Page 150 of Tracked and Taken

“Good in the way that explains the collar.”

“Yes.”

“And good in the way that makes a Head of Security forget her hair-tie on the way to a 0830.”

I touch the hair I did, this morning, leave loose.

The corner of Morrison’s mouth moves.

“All right, Torres.”

“All right, Director.”

“I am satisfied.”

“All right.”

She looks at me for a moment longer. Then, in the tone of a woman delivering an operational update:

“Florence won the joint pool.”

“Director.”

“Six days, Torres. Inside a week. SNAG and OOPS both bet. Fastest closure in the offices’ combined operational history.”

“There was a joint pool on me?”

“Torres. There is a betting pool on every operative and every contractor in any office I have ever run, and the SNAG crew bets on whatever I open. You know that.”

“I knew there was a pool. I did not know I was an entry.”

“You were the opening entry for SNAG. I opened it within forty-eight hours of Vosk arriving on this station. The board went up. Both crews bet.”

“Who else.”

“Petra had three weeks. Xor had seven days. SPROUT had”—Morrison searches her memory, dry—“‘between fourteen and sixteen days, with a confidence interval of four point three days.’ Florence had under a week. Florence won.”

“Florence always wins.”

“Florence always wins, Torres. It is one of her more endearing operational features.”

She stands.

She takes the mug, picks it up off my desk with the effortless motion of a woman who has been carrying it to meetings for two decades and does not, in any year of her life, leave it on someone else’s furniture.

She stops at the door, hand on the panel. She doesn’t turn back.

“Torres.”

“Director.”

“The mark.”

“Director?”

“You’re wearing it open.”

“I am.”