrists. Quacks. You could never win. They twisted everything until you sounded crazy or unfit. The only way to beat them was to play their game.
“We could debate that for hours, Doc. Did my actions lead to his death? I don’t believe so. Could I have done more? Maybe. But you can’t rewind time, and you can’t predict the future. Bad things happen in our line of work. We lose good people to terrible situations. All I can do is learn.”
Barstow moved her glasses to the top of her head, her highlighted auburn hair floofing around her face like a distressed lion’s mane. “So, was that true?”
“Pardon?” I feigned surprise, a flicker of genuine hurt. I didn’t expect her to fall for the first heartfelt attempt, but the challenge was on.
“Or did you tell me what you assume I want to hear?” She fired back, a smug satisfaction growing on her face.
I placed my hat on my knee, a small sigh escaping, more for effect than frustration. “I spill my guts, and you ask if I’m telling the truth?”
“Reading people is my job too, Mr. Steffanelli.”
“Agent. Or Lieutenant, if you think this little evaluation won’t end well. But give me the respect and drop mister.”
“You fit the typical macho profile. You think you can lie your way through life with a flash of those dimples. You think psychology is mumbo-jumbo. Stubborn, set in your ways, unwilling to change.” Her judgmental eyes looked me up and down, and not the way most women did. “For a twenty-seven-year-old, you dress like you’re from 1952. Your file is filled with numerous complaints about your temper and inability to follow orders. You are cocky and conceited.”
“But at least I’m not a Marine.”
“Is this a joke to you?”
My fingers tightened the knot of my black tie. I buttoned my classically tailored suit jacket, standing slowly. “I study people, too, Dr. Barstow. And frankly, I’m a bit more effective at it.” My smile was quick, almost apologetic, yet razor-sharp. “You’ve been here fifteen years, yet your office is still a blank slate. Move a lot as a child?”
Her gaze dropped, and she reached for her glasses. Hit.
“Military brat, perhaps,” I continued. “Multiple high schools, trouble making friends. Your childhood taught you not to get attached. Led to an overwhelming distrust of people. Everyone’s working an angle in your mind. Probably why you’re getting divorced, or maybe it’s the excessive shopping and the need for expensive things. That compulsion probably goes back to hand-me-downs and ridicule. Now, as an adult, you want people to see you as fashionable, as rich, when in fact, your family is barely scraping by.”
For the first time, Barstow’s composure fractured. “Who is feeding you this information?” Her voice sputtered, thin and nervous.
“No one’s feeding me information, Doc. It’s called profiling. You take small observations, piece them together, and form a likely scenario. I could give you a few pointers, if you like.” My grin was a little too wide, a little too innocent.
“I know how to profile,” she snapped, regaining a sliver of her bluster. “I proved that with my profile of you.”
I gave her a shrug, conceding the point with a slight tilt of my head. “You presented a biased profile, only pointing out the negative. If you think my suspension should be longer, say so. But don’t criticize my ability to do this job.”
“But you can criticize every aspect of my life?”
I released a long sigh, easing back into the chair, rubbing a phantom headache. “You’re right, I apologize. Just because I observed those things doesn’t mean I had the right to share. I shouldn’t have attacked your personal life. You’d know better than I that the anger I demonstrated… It’s probably a coping mechanism. Ostracizing the people trying to help me, right? I’m not sure about the technical jargon, but yeah, I recognize I need therapy. Talking through my feelings, it’s the only way to forgive myself.”
Barstow nodded, a flicker of genuine understanding in her eyes, falling right into my trap. “I have enough information to make my decision. I’ll send my recommendation to Deputy Murphy. You are free to go.”
What most people might not know about President Nixon: his poker skills were legendary. He intentionally let opponents catch him in a bluff, making them think they had his read, when he played them like a fiddle.
I used a similar strategy on Barstow. To get that good review, I had to appear to fall apart, to let her catch me, then come clean. It wasn’t ethical, but ‘The Terminator’ was her nickname for a reason. Her couch was the last stop on the way to the unemployment line.
I grabbed my fedora and dashed for the exit, leaping the stairwell two steps at a time. My badge flashed at the sensor, granting me access to the fourth floor. I folded into the chair at my miniature desk, the knees of my suit pants scuffing against the keyboard as I slid underneath. With a sigh, I slammed a finger against the backspace button. The keys felt too small for my massive hands, fit for a football tight-end, and measured at eleven and a quarter inches. On the field during the Army-Navy game, they were a weapon. In this office, a hindrance. I felt like Will Ferrell in Elf. Everything in this cubicle was diminutive.
