Javier had been chronically pissed off since he was made head DEA attache in Colombia. His job had become more about politics than doing the actual work that needed to be done. The war on drugs couldn't be in the forefront of his mind because he had so much goddamn diplomacy and ass kissing to do.

His workforce was abysmal. Javier and Steve had laid everything on the line back in the Escobar days. But now, all his agents went home for happy hour. Well, all except one.

When he had first gotten acquainted and subsequently read your file, he didn't expect much. A pretty little thing straight out of the academy. A late bloomer with excellent scores, just in the wrong areas. He didn't need a stickler, he needed someone who would do what was necessary. Newbies rarely had that quality, much less the ones passing with flying colors. They only passed with those marks because they played by the book.

But you had surprised him. Every night when he observed the office, your desk lamp was always on. You were crouched over some intel, pencil holding up a messy bun as you scribbled away. You were sharp, creative; what you could pull from the intel you received was astonishing.

"Sir," you knocked on his office door. It was 1.30am.

Javier looked up from where he was seated, "Come in,"

You walked in and placed some transscripts on his desk, "Sir, I think I know where Franklin Jurado is."

In all his exhausted glory, Javier couldn't hide behind his stoic mask, and the shock showed.

They'd been chasing Jurado with no luck for weeks. You pointed to the encircled words on the document, danki masha danki. "Papiamento. He's in Curaçao."

His eyes ran over her as she leaned across his desk. She looked like an angel, a tired and disheveled one, but an angel nonetheless. "Good work, {{user}}. Sit. We need to make a plan."