Porsche had taken a circuitous route, sometimes doubling back several times before she felt safe to grab a self-driver. She moved among the side streets with ease in her flowing robe, the Obscura fashion that was ubiquitous across the world. Watching for every hint of danger, she spotted two figures, possibly three, popping in and out of her periphery, quickening their strides. She went into a full sprint now, crashing through a crowd of pedestrians to catch a self-driver that had just emptied its passengers. She ran past them, dove in and slammed the door. Those waiting for the ride banged on her window. She gave the AI navigator a false destination. The self-driver debited the fare to an International Travel ID she carried, one of many legends she used.

By early evening, she had made it back to safety and passed the security checkpoint of the Embassy annex, an open compound containing several cubic two-story buildings. She first went to debrief the section head on today's events. Two hours later, she returned to her one-bedroom studio, eager to power down, eat what was in the fridge, and sweat in the walk-in sauna-shower. While a well-deserved sleep was calling her, the internal multi-band comm buzzed. The low pinging could only be one thing -- an internal line tapping in.

She cursed at the text message from her boss.

Couldn't it wait? I was just there.

In a grim mood, she threw on utilities and five minutes later walked into the main embassy offices next door. She passed the security check the second time this evening and climbed the stairs to her cubicle.

The workspace sensed her presence and powered on, translucent electronics lighting up the cockpit-like desk. She had another surprise waiting -- a twirling holo-projection icon from her boss.

She depressed the com button. "I'm here, just walked in."

"Come to my office. We need to talk."

"Do I have time for coffee?"

"No."

Sonuvabitch, she mumbled and headed for the corner suite down the empty hall.

Porsche knocked first, then entered a Lite-Brite cave. Inside, a grizzled foreign service warrior, jaded from dealing with secrets, was a permanent fixture. Felix Boyle, Caracas Station Supervisor lived here, hardly ever leaving his domain except to bathe downstairs. He sat behind his desk, manipulating floating vistas, moving documents and files with the swish of fingers like an orchestra conductor. He swiped them away once Porsche came in.

"What's so important it can't wait til morning?" she grumbled.

"I got a call an hour ago from Embassy Relations about a fire alarm you started."

"Me?"

"There's a complaint."

"What complaint?" She bristled.

"The death of Carlos Morales, their senior intelligence officer, and a few others. Morales' people charged that you compromised the operation, and got their men killed."

"That's bullshit, and you know it. You read my debrief. Their porous security almost got me whacked."

"Well, they disagree with your account."

"Because they prefer to cover up their incompetence and blame it on a woman. Coño carajo."

"My hands are tied."

"There were witnesses, as I stated. Ask them how it went down -- the shop owner and his family."

"Not gonna happen," said Boyle. His blank expression meant her eyewitnesses had vanished. "With this current level of sensitivity, Washington wants to contain any potential issue including improprieties that might antagonize Caracas. You get me?"

"Improprieties?" Porsche scoffed. "Like staying alive? You're hanging this on me, is that it?"

"DC has questions. They request face time with you."

"Fine. I have an O-eight hundred interview tomorrow. After, I can pencil 'em in for an HC."

Boyle shook his head. "No holo-conferencing. They want your butt in DC by morning. Transport leaves in two hours. Be on it, and this isn't a suggestion."

She paused, her eyes narrowed. "Do I still have a job?"

"Look, I won't dance around -- we both know what this is. It'd be hell easier if you comply . . . with a smile."

"Bend over and take one for the team, right?" Porsche snapped.

"The Agency would be grateful."

"Forget it."

"You have no choice -- Caracas is off-limits to you now. You're persona non grata. They revoked your status."

"Did you even fight for me, Felix?"

"They won't work with you, Porsche -- they were clear on that point." He shrugged. "Sorry, I gotta pull you."

Porsche clenched her jaw and her fists.

"Listen, you go home, get your hands slapped, and you get a transfer to the minor bush league for a year. Make your bones there then resurface. By then no one will care."

A troubled look appeared on Porsche's face. "What's going on, Felix?"

Boyle looked annoyed. "Just do it."

"Who's up my ass? Come on, give me something, dammit."

