I. 238 Miles

Thomas Fernandez woke up to the twilight so typical of being close - but not too close - to the equator, as he had grown used to in his many years in Miami. Well of course, he didn’t actually live in Miami, nobody did. Housing was too expensive because of how crowded Miami is. No, he lived a bit north of Miami in the suburb of Hollywood. When he was younger, he always said he wanted to be an actor, and he couldn’t resist the humor in moving to Hollywood after all. He lived close to the beach, though only living on the beach would be close enough, and when it was quiet he could hear the waves. At least he liked to think he could hear them; his mother, on visiting, said he was fooling himself into hearing what pleased him. All the same, he liked his neighborhood, his townhome, and especially its garage. In the mornings before work, he couldn’t wait to get down there.

Morning routine done and over with, and dressed in his comfortable if unremarkable business casual clothes (khaki slacks, burgundy polo) he practically ran downstairs to his waiting chariot. Just seeing his Chevrolet Bolt EV in its gorgeous Orange Burst Metallic paint scheme brought an involuntary smile to lips. In his mind, that color meant performance. It always looked right on Corvettes, and while most wouldn’t call his Bolt EV a hot hatch, it could do 0-60 in six and a half seconds, so it was the most performative car he had ever owned. Springing for the Premier trim that impressed with its luxurious leather steering wheel and seats, both heated (though hardly necessary in Miami) as well as a bevy of advanced safety features like rear cross traffic alert and park assist, not to mention the innovative surround vision that showed a top down view around his precious Bolt EV, he went all out on his car. Not satisfied with all that, he loaded up on every option he could like the lane keep assist and departure warning, Bose premium audio, low speed forward automatic braking, just the works. He even ordered and installed the black bowtie emblems on the front and back, to give it that extra edge. The pièce de résistance, as his humor dictated, was the chrome license plate frame that read “Chevrolet Performance” next to the black bowtie. Corvette it was not, but to him it was close, and he didn’t even have to feel guilty about it because the Bolt EV was of course all electric, which is how it had such great performance in such a small and compact package. An electric motor meant no waiting for the RPMs and no turbo spooling up, just all 200 horsepower and 266 foot pounds of torque, right away, and whenever he wanted them. And we he didn't want them, he had a practical, quiet, comfortable car ready for whatever he had planned for the day.

The plan for today, being a Tuesday, meant driving to Miami and going to work. Not a long drive by miles but when seemingly everyone in Hollywood worked in Miami, the miles became misleading. It helped to leave earlier than he needed to, but Thomas was far from the only person in Hollywood to have that idea, so his twenty mile drive still took over thirty minutes. In his Bolt EV though, he didn't mind at all. He plugged his phone in, taking advantage of the Android Auto integration so that Waze would let him know all about traffic incidents on his commute. As he selected his music on the Bolt EV's generous sized touchscreen, he had a feeling today was going to be great, so he put on some up tempo jazz and set out.

The commute wasn't bad, but even when he first started and he drove his beater '02 Impala he didn't mind it. Back then he lived even further away, and it was only once he moved to Hollywood in 2012, he traded that trusty Impala in for the then revolutionary Volt. Those first Volts got about 40 miles on all electric power, but even after it ran out and switched to the gas engine, it got a respectable 40 mpg. At least, that's the estimate; he so rarely had to use gas he never really paid attention. The dealer had recommended an electrician to install a more powerful charger than a standard outlet could provide, and Thomas straight away recognized the benefit. He drove to and from work, plugged it in at night and had a full charge before he left again the next morning. And it charged so fast, even leaving his house and driving around Hollywood at night after work rarely required gas. And as good as the Volt was, the Bolt EV was another level.

It was all electric, no gas engine to extend the range, but certainly none needed. It was rated at 238 miles, and of course that's what he woke up to. When he bought it in 2017, he upgraded his home charger, properly called an EVSE because the car itself charged the batteries and the EVSE just supplied the current. Even with the huge battery in the Bolt EV, his new EVSE would only take about four and a half hours to charge from empty to full. In theory. In actuality, he had never run it even close to empty. How would he? A normal day's driving was only about forty miles. He could go a week without charging his car at all! He would never be that irresponsible of course, and he lost nothing by simply plugging it in every night when he got home, so he was always prepared for anything the next day could throw at him.

