“Got him, sir…”
Velma Wilkinson dragged in the prisoner, shoving him in the chair. And it was one hell of a prisoner. Grizzled gray mane, the beginnings of a rough beard. His clothes looked like they hadn’t been washed in a month.
Josef Rodriguez gave nothing off, his slight tilt of the head the only reply to the prisoner. To Velma, it was both a thank you and a dismissal.
Velma left, letting the hard, emotionless exterior melt down to disbelieving relief. After one damn month searching nameless desert in Mexico, they had got him. And taken him to headquarters.
Her cowboy boots sank in the sand as she walked outside; fedora jammed on her loose, flowing hair.
She was gonna have one hell of a tan when this was over.
Velma sighed, snatching up a bottle of water from the water bin in the shade and unscrewing the cap. She pulled off her hat, turned over the bottle, let the water run over her face and hair. It was warm, but still it was water. And thus a source of washing away the sweat that had dampened her hair, left a sheen on her skin.
“Heard you got the prisoner,”
Velma turned, smiled at the middle-aged man behind her, “News travels fast.”
The Mexican chuckled, his weathered face scrunching up in a wide grin as he approached her, “The operation ain’t gonna be easy, Wilkinson.”
“Don’t be so negative, Carlos. We still got a piece of the puzzle,”
“True,” Carlos was beside her now, holding up a bottle of Coors Light. “Heard ya like this stuff.”
“Thanks,” Velma relished the coolness of the bottle against her hands, the quench of thirst when she took a long drink. “All we need to do is to get the information and then we’ll have our next assign--”
“Wilkinson!” the cry echoed across the flat, infinite bed of sand.
“That was fast,” Velma murmured as she turned away from the blaze of the afternoon sun, joining Rodriguez in the shade of the wooden awning jutting over the doorway. “Yes, sir?”
“We got our information,”
“And…sir?”
“The next terrorist lord goes by the name of ‘Alpha’,”
Velma found it hard to conceal a chuckle. All the male villains she were so big-headed.
“Laugh now, Wilkinson,” Rodriguez warned. “He’s next in line for our assignment,”
“Did you get any information, sir?”
“His name is Clayton Camacho,” Rodriguez replied. “All the prisoner told me is that he travels often and likes to date women.”
His brow arched at the last few phrases, which sent a glaring possibility through Velma’s mind, “And?”
"You're going to meet him,"
"What?"
“Alone, Wilkinson. I’m sorry,” Rodriguez’s hand rested on her shoulder. “But he’s extremely careful. Anything more than two spies will blow our cover.”
“I-I don’t think I’m ready for this, sir.”
“I think you are,” Rodriguez argued. “This is an order, Wilkinson. It’s our only chance.”
Velma wrung her hands as she asked, “So…when do I leave?”
