The lesson served her well in the Alabama state foster care system. It also served her in the CIA. The two had more in common than they should have.

Laurel learned early to hide weakness. Feelings stayed under the surface, invisible. No one should ever know what you were thinking. And they sure as shit shouldn’t see you coming.

When you strike, strike once, and strike hard.

When you shoot, shoot to kill. Don’t ever let anyone come back at you.

All of which was to say, she knew how to handle herself. She knew how to handle men, get what she wanted out of them without giving up too much of herself.

Lance nodded. “I know Alabama.”

“I bet you do.”

She leaned on the bar to give him a better view of her assets. She wanted his attention. He was on his way out and she needed him to stay.

He sat back down and ordered a refill.

“And whatever my friend’s having,” he said.

The bartender gave him some attitude. “Isn’t your niece waiting?”

Lance looked toward the door. “Wait here,” he said, then went outside with his keys.

Laurel and the bartender eyed each other like cats about to fight. Two women, one man, thirty minutes to last call.

Lance came back and sat two stools closer to Laurel than he’d been before. There was only one empty seat between them now.

Laurel gave the bartender a look that said, any other objections, bitch?

She had nothing.

“What are you drinking?” Lance said, oblivious to the tension.

“Vodka soda,” Laurel said.

The bartender poured the drink and Lance said, “You know Fort Rucker?”

Laurel nodded.

“I know that place,” he said.

“Not like I do,” Laurel said.

She threw her hair back. As with any predator, it was always good to let them see the neck.

She knew exactly what she was doing. It came naturally to her. The slow walk down a path that led to only one place.

She figured if she was going to be his handler, now was as good a time to start as any. A handler wasn’t required to sleep with her asset. In fact, technically there was a rule against it somewhere in the handbook.

But Laurel was no fool. She knew how the world worked. There was a time when the handlers had all been men, back when Langley was a boy’s club and they were still naming assets after muscle cars. Those days were over. Assets were expensive, their job was intense, and the government had yet to come up with a better way of blowing off steam than the one nature provided.

She knew she was playing with fire. She wasn’t his handler yet, and might never be. Roth might be pissed. Lance might know more than he was letting on. She really didn’t have enough information.