On this particular day, as all other weekdays, he headed down the highway and set off on the casual drive to Miami. Since most of it was on the highway, he just set his cruise control and kept his eyes on the road, knowing that if he needed to merge his car would help him check his blindspots and warn him about lane departures. The highway didn’t give him a lot of chances to regenerate his battery, as city streets did. The remarkable thing about the range of his car was that it was even better than advertised, if the conditions were right. As the Bolt EV slowed and braked, it could transfer that momentum back to charge the battery. Using the brake pedal was actually the worst way to do this, so he hardly ever used it except in emergencies. Simply lifting his foot from the accelerator would begin to slow the car down all the way to a complete stop, and if he needed more, there was a paddle on the steering wheel to assist it further. It only took a couple weeks of driving to get used to the system, and now he wondered why more cars don’t use a one pedal system like it.

Once he was off the highway, it was just a couple blocks to his job: the downtown Miami post office on First Street.

II. 219 Miles

Though there were a couple car charging stations near enough, he never parked in them. His car’s range far exceeded most EVs, so he thought it better to leave the stations open for those that needed to charge during a normal day. He went into the auspicious office building and headed to the post office inside.

He was there before the public facing office opened, just as he preferred. Because though he worked for the United States Postal Service, as his paychecks and taxes read, he did not collect, sort, nor deliver mail. Neither did he support those that did. Instead, he headed to an unremarkable door that led to a broom closet in the back hallway of the office. Once inside, he shut and locked the door, pressed his palm against a bare spot on the wall, and the entire room jolted upward to the reaches of the office building.

He emerged from the elevator and as the door shut behind him, he heard it woosh back downstairs, so any unsuspecting worker would just find a normal, understocked broom closet. He stood in a white hallway surrounded by walls of glass, making up dozens of rooms with computers and filing cabinets filled to the brim. A few private offices sat unoccupied, and a single room had actual walls and a door, with no windows. That was the field director’s office, and Thomas Fernandez had never been inside that room, nor did he know anyone who had. This was the headquarters of the Southern branch of the most top secret intelligence organization in the United States: Division F.

Founded by Benjamin Franklin even before the Revolutionary War was over, Division F predated the Constitution and was therefore not subject to its laws. Franklin oversaw the organization for as long as he lived; the vigors of which being why he never ran for president. Division F had no limits, and its agents were insulated to an almost unbelievable degree. One anecdote from Franklin’s logs relays a situation late in the war where two agents, each believing the other to be a British spy, were reporting on one another to Franklin, completely oblivious to the fact that they both worked for Division F. Franklin allowed this and similar events to transpire so as to keep agents on their toes and to ensure that nobody in the organization ever was too powerful or knew too much.

These days, that meant the organization was run as a series of cells, with everything being on a need to know basis. Thomas worked in Miami, which he was told was the head of the Southern branch, but he had no idea how large an area that covered, or how many branches there were in total. His job was simply to analyze global shipments of machinery, looking for anything that might be suspicious and reporting it to his superiors. From there, he had no idea what happened to the information. He knew of several field offices in South Florida, nothing so grand as this office, but more akin to safehouses and hiding spots for the nebulous field agents he had never met. There were even rumors that the higher echelons of Division F could pass on field missions to the CIA, NSA, FBI, Secret Service, even local law enforcement offices. All that mattered was the result; not a single person in Division F cared for glory or even acknowledgement.

So secretive was the organization that even the President didn’t know of its existence. This too was Franklin’s doing: he feared his colleagues would take unkindly to the unscrupulous methods his agents often employed. So certainly then the other, non Division F workers at post offices around the country had no idea what some of the employees in the building even did. As far as any such workers knew, Thomas was one of the IT support staff, tasked with logistical analysis of mail routes. Nobody ever had occasion to speak with him, and never sought him out, believing his office to be one of the plain doors the rear of the office was littered with.

As he walked toward the analysis office and his workstation, he passed by nearly identical workspaces, their purpose unknown and unimportant to him. He set his messenger bag down under his desk and began to log in, trying to get a jump on the day’s work so he could take an early lunch at the Cuban bistro down the street, which had the best brunch in Miami in his opinion. Just as he logged in though, one of the other analysts came over, an older woman named Sophia.

