I expect to hear the lock click open on the glass door—also bulletproof, as is every piece of glass in this building—but nothing happens.
Frowning, I lean to the right, scan my eyes again, and speak my name.
Nothing.
“Goddamn it,” I grouse as I bang on the glass door. That woman went inside and disabled the security measures, essentially shutting me out.
“Bebe… open the fucking door,” I yell, loud enough I know she hears me.
She ignores me, shoulders hunched and fingers moving across the keyboard.
I pound on the door again, continually and not letting up. I yell her name and continue pounding so she knows I will not stop this racket until she pauses her stubborn pity party and lets me in.
The door lock clicks and I glance down, stunned for a moment that she relented so quickly. I pull on the handle and enter. When the door shuts behind me, it relocks.
Rubbing at my sore hand, I move behind her chair, peering over her shoulder to see that she’s working within BOB. A mission simulator, a predictor of outcomes and a sometimes eerie interface that the more it gets to know the people at Jameson, the more accurate its predictions. We use it often as a strategic guide to help us make planning and tactical decisions, and we only make BOB smarter and stronger by continuing to give it information. After every mission, key data points are determined and entered, feeding BOB so it can continue to learn from what we do.
“Are you going to talk to me?” I ask, nudging her shoulder.
Bebe remains silent, inputting data. My eyes move to the screen, and I watch as words appear within the entry fields.
Russian Mafia—Miami.
Murder.
Ivan Borovsky.
Low training threshold.
Unrequited love.
Nerd.
“Unrequited love? Nerd?” I exclaim, pushing her chair a little to get her attention. “What the fuck?”
Bebe whirls on her swivel chair and glares at me. “You’re going to put yourself in harm’s way because you love her and she doesn’t love you and you’re trying to prove something,” she snarls in accusation.
I tone down my temper so as not to inflame hers. “I do love her, yes. But she cares deeply for me too. I don’t know if our love is the same, but it is most certainly not unrequited. Jess would do the same thing for me in a heartbeat, although I’d blister her hind end if I ever caught her doing something so dangerous.”
The wind deflates from Bebe’s sails, and she seems to shrink into the chair as she exhales. “You’re not ready for this type of work, Dozer. For the last year, you and I have worked side by side. At a desk. You’re not a field agent.”
“I may have worked at a desk beside you, but I’ve gotten off my ass and learned a thing or two. Firearms, high-speed driving, martial arts, even torture resistance.”
“Training,” she says softly. “Not real-world experience.”
Trying to lighten the mood, I chuckle as I point out, “There’s one Russian in Miami with a bullet in his leg who would tell you otherwise.”
To my satisfaction, Bebe’s lips curl ever so slightly. “You know what I mean. And I’m allowed to be worried.”
I move over to my station beside hers, pulling my own swivel chair out and settling down into it. I lean back, stretch my legs, and prop one ankle over the other. “You are indeed allowed to be worried. But it’s not going to change my determination to do whatever it takes to get Ivan Borovsky off the streets so Jess can live her life without fear.”
Bebe matches my actions, stretching her much shorter legs out and crossing them at the ankle. She folds her hands over her belly. “And when she goes back to her regular life, what are you going to do? I noticed you don’t deny loving her.”
“Of course I don’t deny it,” I scoff. “Well, at least not to you.”
“You should talk to her,” she says gently. “You need to have this conversation.”
“We sort of started to last night.” I tell Bebe about my dad’s obnoxiously nosy questions about us dating and the moment we shared, agreeing we needed to talk. “But we didn’t. I sort of chickened out.”
“I find it ironic you’re willing to get captured by a convicted murderer and risk torture and death, but you can’t have a truthful conversation with Jess about how you feel.”
Her allusion to cowardice grates on me. “I can totally have that conversation,” I assert. “Last night wasn’t the right time.”
“When will be the right time?” she queries.
That is the million-dollar question, isn’t it?
Luckily, I’m saved from answering as Bebe’s computer chimes. It’s BOB’s reminder that data entry hasn’t been completed and saved.
Bebe sits up and swivels her chair toward the keyboard and monitor. I roll my chair beside her.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I say to Bebe, garnering her attention. “Let’s put all the data we can into BOB about this mission—and serious data, not unrequited love and nerd shit—and if BOB spits out an alternative plan, we’ll consider it.”