A manicured nail tapped on the edge of my cubicle. Gwendolyn Ross, the office secretary, poked her head inside. “Murphy wants you in his office. They’re discussing your suspension in the conference room. From what I gathered, they’re not too happy.”
I rose from my elf-sized desk to my full six and a half feet. “Did you order that keyboard I asked about?”
“I put in a request with quality management, but they haven’t gotten back with me.”
“Maybe I should send them a more formal request.” I offered a smile, clenching my fist in a lighthearted threat.
Gwendolyn grinned. “That little worm in quality management could use a good talking to. He treats me like... just the office secretary.”
“Not many secretaries have your security clearance, Gwen.” I gave her a wink and held up my mug. “Mind topping off my coffee?”
She snatched the mug, and for a second, I half expected her to chuck it across the room. “I’m sick of people asking me that. I’m not a waitress.” She sighed, perching on the edge of my desk. “Barstow’s the reason I got benched and spent three years chained to this prison. I don’t mind doing my part, serving my country where I can, but I’d like to be treated more like an agent. I went to the Farm. I’ve been on missions. I never went to secretarial school.”
“Then where’d you pick up your sunny disposition and meticulous filing ability?”
“You’re funny.” She pushed off the desk. “Hope your psych-eval with the Terminator went better than mine did.”
“You and me both, Gwen. No one in this place could handle me on office duty.”
“Fingers crossed.” She disappeared around the corner.
Buttoning my jacket, I wove through the cubicles to Murphy’s office. His assistant motioned for me to wait inside. I wrung my hands together, surveying the impersonal walls. Beads of sweat trickled along my forehead, betraying the nervousness churning beneath my calm facade.
The clock above the door ticked an agonizing countdown. My bosses and their bosses deliberated on my fate for an hour. I leaned my ear against the adjoining wall, but as expected, the Company had it soundproofed. I wandered to the window, scratching the two-day stubble on my jaw. A light rain dusted the parking lot below. I rotated my right shoulder, stiff from the weather change. People splashed through the rain, hurrying into the building. From the outside, we looked like any ordinary insurance firm. But we were far from ordinary.
A lock turned on the other side of the door. Murphy and two other suits entered.
“Take a seat, Rook.”
I cringed at the nickname, two years on the job, and it still clung to me like cheap cologne.
Murphy leaned back in his oversized office chair as if we were discussing fantasy football, not my future. He was barely five-eight, maybe 150 pounds. My eyes burned green with envy at his massive oak desk and captain-sized chair. Bet his legs never jammed under the keyboard.
I unbuttoned my suit jacket before sitting. The other two men leaned against the back wall, out of my line of sight. Goons. Security. Here in case I blew a fuse and went after Murphy.
“What have you decided, sir?” I fiddled with the brim of my hat, unable to completely hide the anxiety.
Murphy combed a hand through his expensive haircut, the type of guy who went to a salon instead of a barber. “It wasn’t an easy decision, Rook. But you made a costly mistake. Unfortunately, this company doesn’t allow mistakes to go unpunished.”
The goons stiffened behind me. Through the reflection in the generic framed painting, I saw one reach for the pistol on his hip. I lowered my chin, a subtle movement to hide the rage that flared, hot and sharp. “I understand, sir.”
“Glad to hear it, Rook. Because of your mistakes, we are demoting you. Hopefully temporarily. That’s up to you.”
“Demoting me?” My voice snapped, raw. Both goons stood to attention. “I know I made a mistake, but I don’t believe a demotion is warranted.”
At worst, I figured they’d ship me back to the Navy where I could be of some help. But a demotion? That seemed entirely short-sighted when my skills were in such high demand.
“Like I said, Rook, this is temporary,” Murphy interlocked his fingers, smooth hands that didn’t know an honest day's work. “If everything goes well on this assignment, you’ll return to St. Louis in no time.”
A quick sigh deflated my lungs. Since graduating, I’d diligently climbed the corporate ladder. Just as I was shedding my rookie status, I blew an operation. Every accomplishment shattered in the blink of an eye. “I will not make a mistake again, and I assure you, my new assignment will run smoothly.”
