Chapter 7

Elara woke to a feeling of deep-rooted fear, her heart pounding in her chest as her mind struggled to clear the cobwebs of disorientation. Her body was weak and trembling, every muscle protesting with each labored breath as she fought against the lingering sensation that something was amiss. A dark cloud of doubt loomed over her thoughts, casting a shadow on her memories – did she volunteer for her torment? She stood up in the cell without protest. Did she ask for the horror she faced?

Cold sweat bathed her as she struggled with the twisted covers on the bed. It took a moment for her to realize she was no longer in that dark realm. Sunlight beckoned from the translucent window shade. She forced her breathing to steady. Elara opened her mind to her surroundings, comforted by the simple, safe emotions in the building. She could feel Finn in the other room, sleeping with no sense of dread or concern.

Finn was a puzzle. His unassuming demeanor and quiet determination had piqued her curiosity, but his cryptic words and the air of danger that clung to him left her uneasy. He was older, maybe wiser, and exuded quiet competence like a ranger or one of the few priests sworn to the Moon Goddess. She could sense his determination and willingness to defend the weak, but he also desired to punish the people he hunted. She admired his courage in standing up against the oppressive regime and wanted to believe the same strength would help her. Time would tell.

She got out of bed and then knelt on the rug to stretch and perform her morning devotions. She struggled to keep her motions deliberate and smooth. Being unable to sense her patron or fellow believers made what had been second nature to her at home a challenge here. She finished the morning movement and knelt with her ankles crossed to meditate. Eventually, a semblance of calm was achieved.

Finn was stirring as she stepped softly into the main room of his apartment, clothed once again with her priestess’s garb. The weave of moonbeams was easier this morning, as if her mind had trod a path to the power. Maybe it was a clue as to where she was.

“Blessings of the Moon Goddess’s tides upon you,” she said.

His eyes grew wide, and he fumbled for his golden rimmed glasses.

“Good morning,” he replied as he sat up.

Elara admired his physique as he stretched his arms above his head. Elara couldn’t help but be captivated by the sight of him – every detail of his lean, toned frame accentuated by the soft glow of the morning sunlight. The sun-kissed freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks were more prominent than her own, and his deep brown eyes and the olive undertone to his skin spoke to an eclectic ancestry. She admired the way his strong jawline framed his angular face and how the wavy, dark hair that crowned his head clung to his forehead in scattered strands. The wire-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose only added to the scholarly yet approachable air he projected.

Finn moved quickly, placing his feet on the floor, unconcerned with her presence as he squared his shoulders and bent at the waist to stretch for the floor. Despite his slender build, there was an undeniable strength in him – a strength evident in the set of his shoulders and the unwavering glint in his eyes. His posture was upright and confident. He looked at her again and blushed.

“Sorry,” he said, glancing down at the well-worn shorts he had slept in. “I’m not used to having company. I usually hop out of bed and take care of my morning exercises.”

“I do something similar, making my devotions to the Moon Goddess. Don’t let my presence stop you,” she said as she went to the sink and the glasses in a rack next to it. The faucet was similar enough to the one in the bathroom that she was able to fill a glass and take a sip.

Finn was on the floor, just his toes and fingertips touching as he pressed himself up. His back and legs remained straight as he slowly lowered himself and then extended his arms once again. Elara admired the smooth motion and form.

“You do those well,” she said twenty minutes later as he finished his exercises.

Finn blushed, unused to having an audience. “I was raised by my aunt. She did not believe in much physical exertion. I refused to be like her. I started my exercises when I was young and have performed them every day since.”

Elara nodded. “Priestesses perform a form of the cycle every day as well.” She went to the center of the room and assumed her pose. Slowly, in time with her breathing, she flowed into the movements for the day that she had done in the bedroom. When she finished and returned to the opening pose, Finn was smiling.

“That looked similar to Tai-Chi,” he said. “Not that I know any of it, but that’s what I imagine it would look like.”

“That was the sixth movement of the waxing moon,” Elara said. She frowned. “I must assume that is the correct form. When was the last new moon here?” she asked.

Finn pulled up his small device, tapped on it rapidly. “A week ago. Eight days, to be exact.”

Elara nodded. “And the lunar cycle here?”

“Twenty-eight days,” he answered. “Why?”

Elara smiled with a sense of relief. “My goddess’s cycle remains the same in this realm. I may not be able to sense her, but it’s pleasant to know she is present all the same.”

It was Finn’s turn to nod. “I usually run or go down to the gym to swim,” he said as he moved to the sink and got his glass of water. “I won’t do that today.”

He glanced at her flowing dress. “We need to go out and get you something else to wear. Something that won’t draw attention.” His stomach made a soft rumble. “And we need to get some food.”

Agent Pamela Wilson sat stiffly in the windowless conference room, wishing her partner was with her. Instead, their boss’s boss was there, staring at the two pages contained in the unmarked folder. Victor Sinclair was a legend within the agency.

He was a Princeton graduate, with all that entailed, who served in the Cryptographic branch of the Navy before being courted by the NSA who noticed his exceptional analytical skills and unwavering dedication to his work. He took his master’s in applied mathematics at Yale, and completed his doctorate at Harvard, leveraging the “old-boy” network to its fullest to become the youngest department head in the NSA. His teams and departments did work that most people did not want to hear about. It was rumored he was responsible for the undersea taps on the international fiber links around the globe. It was all “need-to-know” and super-secret, but the rumors still swirled as he climbed the ladder until he reached the level of Deputy Director. While he was a civilian now and reported to the general who was in charge on the organization chart, everyone knew he was calling most of the shots the agency made. He met with congressmen, senators, presidents, and the secretaries. If he noticed you, and liked your work, you could go far in the agency. If he questioned your competence, it was a good sign to start looking for a new job.

The only other person in the room was a deputy director from Homeland. Pamela was not introduced and did not want to know. Where Sinclair exuded calm competency, the other director fidgeted and had a sheen of sweat on his brow. He was obviously nervous.

Deputy Director Sinclair looked up at the fidgeting man, who gulped and then stared at the blank pad of paper before him.

“Agent Wilson,” Sinclair said while continuing to look at the man from Homeland. “Did any of the Homeland members attached to support your unit participate in the raid?”

“No, sir,” she replied, surprised her voice was steady.

“Did you request any assistance?” He asked.

“Yes, sir. Per SOP, we activated the whole ready team when we detected the possibility of compromise. Four of us were in the city when we narrowed the point of origin. Agent Wilson and I called for backup as soon as the signal was localized in downtown.”

“How many field agents are in the office there, Mister Phipps?”

The man gulped. “We have nearly two hundred agents, many working with customs, to monitor inbound traffic of interest.”

“And how many were on call or on duty when Agent Wilson requested backup?”

“A fast reaction squad of six is ready twenty-four by seven, sir.”

“And why did they not react?”

“The classification level of the op was above their clearance, sir.” His fidgeting returned.

“Don’t you think a fast reaction team should react to a call for assistance, regardless of the intelligence classification of the material that is at risk of being exposed?”

“Sir...”

“Did you think the perpetrator was going to print files and throw them on the floor or drop them in the street as a distraction?” He sat back, smiling a cold smile. “Or did you think my agents didn’t need backup since it was only a computer hacker?”

“No, sir.”

“I want you, Mr. Phipps, to personally update the SOPs for responding to a call for back up from my units, regardless of classification levels. You will then oversee the training on this updated procedure for any field office in Homeland with a fast reaction squad. You will also create a drill schedule where this updated SOP can be exercised regularly. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”