"So, you've got a BS in Psychology, a MS degree in Criminology, and a PsyD in Psychology."

Spencer put the file folder down and picked up his coffee cup, eyeing the dark haired man across from him.

"You're awfully young for all those letters, aren't you, Dr. Mitchell?"

"Well, one might say the same thing about you, Lt. Col. McGregor."

The Doctor with the perfectly combed dark hair and expensive suit raised an eyebrow and flashed Spencer a sideways grin. 

"Someone did his homework. Ok, fair. This says you started training with the FBI...but you quit."
Spencer gave him a funny look. "What made you quit? It's pretty hard to get in with them, isn't it?"

"Oh, incredibly so. Nearly as hard as getting an appointment to a military academy. To be honest with you, it was just boring as hell. They had me training to analyze mountains of 'possible persons of interest.' But I'm not interested in that. I got into this field to study people whose minds baffle and bemuse us. I want to learn and understand those whose brains tick a different rhythm."

Spencer put his cup down again and gave a dry chuckle.

"Well, man, have I got the job for you."

Garret Mitchell studied the expression on his host's face for a moment as the waitress appeared with the food they had ordered previous to their conversation beginning. 

"You know, I'm not really into private practice kind of work. I was willing to entertain your meeting because the figure you put forth was more than adequate; I simply don't want to waste your time or mine if this is something that isn't suited to my specialty."

Spencer remained quiet until the waitress had moved well away from the table, and then looked Dr. Mitchell squarely in the face with a flat expression.

"I am the lead security agent for a very high-ranking person in an organization that does...underground work. My principal is valuable to her organization, highly skilled in her particular work, and..." 

Spencer paused, chewing on his next words.

"...well, she's batshit crazy. Sometimes. Most of the time. Maybe. Hell I don't know. Sometimes I think I've gotten it figured out, then she pivots and I'm back to confused. Anyway, The thing is, her boss is actually ok with this and as long as she's safe, he figures they can use this to their advantage."

Stopping at this point, Spencer took a moment to see what Dr. Mitchell might be thinking. 

There was a grin on the man's face, and his eyes were lit up like a Christmas tree.

"You're putting me on, aren't you? Who put you up to this? It's brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Ha! You have me damn near believing you, man."

Garret reached for his sandwich, still chuckling. Spencer didn't move; didn't change his expression at all. Garret looked up with the sandwich in his hand, his mouth open. That's when he made the realization and put the sandwich down.

"Jesus. You're serious. Everything you just said- you're serious?"

He reached for a napkin and wiped his hands, then sat up arrow straight. Spencer nodded and laced his fingers, resting them on his lap.

"Every word, but I'll only tell you more if you agree to take the job. It's good pay, lots of travel with expenses, and you'll definitely be getting what you want for your career. But your going to have to keep a lot of shit buttoned up. You know how that works with patients and not talking about stuff? Well, this is an extreme version of that."

Dr. Mitchell was clearly intrigued at this point. Something about this was too juicy to let pass by. He was a Harvard educated, trust-fund brat with nothing better to do. This sounded more interesting than anything he'd found yet. 

Garret grinned again.

"Fuck it, I'm in."

Spencer eyed him for a moment, then nodded. 

"Alright then. Better finish up lunch and find somewhere more private to talk."

The building was under heavy construction, and several crews were working on both the inside and outside. Spencer led Garrett through the open front entrance and took an immediate right, down a corridor that was being tiled in a mosaic style with what seemed to be mostly white tiles. Garett looked on, impressed as he followed Spencer down the hallway until they came to an office that appeared to be mostly finished. The carpet was lush and deep red in color. There was a large, oak desk, a dark brown leather sofa, and two matching leather arm chairs with a small table between them. Two generously sized built in bookshelves lined the walls. There appeared to be nothing but the furniture in the room, but it was suited for the purpose.

Spencer shut the door and locked it, then motioned for Garrett to make his way further inside.

"Make yourself comfortable, Dr. Mitchell. Sit where you like."

As Spencer moved toward the desk, Garett chose one of the arm chairs and unbuttoned his jacket before sitting.

"Please, call me Garrett. No one calls me Doctor except my Mother when she's bragging."

Spencer grunted a quiet chuckle as he pulled another folder from the desk drawer. Walking it over to Garrett, he opened the cover and handed it to him with a pen.

"Very basic non disclosure agreement. Nothing you learn from this point on leaves the confidence of your own pie hole. If we find you spoke, wrote, sang, or did an interpretive dance to anyone about anything you know about this organization, we retain the right to cut out your tongue and bury your ass in a very dark place where no one will ever find you."

Garrett blinked and looked down at the folder.

"That's...not what this paper says, exactly, but somehow I don't think you're exaggerating."

He signed his name to the bottom anyway. Garrett Mitchell had a terrible, cavalier attitude that his or his family's money could get him out of any trouble he got himself into, so nothing his new employer could say was really going to scare him that much. He handed the folder back to Spencer.

"Ok, you're not from LA, you're a New Englander, so you're not going to know the lay of the land out here. You'd be more familiar with the East Coast outfits; New York, Philly, Chicago."