“Hey Tom,” she said sweetly. He wasn’t sure what she analyzed exactly, since they all had privacy screens on their monitors. You could only see the monitor if you were directly in front of it, and analysts were supposed to always lock the computer when they left their desk. In any case, he certainly never tried to look at her computer regardless. She had her job and he had his.

He locked his computer and spun in his chair to face her. “What’s up, Sophia?”

She scrunched her face, clearly unsure of how to proceed. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. “One of our field offices is off grid,” she began. As she fidgeted with her hands, she continued. “It’s never happened before. It’s Farfield. One of the ones I know, but I’ve never been. You have though, haven’t you?”

Offices all had codenames. This particular office was “Hurricane.” All information in Division F was compartmentalized, including locations of offices. Not only had he never been there, but Farfield wasn’t even one of the few locations he knew.

“Maybe you should talk to our supervisor about this-” Thomas was nervous about receiving information he wasn’t cleared for.

Sophia cut him off. “Sup’s not here. It’s you, me, and Jeff so far. I’m worried. I know we’re not supposed to talk about what we do, so I won’t, but I will tell you that Farfield is one of the most important listening stations we have on this coast. Without it operating, I can’t do my job.”

Thomas understood the importance, but he was powerless to help, and he needed to get that through to Sophia. “I can’t do anything about that, I’m an analyst like you.”

“I know you know tech stuff,” she replied. “You’ve got that smartwatch and that fancy electric car. I’ve seen you fix our computers here!”

“That’s a far cry from-”

“Just go have a look,” Sophia pleaded. “It’s probably something silly. A switch needs to flipped. Turn off and turn on again. If it’s something serious, you can just come back and we can wait for our supervisor.”

Thomas considered, but ultimately shook his head ‘no.’

“Even if I agreed, I’m not cleared to know where Farfield is,” he offered as way of excuse.

Sophia looked over at Jeff, who despite being early wasn’t working, but instead playing a game on his phone. She leaned in close and whispered, “I’ll tell you. I’ll put it in your phone.”

Thomas sighed. It was a breach of every protocol in Division F, yet….

“This is an emergency,” Thomas said after a moment. “Everything is need to know, and I need to know Farfield’s location in order to handle this.”

Sophia smiled. “I knew you’d understand! Give me your phone,” and she quickly entered the address into his Google Maps, selecting a route for him. “Trust me, this is the longer route but it will be faster this time of day.”

He doubted any route heading towards the beach could be fast, but Thomas collected his things and headed out of the room.

“Where you off to?” Jeff asked.

“Just a quick errand before work,” Thomas lied. Jeff didn’t need to know, after all.

“Here,” Jeff chuckled, handing Thomas a USB cord. “In case your car needs to charge.”

Thomas rolled his eyes and walked on without saying anything. Farfield was only ten miles away, close to Miami Beach. Close enough that his Bolt EV was not in the least bit under threat of needing to charge.

Down at his car, he noticed some of the post office workers arriving. He waved and exchanged pleasantries, explaining he was going out for coffee. Just getting near his car unlocked the doors thanks to his proximity key, so he climbed in, plugged in his phone, and hit that satisfying Start button and headed off.

III. 208 Miles

If that was the faster route, Thomas thought, I’d hate to drive the slower one. The Bolt EV’s acceleration let him zip past cars when he needed to pass them, at least, or the drive could have been worse. He parked across the street from the strip mall, and doublechecked the address he was given. It pointed to a unit labeled as a dry cleaner, but it was closed and apparently abandoned. He cautiously crossed traffic and headed to the door. Once he arrived he noticed door handles were different than all the other shops in the mall: they were Division F palm scanners. Checking that nobody was watching, he grasped one with his right hand and tugged slightly. It scanned his palm and permitted him entry.

Straight back was the door Thomas knew would lead to the actual field office. He crossed the disused shop and tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. There had to be another scanner, he realized, and quickly located it, disguised as a box of powder detergent sitting conspicuously close to the door. The door slid open, despite its appearance as a hinged door, and entered into the field office proper.

