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Mom. I’ll try to be more careful.”
    “Try?”
    “I have to go. I love you,” she said, then disconnected before her mother could think of anything else to say.
    Apparently she thought fast, because the phone rang not ten seconds later.
    “Mom, I’m really—”
    It was not her mother, it was Scotty. “Still pissed, is she?”
    “To say the least.”
    “I thought you were going home early today.”
    “I’ve got to finish reviewing these applications,” she said, tucking the phone beneath her ear, then picking up the pile of papers, shuffling them for effect. “Backgrounds to get through for the next forensic art course.”
    “Any chance you’ll finish in the next couple hours? There’s this new Thai restaurant I want to try.”
    Scotty, unfortunately, wasn’t good at the whole we’re-no-longer-dating thing, and as many times as Sydney had tried to reinforce the fact she liked him as a coworker—period—she’d failed. For all his tough exterior, he was vulnerable, and the last thing she wanted to do was hurt him.
    “Wish I could,” she said. “But you know what a stickler Harcourt is for getting these things done.”
    Not surprisingly Scotty changed gears, his usual tack of working his way back to his original quest by quizzing her about other areas of her life. Thankfully before he returned to the dinner option, the very supervisor she had blamed for having to work late appeared at her door.
    “You got a minute?” Harcourt asked.
    “Gotta go, Scotty. Harcourt’s here now.”
    “Call me.”
    She dropped the phone in the cradle. “I know you wanted these applications finished—”
    “Actually I’m not here about that. There’s a reporter asking to see you. From the Washington Recorder. ”
    “The Recorder ?” That, she never expected. The Washington Recorder was a front for an extremely covert government agency called ATLAS. An agency she had no desire to work with again anytime soon. Harcourt wasn’t even aware of its existence, which showed how ballsy ATLAS’s operatives were, since this was the second time someone from ATLAS had entered Quantico under a false identity. On the first occasion a man she knew as Zachary Griffin had sauntered in, posing as an FBI agent. That encounter led to her assisting on a covert operation in Rome with Griffin, during which she’d felt as though they’d . . . formed an attraction of sorts. Apparently the feelings were on her side only, because he’d stood her up for a date a few weeks ago on Thanksgiving, not even bothering to call, and she hadn’t heard from him since. “Any indication what this reporter wanted?”
    “A sketch. Apparently one of their foreign correspondents witnessed a murder and they’d like your assistance as soon as possible.”
    “Are they bringing the witness here?”
    “No, they want you to go there. I’ve gone ahead and approved it, since they’re footing the bill.”
    “And where would there be?”
    “Amsterdam.”
    So much for worrying about how to avoid Scotty for dinner.
    J ames “Tex” Dalton was waiting in the lobby near the guard’s desk. Tall, blond, and broad-shouldered, he looked more like a linebacker than a reporter. His suit, however, was straight from the rack and just ill-fitting enough to pass muster for something an underpaid reporter would be wearing, and the touch wasn’t lost on Sydney. She well knew ATLAS’s attention to detail, which meant that Tex would also be acting as though they’d never met, when in fact he had worked closely with her and Griffin in Italy.
    She smiled as she approached him, holding out her hand. “Hi. You must be from the Recorder ? I’m Special Agent Fitzpatrick.”
    “Nice to meet you,” he said, shaking her hand. “I’m assuming your boss informed you of our request?”
    “He did.”
    Tex nodded, his brows raised. “And?”
    “Why don’t we step outside.” She held her hand toward the lobby doors, indicating he should accompany her out. The moment the