"Outfits? You mean like the crime families?"

Garrett's face suddenly froze. Spencer knew the look and waited. There was always that few moments of frantic panic where the rational brain of a man tries to figure out what to do with the irrational information it just put together.

Garrett Mitchell had just realized why Spencer kept using the word "organization" so much instead of "company" or "business." His face might have gone a little pale, but he didn't flinch. Instead, he casually crossed an ankle over his knee and put an elbow on the arm of the couch.

"Please, do go on." he managed.

It took Spencer fifteen minutes to give Garrett the rundown of The Firm- starting with Tyki Mikk, his Right Hand Man Yolo, the recent move from Las Vegas, and the HQ property.

"Then, there's Ms. Dayan. Amira. She's the one I've hired you for."

Spencer reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and took out a pack of cigarettes. He didn't continue speaking as he lit the smoke, or reached across the coffee table for an ash tray. After the first drag, he finally continued.

"She’s the boss's Left Hand. Well, 'Left Hand Lady' as some of them call her. That's a high-ranking position. Mr. Tyki trusts her completely, and she trusts him the same way. If he asks her to do something, she'll do it without question; and if she gives anyone in the crew an order, they know it's the word of Tyki Mikk- or as good as such."

There was a pause before Spencer continued to speak as he ashed his cigarette and considered his next words. Garrett narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, retrieving a small notepad and pen from the inner pocket of his own jacket. 

"She's not what she used to be. When I was assigned to her detail, she was real new to this kind of life. She was just learning how to shoot a gun. She was kind, and curious, liked to talk to you and ask questions."

He brought the cigarette up for another, longer drag. His eyebrows were furrowed, and he shook his head slowly when he began again.

"Then Mr. Conti got killed. It was a big fucking mess- never should have gone the way it did. They got ambushed on a job that should have been a lot easier. She took a bullet to the leg, and he took another one that would have killed her. But it killed him instead. Messed her up bad."

Garrett nodded as he jotted a few things down.

"And who was Mr. Conti?"

"Corrado Conti. He was an intelligence guy that knew Amir- Ms. Dayan's family from way back. He made his way to Las Vegas looking for her. Found her in Mr. Tyki's crew and talked his way into a job, if you can believe that. He just wanted to protect her. Said it was some kind of debt to her family. He was damned committed to it, too. He was teaching her to shoot, teaching her all kinds of field tactics; spook stuff, too. And she was proving to be a pretty fast learner. They were working out to be a good team. I think Mr. Tyki had plans for them. And they cared about each other- like family, you know?" 

By this time, Garrett was back to watching Spencer smoke his cigarette and stare at the space on the floor between his feet. He was already learning a lot about his new client; or whatever Ms. Dayan was going to be. He hadn't quite figured that part out yet.

"And how exactly did that affect her?"

Spencer let out a huff that was something between a sardonic laugh and a sigh.

"She...she just...changed. She was upset, of course, right after he died. She was trying to deal with recovering from being shot, losing her friend and teacher and arranging a funeral for him. Then suddenly the uppers decided that The Firm was moving to LA and that was that. After that, she started having trouble sleeping. She'd wake up at all hours, couldn't go back to sleep- or wouldn't. At some point, I think, she just stopped sleeping all together. I don't know how long that went on; but that's when things really started going downhill. That's when her personality started to change."

Garrett nodded, and was now furiously writing, flipping the page in his notebook and going back to writing. Spencer went on.

"Then she started walking. I thought she was doing it for exercise at first, to work out her injured leg, but she'd walk for miles, aimlessly until I or one of the men would get her headed back toward the HQ. Then, she started running. And damn, can she run. We've all had to step up our game there just to keep up with her. What's worse is that sometimes she'll just take off, like a damn greyhound or something."

He stopped and watched Garrett scribbling.

"You want me to stop for a second and let you catch up?"

"Nope, keep going."

"Okay...well...she talks to herself. I mean, I think she's talking to herself. Hard telling when I have no idea what she's saying."

That made Garrett look up.

"You don't know what she's saying?"

Spencer shook his head.

"She speaks Hebrew."

Garrett broke into a huge grin.

"Ha! Fascinating! So she's from...?"

"She came here from Israel, but she was born in Egypt. Her Father is Moroccan. Not sure about her Mother, but she was raised Jewish."

Nodding, Garrett put a few more notes down and then closed the pad and clicked the pen shut.

"Well, I can tell you a few things right now. First of all, I absolutely cannot do anymore until I meet Ms. Dayan in person. Secondly, you need to stop smoking. Third, exactly how long have you been in love with her?"

Spencer was snuffing out the cigarette into the ash tray when Garrett threw out the last question; which caught him one hundred percent off-guard. His mouth dropped open a bit and he started to argue, but Garrett held up both his hands defensively.

"Hey, I'm just doing my job- I'm observing. If I didn't notice things, I'd be doing a shit job, right? Anyway, buttoned up, or buried in a dark place. I've got it. So, when do I get to meet her?"