The lights were off, but he could see the glow of a computer screen behind a couple of filing cabinets. Paper may be old fashioned, but it wasn’t going away in Division F anytime soon. Paper couldn’t be hacked from across the globe, for starters. He located a light switch and flipped it, instantly illuminating the small and crowded space.

Something was terribly wrong. One of the filing cabinets had been forced open, the metal twisted and broken. A number of files were scattered on the floor. Thomas began panicking. This was above his clearance. He needed to get Hurricane’s supervisor on the phone and-

“Hello?” a man choked out from behind the cabinets. Thomas ran back towards the computer and found a solidly built man curled on the floor, holding his stomach. He was wearing a fine suit and clutching a pistol, which he shakily aimed at Thomas.

“Who-” Thomas began, stopping once he saw the pool of blood the man was lying in.

“No!” He shouted, the gun bouncing wildly. “Who are you!?” He shouted.

“Thomas Fernandez,” Thomas yelled. “Division F, assigned to Hurricane, here!” He produced his USPS identification which showed the small, but noticeable, pyramid with a stylized F within it.

The man coughed and lowered his weapon. “Thank...no time. This was one of ours...an inside job. You have to,” he coughed violently. “Trust nobody! Find...Gideon.”

Thomas stood in shock. “I really should call Hurricane,” was all he managed to stammer out.

“Don’t,” the man pleaded. “Trust nobody. Find Gideon.” He collapsed fully, his pistol falling from his grip.

Thomas stood in shock. Whatever happened, it was recent, and if he acted fast he may be able to head this off. But who was Gideon? Nobody at Hurricane was named Gideon, not even the non Division F workers. Gideon could be the one who attacked this agent. Or maybe this Gideon was the ultimate target, and this agent got in the way. Another thought was that this agent was on Gideon’s trail, and he had been betrayed.

Too many possibilities, Thomas thought as he walked around the office. The filing cabinet, he realized. A file was taken, maybe even several. Just as quickly as that thought entered his head, the cynical side of him realized he had no way of knowing what was taken because he didn’t know what was supposed to be there. He looked back at the computer; it looked fine. It wasn’t logged in but it was registering as being on the proper network. Thomas quickly reasoned through the order of events, as near he could tell. This office lost connection to the server, possibly because of whoever broke in. The fallen agent got here shortly before Thomas, probably interrupting the thief (Gideon???). The thief shot him, and went back to the filing cabinet, believing the agent to be dead. Then the agent must have mustered the strength to reconnect to the server, in hopes of sending a distress call. Thomas went back and retrieved the pistol. He hadn’t handled a firearm since his ROTC days at the University of Miami, and he hoped he wouldn’t need to use it, but better safe than sorry. He left the field office and bursted out the doors of the dry cleaners, and right into a Miami Beach police officer.

“Hold it right there,” she said. “What were you doing in there?”

Thomas couldn’t exactly reveal who he was. Division F didn’t carry the weight of the FBI or CIA, because it wasn’t supposed to be known at all.

“USPS,” he replied, trying to sound authoritative. “Fraud division. There was a ring running out of this place. Make sure nobody enters. I’ll be sending a forensics team soon.”

“ID,” the officer replied. Thomas pulled out his wallet and took the ID crafted for this exact scenario: one that showed he was indeed part of the US Postal Inspection Service, the department that dealt with mail fraud. She handed it back and said, “Well fine, but I got reports of gunshots. I gotta take a look.”

“Absolutely not,” Thomas replied, scanning the strip mall for anything suspicious. “There’s nobody in there. Probably a car backfiring.”

She looked unconvinced.

“Actually,” he found himself saying. An inside job. The words kept reverberating in his skull. He needed help, and he couldn’t get it from Division F. “How would you like to help me? Investigate this, I mean.”

“Why me?” She asked.

“I have reason to believe the people responsible are dangerous, and I’m not exactly on the front lines very often,” he began. “And I have reason to believe one of my colleagues is involved.”

“Tell me what’s really going on,” she said sternly.

“Not here,” Thomas replied. “Follow me.”

They crossed the street and he let her into his Bolt EV, quickly starting the AC to stave off the sweltering Florida heat.

“I’m not with Postal Inspection,” he began. “I work for an intelligence agency.”

“FBI? CIA? NSA?” She asked.

He shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to say. You wouldn’t have heard of us anyway,” he looked around. “Did you notice any cars leaving the mall shortly before you saw me?”

“I only arrived as you were coming out of the cleaners, there wasn’t anything else unusual.”

“Okay,” he breathed in. “This is highly classified but I don’t know what else to do. That dry cleaners is a facade for a field office of ours. An agent was shot. With his dying breath, he said I needed to find Gideon. Does that mean anything to you?”

“There’s a body in there!?” She exclaimed.

“Gideon!” He shouted. “Is that...I don’t know, a mob boss around here or something?”

“Not that I know of,” she said. “Why are you asking me, anyway? If you’re an agent of...whatever it is, why can’t you look it up?”

“I’m an analyst, not an agent. I could try to search the computer network but it might tip off the traitor. And the important files are paper anyway.”

“Paper?” She inquired. “In this day and age?”

“It’s more secure,” he explained. “It can’t be hacked. Plus, having one file is meaningless. They’re split up, encoded. You need two halves to read anything at all.”

She began to fiddle with the climate controls, and was pleasantly surprised when she saw she would only need to select what temperature she wanted (a cool 70 degrees) and let the system take it from there.

“Are there files in there?” She asked, pointing across the street.

“Yeah, that’s what the thief was after. He stole a file or maybe more. I can’t really say because I have no way of knowing what files were kept here at all.”

“But you said one file by itself is meaningless.”

“Yeah he would need the other half, but even if I knew what he took, I wouldn’t know how to find its partner.”

“Gideon…” She thought aloud. “You spies love your codenames. Maybe Gideon is a project…”

Thomas shook his head. This was getting him nowhere. At least, he thought, the AC wasn’t really eating into his battery charge. Even when he set it low, it was usually no more than 5% of the power draw. He tried to focus on the positive that staying comfortable wouldn’t cost him anything vital.

“What if he doesn’t know where to find the other file,” the officer said at last. “You said you think this is a traitor, or mole, or whatever you spy folks like to say. Well, you’re part of the organization and you said you wouldn’t know where to go.”

“Right,” Thomas nodded, following her train of thought. “So if I had stolen a file I wouldn’t know with certainty where to go to decode it…”

“But there’s somewhere you could look?” She asked hopefully.

“Not exactly,” he replied. She frowned as he continued, “However, I know where another field office is. More files. If he has no concrete idea of where to go, he may just be hitting them all, looking for the other half.”

She reached for the door handle. “Let’s get in my squad car,” she suggested.

“No,” he replied coolly. “Buckle up. We can’t waste any more time.”

He threw the Bolt EV into reverse, quickly glanced at his backup cam and surround vision feeds in the center screen, and satisfied he was in the clear, executed a perfect three point turn and tore out of the parking lot, tires squealing.

Before she could protest, Thomas was already barreling down the road, passing cars with ease as he headed westward. He fished his phone out of his pocket and threw it at the officer.

“Plug this in, and set the GPS for Miles City. It’s off I-75.”

She did as he asked, easily navigating the Android Auto interface on the Bolt EV’s generous sized screen.

“The office is in Miles City?” She asked as the Google Assistant began telling Thomas where to go.

“Not quite, but it’s on the way. What’s your name, anyhow? I forgot to ask.”

“Isabella Martinez,” she replied. “We should have taken my car,” she protested. “Though this little guy is surprisingly quick.”

“Small but mighty,” Thomas said proudly. “Zero to sixty in about six seconds, in total comfort unlike some ‘performance’ cars that forget you’re supposed to be having fun while you drive.”

“All the same,” she said with a smirk, “you don’t have lights and a siren.”

“Don’t want them,” he said calmly. “Would make us stand out too much.”

She looked around. “We’re in a bright orange car!”

“But it’s unassuming. People underestimate it. Trust me, this is for the best. We’ll blend in.”

“Bright orange stands out, spy boy.”

“It stands out as it blends in, though.”

She cocked an eyebrow but said nothing, looking again at the screen and the GPS. Soon they’d be on I-75 and then it was a straight shot for about 80 miles.

“Do you need to stop for gas?” She asked.

He laughed. “Never again!” He gestured to the info screen behind his wheel, which stood in for the analog gauges found on most cars. “It’s an electric car. That’s how it’s got such great torque and-”

“Electric!? Are we gonna make it to Miles City? It’s 80 miles away!”

