Close Quarters: A Michael Vaughn Novel (Alias)

1 Michael Vaughn would never have admitted it, but sometimes he still felt beyond cool when he walked into Central Intelligence Agency headquarters. He'd step across the CIA seal on the floor in the center of the lobby, his head held a bit higher than usual, a casual smile on his chiseled face, and think, Check me out. I'm a CIA agent. Yeah, that's right, I'm a badass. Then he'd laugh at himself and try to keep a straight face until he got past security. This wasn't CIA agent behavior, he knew. It wasn't even adult behavior. But he couldn't help it. It had started back when he'd reported for training at the Farm. That first day it had hit him: He was finally fulfilling his lifelong dream to be one of the good guys, to protect the United States and its citizens from all threats, foreign or domestic. That day he'd gotten a sort of adrenaline-fueled thrill. And now, more than a year later, he still felt it. He was cool. James Bond cool. Han Solo cool. He was the guy every other guy wished he could be. On this warm spring day, Vaughn was feeling his cool factor more intensely than usual. He and his new partner, Chloe Murphy, had just returned from a mission in the Middle East--a dangerous, confidential, top-priority mission--and they had returned home triumphant. Not only had they taken out a powerful terrorist cell, but they had secured two warehouses full of illegal weapons. This morning, Vaughn was feeling good. He was feeling like a hero. Chloe had been one of his fellow trainees at the Farm. After his first partner, Akiko Schwartz, had opted for a desk job at the CIA's Center for Families, he'd been reassigned to team with Chloe, a baby-faced wunderkind with a Ph.D. in linguistics who'd just come back from a stint in Paris. He nodded to Rufus and Tom, the two guards outside the secure room that led to the Outer Rim at CIA headquarters. The Outer Rim was the nickname the agents had given to the long, white hallway that surrounded the offices of the CIA. Vaughn placed his palm on the handprint scanner in the secure room and waited as a beam of light illuminated his skin. His picture appeared on the security screen along with his clearance code and status: active. "State your name," a female voice said, filling the small room. "Michael Vaughn." The voice-recognition computer beeped its approval. The glass door in front of Vaughn slid open, and he stepped into the Outer Rim. Brightly lit and deathly quiet, the Rim smelled of antiseptic cleaner that always reminded Vaughn of hospitals. He walked across the gleaming linoleum floor and stood before the door to the bullpen-style office within. As always, he strained not to blink as the red laser for the retinal scan slid over his eyeball. Finally the steel door before him unlocked, and Vaughn pushed his way inside. The office, as always, was buzzing with activity. People rushed around carrying files, talking into headsets. Three senior agents huddled over a flat-screen monitor, urgently whispering over some new intel. Phones trilled and printers whined. Vaughn headed for the far side of the room, where he and his fellow junior agents sat in a cluster of six desks, set up so that each agent faced his or her partner. Chloe was already at her desk, her long brown hair held back in a messy bun with two pencils. She sipped a huge cup of coffee, her eyes trained on her monitor. "'Morning," Vaughn said, sliding into his leather chair. Chloe glanced up and smiled, her hazel eyes glittering. "We are so money right now." "Yeah? Everyone's heard?" Vaughn asked, leaning back and unbuttoning his suit jacket. Chloe spotted someone over his shoulder and lifted her chin with a smile. "Vaughn, my man!" Agent Chris Seale called out, holding up his hand to slap palms with Vaughn. Chris was a former Penn State linebacker--a guy whoseEmma Harrison is the author of 'Close Quarters: A Michael Vaughn Novel (Alias)', published 2003 under ISBN 9780553494037 and ISBN 0553494031.