Murphy spread his arms, a gesture of faux generosity. “I have no doubts, Rook.” He slid a thick file across the polished desk. “Your assignment is in the small town of Lake Falls, Texas. Since you have family there, you were a perfect fit.”
“The operation is inside the U.S.? I suppose that means it’s off books?” I asked, a hint of suspicion in my tone.
“Welcome to black ops, Rook.” Where we hang agents out to dry.
Black ops, deep undercover… the most challenging assignment a CIA agent could get. Made even harder when it was inside the country, outside of our jurisdiction. I looked from Murphy to the other suits. They all expected me to protest, to argue.
“I can handle it.” I stood, offering to shake Murphy’s hand.
“Ferdinand in Tech will detail your assignment.” He motioned for me to leave. I’d worked under Murphy since Naval Intelligence loaned me out. Standoffish, hands-off. Gossip said he never spent a day in the field. Lived by rules and sanctions. Yet, somehow, he commanded respect. I wasn’t fond of the man, but he managed the office’s difficult personalities with minimal resistance.
Jogging up the flight of stairs, I gained access to the tech floor. I knocked on Ferdinand’s office door. The chubby man wore a lab coat a size too small, buttons stretched taut. If one popped, it might take out an eye.
“Hey, Rook. Deputy Murphy said you’d be stopping by.”
“Give me my detailed assignment and I’ll be on my way.”
Ferdinand removed his glasses and opened the door wide enough for me to enter. I loosened my tie, surveying his chaotic mess of the latest technology and circuit boards, most of which I’d never understand. I flopped onto his lumpy couch.
“Basically, your mission is to observe a student.”
“A student?” I asked, disbelief tinging my voice. “Since when do students need a CIA tail? Does he have ties to a foreign terrorist organization?”
“This particular student is different. Brilliant, actually—and that’s coming from me.” He snorted as he shoved his glasses by the bridge. “We’ve been watching her since she pinged our secure server.”
“Wouldn’t be the first brainiac to do that. Are we recruiting or scrubbing?”
“Neither. Your job is to keep her from discovering classified intelligence.”
“In Lake Falls, Texas?”
Ferdinand bobbed his head. “Not many people were aware of this, but the CIA had a black ops base there, back in the late forties. Operation is closed, but evidence of our presence still exists.”
“What does this mean for our college student?”
“We don’t want anyone to know the CIA was ever there, especially someone who majored in journalism. All sorts of danger could ensue if she discovers too much. Our enemies would kill to find one of our old bases.”
I spent summers in Lake Falls visiting my grandmother. As far as I could tell, there was nothing all that special outside of their need to throw a festival every other weekend.
“What is so important about this place?” I asked, a flash of my suppressed impatience returning. Ferdinand was beating around the bush to push my buttons.
“I can’t go into specifics, Rook. You no longer have the necessary security clearance. That’s what happens when you don’t follow the rules. One day you’ll learn, Rook. It doesn’t pay to play John Wayne in the CIA. This isn’t a silly cowboy picture where the drunk fat guy in the white hat can break all the rules and still come out on top.”
Insulting the Duke was the last straw.
I grabbed Ferdinand by his tie, shoving him against the wall. “My mama named me Henry Jack, but it never stuck. From the time I could run, people called me Hondo. Do you know where that name comes from? A John Wayne movie.”
“I didn’t mean… I, uh.”
“My name is Hondo Steffanelli. It’s not Rookie, and it’s certainly not Rook. Say it with me.” I squeezed his cheeks between my fingers to help the words form.
“Hondo.”
“Good. And as for my mistakes in Belarus, I did what I had to do and paid dearly for it.” I tossed the tech onto his lumpy couch. “What’s the student’s name?”
“Samantha Brown,” he coughed, adjusting his tie. “Your plane leaves in an hour, Hondo.”
I snatched the thick file from the table and stashed it in my briefcase, reading material for the flight. On my way out, I grabbed the suitcase that was already packed from beneath my toy desk.
I made it through the evaluation and the intense mission debriefing without revealing my secret. Almost everything went wrong in Belarus. Chief among them were newfound trust issues.
Before it blew, the scientist I was supposed to extract delivered the critical, unsettling message: The Ghosts are alive and well. Don't trust the Company.
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