"Porsche, you got one hour to clean out your apartment and get on the plane. I don't want to send embassy security to collect you." His tone left no doubt. "And for what it's worth -- you did good. But sometimes good people catch tough breaks."

"You're useless, Felix," Porsche spat and turned for the door. "And I still won't sleep with you."

"That attitude isn't gonna help you any," Boyle admonished.

* * *

The gun blast jolted her upright like she had been shocked by electricity. She panted, out of breath, her chest heaving, her T-shirt soaked through. Third time now in so many days. The pills she got from her assigned med-tech could put her under, but not the faces that bobbled up from below.

Morning sun rays pierced Alex's eyelids as if they were crowbars prying into slabs of concrete. She glanced over at the window shutters -- the blinds were apart at the precise angle allowing sunlight to hit her square in the face. She mumbled curses at the ceiling.

Her head was thick with sleep and splitting in two. The headache intensified -- not from the alcohol. Three bottles or was it four? Didn't matter. They had no effect on the dreams, and the mocking laughter.

Camila lay next to her, nude, her copper skin taut and flawless. Alex remembered leaving the bar with her. Events from the night before reemerged from the murky depths.

"Morning." Camila purred stretching her arms over her head. She reached over to Alex, her hand dipping between Alex's legs. "You're still moist."

"Don't."

"That's what you said last night."

"No, really," said Alex, removing Camila's hand before things got better. Now she remembered more -- and they were all bad. She recalled downing two bottles of 191-proof grain alcohol in long swallows, stuff that burns blue flames. She had wanted to get drunk, and this was the only way -- a massive inundation to overcome the regulating nanomites in her bloodstream.

Why was plain enough. It was her video feed! Of her, T-Bone and Warchild. This was no mirage but a live monkey on her back.

"News on," Alex said. She dreaded learning the extent of the damage.

The monitor brightened on command. From a wall-sized panoramic screen, the day's headlines belched out, "The time is 6:15, 67 degrees, low humidity, with an overcast sky this morning. Top of the news -- Press Secretary Yoder has no comment on White House reaction to the Embassy bombing which claimed the lives of eight Americans. No explanation came forth about the leaked combat videos . . . following the immediate backlash from overseas. Overnight, there has been widespread mass demonstrations in London, Paris, from Buenos Aires to Sao Paulo demanding that Washington be held accountable for its role in Barrio El 50 . . ."

Alex covered her face with her hands. Holy shit. She needed a few hours to think this through. And that wasn't going to happen with Camila here. Alex rolled over and pulled out a spend card from the drawer she'd transferred funds into. It was a good thing to have a separate account apart from your Atlas. Just in case.

"What's this?" Camila asked seeing the card.

Alex replied. "Buy something nice for yourself. There're a few boutiques a couple of blocks from here."

"Boutiques, yeah? You don't see that every day."

"Thrift stuff, nothing fancy. Have fun."

"You getting rid of me?" Camila smirked, more curious than anything.

Alex took a deep breath. "Not a chance."

"Fine then, your loss." She snatched up the plastic, grinning with excitement.

Just then, a banging on the outer door startled them. Camila hopped out of bed and grabbed a nearby towel. She leaned over and gave Alex a deep kiss, then bounced for the bathroom. "Need a shower."

"Yeah, you do. Smells like a fish stall in here."

"Fish this." Camila flipped her the finger while grinning.

Alex sighed after her. Love that girl. Her smile faded as the banging got louder. "Who the hell could it be at this hour?"

She threw on a pair of boxers and tank-top and stomped out of the bedroom into the living room. The pounding on the door continued.

"Just a goddamn minute."

She deactivated the locks, grabbed the knob and swung it open, ready to lay it into whoever was doing the banging.

"You better not be -- " She stopped mid-sentence.

Two burly men in uniforms were on the steps, their arms bore brassards with two large black letters -- MP.

Military Police. A third man waited by the car.

"Warrant Officer Alexis Marlboro?" the nearest MP said.

"Yeah, yeah, that's me."

"Would you come with us, please?"

"What's this all about?"

"Don't know, ma'am," he said, gesturing at the official SUV waiting at the curb.

"Do I have time to get dressed?" She plucked at her t-shirt.

"Sure thing. We'll wait inside if you don't mind."

They followed her inside, one standing in the alcove, the other in the living room.