CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Two months later, I found myself sitting behind a spotless glass desk in a prestigious London office.

I was dressed in an immaculate black suit and bored out of my mind with paperwork. Miss Sharkey (appropriately named – or should that have been Snarky?) had decided to keep an eye on me before she agreed to clear me for field duty, and I had to admit that I was as close as I’d ever been to having my sturdy rod of control snapped in half.

Filing in chronological order should have been declared a modern-day torture method. Seriously, I’d take waterboarding over the past three weeks of hell I’d been forced to endure.

The inactivity was killing me, the coffee sucked, and the work was mind-numbingly dull. Faxing, copying, redirecting telephone calls, typing, spreadsheets, and more of the same came my way daily.

The eight-hour workday suddenly morphed into a suffocating prison sentence with seemingly no end in sight.

I couldn’t help but wonder if they were actively trying to court my r