“I’ve got over 200 miles of range left. We’ll get there, catch our guy, and I can head back to the main office with charge to spare after.”

She settled into the chair, unsure what she could do to help. “I can radio the highway patrol and let them know not to pull us over,” she offered.

“Tempting, but no. I know my office works with local law enforcement, even sometimes when you guys don’t realize. It might tip off the traitor.” He looked over and saw how downtrodden she looked. “I’ve got Spotify,” he added, selecting the app on the screen. “Pick whatever you want.”

“May as well,” she shrugged. “We’re in for a long drive. At least your car’s quiet. Guess it’s the electric engine.”

“Motor,” he said reflexively. She arched an eyebrow and he quickly added, “Though it’s the same thing in principle, I guess.”

“Ride’s smooth too,” she added. “Way better than the squad car.” She found a playlist she could listen to for the next hour and relaxed a little, letting the premium sound system ease her worries as they began to drive through the heart of the Florida Everglades.

IV. 120 Miles

“How close are we to Miles City?” Thomas asked after over an hour of driving.

“About ten miles out,” Isabella responded. She had pushed him to reveal more about the agency he worked for, but he wasn’t budging. She again looked at his identification card that named him part of the Postal Inspection Service. The cover was legit, and any search she had run it came back as Thomas Fernandez being in the Postal Inspection Service.

“Okay,” he said with a hint of apprehension. “Look for a service road off to the right, it should be coming up any moment now.”

“Nervous?” She asked.

“This guy already killed a field agent,” he responded. “I’m just an analyst, I’m in way over my head here.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take point,” she reassured him. “Oh!” She exclaimed, pointing at a small but unmistakable ramp off the highway, heading into the wild of the Everglades.

“Yep,” he responded. “Just like the pictures.”

“Pictures? You’ve never been here?” She had a slight worry in her voice now.

“Never needed to,” he stated.

The Bolt EV zipped down the ramp and onto the dirt road it led to, never missing a beat as Thomas steered it around the twists that took it out of sight of the highway.

“Make a U-Turn. Rerouting. Make a U-Turn.” The Google Assistant insisted.

“Do you mind-” Thomas gestured to the screen, but never took his eyes off the narrow path unfolding before him.

“Of course,” Isabella responded, exiting the navigation.

“There it is,” Thomas said with a sigh.

Ahead was a small building constructed from unpainted cinder blocks, with an unpainted, unadorned steel door in the middle. It was a perfect trapezoid that bore no windows or other adornments. Off to the side was a small cube, also of cinder blocks, with a handful of antennas poking out of it.

“No other vehicle here,” she pointed out.

“That’s a good sign,” he said with a smile.

“Or they’ve come and gone,” she said pessimistically.

He pulled the Bolt EV around the back, which was just as unoccupied as the front, and put it in park. As they left the vehicle, Thomas stopped Isabella, putting his hand on her shoulder.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said with a serious expression. “You’re not part of this.”

She shrugged him off, pulling her pistol from its holder. “I am now. And if this is a matter of national security, I have a higher duty. I do have to do this.”

He nodded and led the way to the front door. Not finding any noticeable scanner, he pressed his palm flat where a handle would be, and nearly instantly the door slid off to the side, and the single room beyond was lit with bright lights. Isabella moved in front and entered the building, her pistol at her side but undeniably ready.

Against the back wall was a desk with a computer placed on it, and a map of the Southeastern United States, with a handful of hand written notes and symbols drawn on it. Along each wall of the building were filing cabinets, all closed and undisturbed. In one corner was a toilet and sink; a second corner had a small kitchenette, like one might find in a hotel; the third corner had a wardrobe; and the last had a rack of various firearms and ammunition.

“Nobody’s here,” Isabella pointed out. “Of course, we may have missed them.”

Thomas shook his head. “The filing cabinets are undisturbed. The thief needs the other file, they wouldn’t have left without checking…”

Isabella walked toward the computer and map. “Does this mean anything to you? Maybe locations of other offices?”

