“But you do,” Sam pointed out, intrigued. “Why?”
“You know what happens to curious cats, Red?”
“They die.”
“Precisely.”
Sam stared at him. He wasn’t even sure the bloke was joking, considering his job.
“Right,” Sam said with an awkward smile before frowning. “And stop calling me Red.”
Agent 11 shrugged. “So do you want to accept the job?”
Sam cocked his head to the side, a bit confused. “I have a choice?”
“There’s always a choice,” Agent 11 said.
“If the other option is jail, there isn’t really a choice.”
Agent 11 looked at him steadily, something pinched about his expression. “If you don’t actually want to serve your country and protect it, get out of the car. I won’t stop you.”
Sam would have scoffed and rolled his eyes, but the dead serious look on the agent’s face made him hesitate. He had a feeling this man wasn’t one for empty patriotic speeches. “You’re serious.”
“Of course I am.” Agent 11 sighed. “Look, it’s not a pretty job. Sometimes you will be forced to do things—things you’ll absolutely hate, things that’ll make you puke and want to avoid your reflection in the mirror.” Agent 11 gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Trust me, if you don’t truly believe that you’re doing the right thing, that your country needs you to suck it up and get on with it, you won’t last long in the Secret Service.”
Sam fidgeted, feeling a little uneasy. While he didn’t consider himself all that patriotic—he’d never had the ambition to serve the Queen and Country—he wasn’t unpatriotic either. If he were given a choice, he would like to be on the good side for once. Not to mention that if he accepted the job, he’d be free of Tucker and his “protection.” That was a pretty significant upside in Sam’s book.
“You’re a lousy recruiter,” Sam said. “Aren’t you supposed to convince me that I’d be crazy not to accept a job offer like this?”
A look of genuine amusement flashed across Agent 11’s face. “Probably.”
Sam took that as confirmation that the agent had been ordered to recruit him—an order he clearly disagreed with but was forced to follow. “Why don’t you want me to accept the job offer?”
“You’re too young,” Agent 11 said. “This lifestyle isn’t safe for kids.”
Sam smiled crookedly. “No offense, Agent 11, but my current lifestyle isn’t exactly safe, either.” He hesitated. “What kind of mission do you want me for?”
“Classified.”
Sam crossed his arms over his chest and pouted exaggeratedly. “You are a lousy recruiter.”
Agent 11’s lips twitched.
Sam sighed, thought for a moment, and asked, “Will I have my own flat?” A home. Something mine.
“Yes. After you finish the training.”
Sam licked his dry lips. “Where do I sign?”
Agent 11 touched the tiny ear piece that Sam hadn’t even noticed until then.
“He’s in,” Agent 11 said, his posture relaxed but his eyes grim.
Chapter 3
The life of an MI6 trainee was nowhere as glamorous as Sam had imagined it would be.
For one thing, headquarters—real headquarters, not the SIS building in Vauxhall the public knew about—kind of creeped him out. There were cameras everywhere. The entire building was smart, and there was electronic surveillance even in the loo. It took some getting used to. Thankfully, although he had to share his room in the training facility with another trainee, the room didn’t have security cameras, which at least afforded them some modicum of privacy.
Not that Sam saw much of his room. He trained sixteen hours a day, and sometimes longer than that. So far, his training included Physical training, Weapons and Equipment training, Computer and Electronic Systems training, Foreign Languages training, and, of course, Combat training.
At least all the physical training seemed to be paying off: his arms started looking pretty damn nice, and if he really squinted at himself in the mirror, Sam could already see something that resembled a six-pack. Or at least a four-pack.
Though, it wasn’t like he could use his shiny new muscles for picking up hot guys; more often than not, Sam was so tired after his training sessions that he just face-planted into his bed and slept like the dead.
Sam couldn’t remember ever sleeping so well, not since… Maybe not since his mother died. Not that he could remember much of his mother. Sometimes, he thought that he could remember a warm, safe embrace and a soft voice singing a lullaby, but those memories were hazy, like a dream. He didn’t know whether they were real or not. It was so bloody unfair that he couldn’t remember much of his mother, but could remember perfectly well the sneer on his uncle’s face, every hateful word he’d said. Worthless little brat. Your mother should have aborted you when she had the chance. You’re nothing but a burden. A parasite.
After living through two years of his uncle’s alcohol-induced rages, Sam had run away, but those words had stayed with him. He vowed to himself that he would never be a burden to anyone again.