“You were given pussycat training at the Academy. As I said, you will be retrained by professionals. As in professional mercenaries, professional assassins,” Poke said, stretching the truth a bit. “You will do what you’re told to do with no questions asked. You’re going to be trained to be mercenaries, vigilantes if you prefer. For the good guys. Our organization is on no one’s radar screen, government or otherwise. In fact, we don’t exist. You as individuals will also cease to exist. That means you have to give up your plan to bring a class action suit against your ex-husband, Mrs. Rainford. You will have to sell this condominium, your car, close out your bank accounts. You will leave no trail that can be followed.”

Sam’s mind raced. “No. I can’t give up this place. It’s my home. I haven’t even had a chance to enjoy it yet. My car is new. I’ll never get back what I paid for it. If we close out our bank accounts, where do we put our funds? Fifty-five thousand a year isn’t exactly a fortune. I can make that much during tax season and take the other eight months off. No.”

Slick looked at the pumpkin, and said, “I’m with her.” She got up to pour herself another cup of coffee. She added coffee to Sam’s cup but ignored him.

Poke turned around, looked at the empty pot, then cleaned it out, added fresh water and grounds. He stared at both women with unblinking intensity. Sam moved uneasily on her chair. Slick looked up at the silk plant hanging over the kitchen sink.

“So, you’re content being FBI washouts and wannabes. You’re willing to accept the Academy’s decision that you aren’t fit material to be FBI agents.”

“I don’t think that’s a fair summary,” Sam mumbled.

“I agree with Sam,” Slick said. “We didn’t cut it, it’s that simple. Where will we be going for the year in question if we agree to your proposition?”

“A place that’s not on any map. That’s all I’m at liberty to tell you at this point. This is your chance to do something meaningful for your country. To redeem yourselves. To be true Americans.” Donovan’s voice rang like a politician’s on the eve of an election.

Slick sipped at her coffee. It was almost cold. “How big is the training class?” she asked.

“Six,” Poke said.

“Six?” Sam queried. “Who are the other four? Yeah, yeah, you aren’t at liberty to tell us that either. Do you just snatch FBI rejects, or are you open to recruiting other people?”