Thomas strode over and looked the map up and down. Scrunching his face, he replied, “I don’t think so. Hurricane - that’s sort of the main office, where I work - it’s not on this map. Neither is Farfield, where I ran into you. I’m not really sure-”

“Sssh!” Isabella urged him. “I hear-”

“A car’s engine,” he finished in a whisper. Quick, we can hide. Let’s split up.”

Thomas headed behind the wardrobe and Isabella towards the weapon rack. They were along the same wall as the lone entrance, so anyone coming in would have to step into the building then turn around to see them at all. Thomas held his finger to his lips, trusting Isabella to stay quiet until she was needed.

A middle aged man dressed in the familiar khaki shorts and blue polo of the USPS strode into the building, focused only on the filing cabinets and computer. As he walked further in, Thomas jumped out, the fallen agent’s pistol in his grip.

“Raoul!” He shouted. “Don’t try anything!” he added, as Raoul spun and brought his own pistol up and pointed squarely at Thomas.

“You made a mistake hanging around,” Raoul said with a devilish grin. “I was hoping you’d head out to the next office.”

“It’s over,” Thomas replied. “Drop the gun and come quietly.”

“You don’t get it man,” Raoul said, shaking his head. “It’s not over ‘til I find the other file and get paid.”

“Who are you working for?”

“Myself!” Raoul shouted. “I see you, and the others, who work in the office but I never see actually work. You with your fancy expensive car. I knew something was up. And now, I’m gonna sell these secrets to the highest bidder. Russia? Iran? Korea? All depends on who puts the most zeroes on that check.”

Thomas shrugged. “Actually my car was pretty affordable, and there was a tax credit so-”

“SHUT UP!” Raoul shouted. “You led me here, and you were supposed to be gone, but now I gotta clean up. If the file’s not here I’ll figure something out-”

Thomas narrowed his eyes. “I was ‘supposed to’ do something? I’m not part of this,” he said.

“But isn’t it what you always dreamed of? Playing the spy. Well guess what, sometimes spies don’t make it home.” Raoul looked down the sight of his pistol and a shot rang out, piercing the calm of this lone place nestled in the retreating wilds of Florida.

Isabella stepped into the light and surveyed Raoul’s body slumped on the cement floor. She reflexively kicked his firearm away before prodding the body with her foot. When she was satisfied he was no longer a threat, she holstered her weapon and stepped closer to Thomas.

“You ok?” She asked.

Thomas still had his gun raised, and upon that realization, he slowly lowered it, and took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly.

“Just a bit unexpected,” he replied. “Thank you. For knowing when to intervene.”

She shrugged. “I’m just glad it’s over. Let’s head back to Miami. You can let your supervisor know he was a traitor.”

As they headed out, Thomas suddenly stopped and whispered, “No.”

“No what?” Isabella asked, cocking her head to the side.

“He’s not the traitor.”

“I know you said you don’t actually work for Postal Inspection, but that’s your front. Someone working at the actual post office - that fits with what your guy said. An inside job.”

“But,” Thomas said slowly, as he connected the events of the day together. “But he followed us here. I followed him to Farfield.”

Isabella considered for a moment. “You mean-”

“He was working with someone from my agency. It’s the only explanation. And that means…”

It dawned on him. Sophia sent him to Farfield. Sophia told him to take the longer route - to give Raoul time to finish up. And Sophia had handled his phone, obviously placing a tracker on it. She must have been relying on Thomas’ knowledge of other offices to lead Raoul to finding the files she needed. Thomas had even told her of his childhood dreams of being an actor in spy thrillers, how much he lusted for adventure only to find that actual spy work was mostly behind a computer monitor tracking shipments around the globe, a far cry from the fantasies of his youth.

“What’s the plan,” Isabella asked, breaking him out of his introspection.

“You and I are going to my headquarters,” he said at last. “I can’t let her know I’ve figured it out.”

Isabella resumed her walk towards the Bolt EV. “Give me the sit-rep on the way,” she said with a fierceness in her eyes.

V. 35 Miles

Thomas parked down the road from the post office, worried Sophia might get tipped off about his presence. He explained to Isabella how they would get to Division F’s office, and told her the best idea was to subdue Sophia without harming her. As they walked toward the building, Thomas stole a look over his shoulder at the Bolt EV. It had managed to drive halfway across the state and back again, and it kept Thomas and Isabella in comfort the whole time. He was worried about this confrontation, but something told him he’d be driving back to his townhouse and giving the tough little car some much needed rest - and recharging.

