xxxv. UNDERDRESSED

CE.CCIG HC.BCFG

All the letters could have corresponding numbers. I bite the inside of my cheek in a muse while pondering the next obstacle. What numbers could these letters represent?

The most logical answer was that the letters represented the numbers by where they were placed in the alphabet. Quickly, I translate the possibility in my mind.

35.3397 83.2367

These numbers probably represented the location itself. Even then, it could have been the global location number, longitude and latitude, the GS1 system, coordinates, GPS feedback, or even some other type of covert numbering system.

My lips instinctively falter into a grim smile. I pull open my computer and type in the different possibilities. One by one, different possibilities were crossed out. First was global location numbers. GLNs had to be 13 digits long—this number was conveniently 12.

GPS feedback numbers were extremely different from traditional garmin number graphs, so that was crossed off. When I put in longitude and latitude, the location of Lake Manasarovar in Nagari, Tibet came up. That was a barren area with a loosely dense permanent population but with a relatively large magnitude of tourists.

I suppose it would be a good place for anyone to hide. The remote place was barely on the communication satellite maps.

The only possibility left were coordinates. Putting in standard north and west coordinates, the location of something familiar popped up—the local police station of Albemarle, North Carolina.

My heart stops cold.

Albemarle was where I grew up. My father was a police officer.

The answer of the code just came with more questions. Of all the cities in the world, what did my town of less than 20,000 people, my town with no infrastructure, and my town where my family lived and died have to do with anything? Albemarle was nothing but a place I left once my father died.

A seismic tremor spread through my every limb. This must have all been a coincidence. This must have all been a coincidence. Suddenly, my burner phone pings alive. Its ghost-like hollow ring fills the four walls of the empty room. The hopeful bright blue shadow it cast in the dark belied the murderous sender.

"Have you broken the code, Darling?"

My fingers linger on the keyboard. Part of me felt responsible for protecting the town, and telling Thirteen the location would undoubtedly cast chaos onto the population. What a precarious situation that I, of all qualified people, knew the truth.

"Not yet. I haven't even gotten through the user root yet. It's unlike anything that I've seen."

That wasn't a lie per se. The encryption was extremely strenuous, taking around three hours running counter commands.

"How long will it take you?"

"Give me a week. I should have it by then."

"I'll check in on you periodically. Remember the consequences and rewards of your actions."

I shut off the phone after the messages erase themselves. There was no way I'd tell anyone why I needed to leave. No one knew how Thirteen found out about Deschamps; sure, I trusted everyone on this team, but I was still unsure about the extended agency.

Ace also had something kind of annoying—a strong moral compass.

~

A hesitant knock raps on Ace's bedroom door. I forced myself to enlist his help without his knowledge before my pride could convince me otherwise. Moments later, He opens the door in nothing but sweatpants.

"How come everytime we talk, one of us is underdressed?" Ace smirks. His golden eyes crinkle when red blooms on my face.

"This is serious," I state.

He raises an eyebrow. "Is it serious enough that I have to put on a shirt?"

"Are you too poor to afford shirts or something? When two adults have a conversation, they are usually both dressed."

"The conversations you have to be dressed for aren't the conversations that I like," Ace says matter-of-factly.

"Keep your ego in your pants."

"Right, ego."

My lips draw into a line. My eyes stare directly into his golden ones. In all honesty, having a conversation with a shirtless man is really difficult. Especially when his abs are practically in your face.

I force myself to maintain eye contact. "Are you going to hear what I have to say or not?"

Ace shrugs. "Alright, come on in."

His room was cleaner than I expected. All clothes were kept either hung or folded in the closet, a massive pile of books laid by his bedside, and a few Star Trek posters worn with age were tapered to the walls. He led me to sit by his bed which was still perfectly made.

I gesture at the Star Trek posters as if to say, really? You're a grown man.

"They're from the eighties. They're also a masterpiece. My father gave those to me when I was younger, and I've just kept them ever since."

Ace opens his closet to pull out a t-shirt. Unlike most people's closets, his were not filled with just clothes. Instead, the bottom of his closet were filled with various deadly weapons. How quaint.

"Shouldn't you secure those guns instead of leaving them out in the open?" I ask.

"No ammo. Besides, not everyone is as clumsy as you."

"Right. So perfectly safe. You know, unless someone really wants to kill you and shoots you with a weapon you provided."

Ace rolls his eyes at me. "If that someone is you, then I'll be glad. Your aim is so shitty that you'd miss even if I was asleep."

"Why don't you hand me a gun, and we'll find out?"

"If we're done trading death threats and insults I'd like to ask you why you're here." Ace's eyes narrow in my direction as he folds his arms across his chest.

I take a seat on the side of his bed. "I need to ask for a favor."

The tension my words have set into the room are palatable. Ace rubs his five o'clock shadow that he has yet to shave. His head tilts slightly as he examines me, scrutinizing me, trying to read the situation. My hands unwittingly ball up in fists in his blanket.

"What type of favor?" He asks.

"I've been feeling homesick," I lie. "Could I take a couple days off to visit?"

"I don't think that's the best idea. You're an agent now. Besides, Thirteen is still rampant in the streets."

"Please Banana Bread," I plead. When he doesn't seem to budge, I add, "what if you supervise me?"

"I'll file a report with the Director. Do you want to visit your mom?"

"Actually, Albemarle, North Carolina. My hometown. Deschamps made me miss my father and being there would help me move on."

The agent standing in front of me runs a hand through his hair, the way he always did when he was unsure. He was probably running possible simulations in his brain. I try my best to not give anything away. My gaze flickers away from his; a part of me was ashamed for hiding the truth.

"I'll file a report with the director," Ace affirms. "For what it's worth... I've been feeling the same way."

"About what?"

"Deschamps. Thirteen. Everything."

I let out a dry chuckle. Right, because Ace thought the root of my guilt was still Deschamps. Thirteen worked fast. By now, my guilt had transcended beyond just that.

Deschamps, however, was sanding away at me. What if we just hadn't gone to the dinner? What if I could have pieced it all together earlier? What if I just kept my promise to him?

So was Miyazaki. I could have done something—anything. Thirteen left a trail of death and destruction in his path. Who else had to die just so that he could find this Queen?

This man, no, this monster, was now my responsibility to put six feet under.

Ace: "Vote and I'll show you my Star Trek posters."

Author: "The next couple of chapters get a lil messy..."