“Close quarters in here,” Isabella remarked as they entered the broom closet elevator.

Thomas was deadly serious and said nothing, just breathing deeply. When they were deposited into the office of Division F, he finally broke his silence.

“Okay, nice and easy now. Second room on the left.”

Isabella nodded and followed him.

Sophia looked up as she heard the two of them approach, and for just an instant a look of surprise passed over her features.

“Hey Thomas,” she said with a smile. “Well whatever you did at Farfield, everything looks golden now so-”

“I know about Raoul,” Thomas said calmly.

Sophia looked at Isabella now, in her Miami Beach PD uniform and slowly rose from the desk.

“So what now?” She asked, her hand inching towards her bag.

“Now you confess and hope whatever hole they throw you in-”

“Don’t try it!” Isabella cut him off, dashing between him and Sophia, and elbowing the traitor in the throat.

Sophia staggered backwards, catching herself on the desk as Isabella grabbed her bag and emptied its contents on the floor: a small gun, a wig, and a passport.

Thomas stared at the overturned bag and its contents as he asked, “So your plan was to use me?”

Sophia laughed. “Of course! It was too easy, I should have known it would go wrong.” She shook her head.

“How did you slip the tracker onto my phone? Or is it in my car?” Thomas asked.

Sophia just laughed again. “Your ID is your tracker! We’re all being tracked all the time! I just had to access it. That’s the genius of it. In a few weeks, they’d know Project Gideon had been compromised, and they’d look, and find you pinging around offices that held the files. You would get the blame and punishment and I’d be long gone.”

Just then, Jeff walked into the office, looking nonplussed at the scene before him.

“Jeff!” Thomas said excitedly. “Get the supervisor, we need to arrest Sophia!”

“I’m on it, Mr. Electric. I heard the whole thing. This whole office is under surveillance. We’ve got her dead to rights. Isabella, do you mind?”

Isabella nodded and calmly handcuffed Sophia.

“How do you know…?” Thomas trailed off.

“I’m the supervisor for the entire Southern branch of Division F. I know every field agent.” Jeff replied, sounding uninterested.

“Supervisor?” Thomas was dumbfounded.

“Secrets within secrets, Thomas,” he replied. “And yes, Isabella is a field agent. I overheard Sophia this morning and realized something was amiss. There’s been some weirdness with our network the last few weeks, so I was already suspicious of her. And then you. Well, I didn’t want to think you were part of it, but I couldn’t take the risk.”

“So you had Isabella intercept me,” Thomas said, realization dawning.

“Sorry for lying,” Isabella offered. “But we had to be sure. I wanted to see how you reacted to what was going on.”

“I understand,” Thomas said with a sigh.

“Look buddy,” Jeff put his hand on Thomas’ shoulder. “I’ll let it slide that you broke protocol and showed a field office to - well not a civilian but you thought she was. You really helped out today. How’d you like to be field agent, full time? We’ve got an opening after all.”

Thomas thought back on his eventful day. The excitement. The adventure. The thrill. He couldn’t help but think of he treachery and of course, the danger.

The danger.

“You know, analyst work is really important too.”

Jeff chuckled. “Probably for the best. Hey, if you’re not waiting for your car to charge or anything, you should head home. I’m gonna need IT to scrub every computer in the place, I’m gonna need teams at the offices, all of them...we can manage without you. And I think you’ve earned it.”

“I’ve got plenty of charge to get home,” Thomas said defensively. He was a bit more genial when he added, “So thanks. I think I will head out.”

“Hey,” Isabella said as he passed. “Wait up.”

Thomas turned and waited.

“I think you and I should get together some time. Actually get to know each other.”

“I’ve got some vacation coming up,” Thomas mentioned. “I was planning on going to Key West.”

Isabella nodded her head. “Your car can make it?”

“Easily. Well, once it gets charged. Plenty to spare.”

“I’ll call you,” Isabella said with a wink as she led Sophia away.

“I didn’t give you my number!” Thomas said after her.

Isabella shrugged and laughed, saying, “I’ll manage.”

VI. 13 Miles