This is the big one! The season finale of The DSA Season One arrives next week. Everything has been building up to this.
I remember working on this series way back in 2015. I had two extremely young children at home and I had the plot outlines for the entire season spread all over the dining room table. At the time, I didn’t have an office or even a folding table to work on. Everything was out in the open, from my handwritten notes to the dialogue of certain scenes.
It was manic. Everything was coming so fast back then, building and building from nothing. There were whole evenings spent at Dunkin Donuts just pounding on the keyboard trying to piece it all together.
Those were good times. Today is even better.
Seeing the project finally out there in the world is utterly astonishing considering the lengths I’ve gone to rewrite, reconstruct, and rethink the series from start to finish. The DSA is definitely stronger from the changes made.
I hope you’ve enjoyed the journey.
The DSA is on sale right now!
Take a sneak peek at next week’s release, Broken Loyalties, below!
Broken Loyalties Sneak Peek
Chapter One
Susan Metcalf stared, and the woman in the mirror stared back. She judged her every brush stroke, the way her hair lay in thick tufts to the right. She quietly criticized the crease in her collar. No matter how hard she tried it refused to flatten.
She tore through the final knots in her hair. Her face was unrecognizable. Thin lines ran from her eyes. Flakes of dry skin covered her cheeks and brow from the unrelenting winter. Sadness penetrated once-strong blue irises. It was not a fear of lost youth, a terror of age creeping up on her out of nowhere. She had accepted how time ran counter to her wishes no matter the steps taken.
Her lack of recognition came from the growing number of compromises and mistakes that filled her days. Each stole from her, each pulled at her core and ripped an essential piece from what little remained of the woman who started this journey so long ago. Promises had been made, and quests had been undertaken and left incomplete. But time was a bitch of a thing, and when she fought against the rapidly draining hourglass all she managed to do was watch the sand empty in a pool on the floor.
Leaving the mirror behind, Metcalf tucked the brush away. The bed remained untouched, and the curtains were drawn as always. Little light followed her through the upstairs of the home. Her home. It was funny to call the residence that, though. Metcalf’s name might have been on the tax statements and public records regarding the property, but it had never been her home. She had furnished it, made sure the kitchen remained stocked in coffee and other bare essentials—actually, pretty much only coffee. Beyond that it remained empty and devoid of life.
The domicile served to merely paint a picture for the casual observer. It was a place of residence to track her, to monitor her, though she rarely occupied the home. She paid a cleaning service to maintain the property. She never spoke to the neighbors and couldn’t recall their names, though they were fully displayed on their mailboxes lining the road. Community was not her strong suit, and her weakness grew more apparent with each passing day.
It was a nice place, and it would have made a wonderful home for a family—all she needed was a pair of kids for the spare rooms on the second floor, maybe an entertainment center in the basement. The backyard stretched to the woods for plenty of exploring. She viewed the path as an escape route instead. Every aspect of her life was filtered through the lens of the mission she had served for decades. Now, she had to watch it crumble.
Because of her weaknesses.
Days had passed since she’d last stepped foot in the DSA warehouse, since she asked her personal assistant for a day to set things right and plan for what came next. She had never imagined the lull, never dreamed of the pause in the game played out by her enemies. Was she overly cautious or simply predicting the wrong outcome? Was this what Sullivan had warned her about: her inability to trust and reach out when needed? Had he been trying to help her instead of sabotage her at every turn?
The doorbell provided her answer. Her lip curled in a smirk. She had grown tired of the waiting and, at last, it was finished.
Metcalf took the stairs slowly, her steps defiant to the pressing of the bell in steady repetition. Each board creaked, announcing her arrival long before she reached the bottom. Her eyes sharpened with each footfall. Her posture straightened. This was no time for weakness. If this was to be the end, she would meet it straight on: strong and unyielding.
Two men waited on her stoop. She recognized them immediately. One was casual in his stance to hide his stature. The other met her gaze directly. He clutched a hand tight to his open badge while the other hovered close to his holster.
“Director Metcalf,” Martin announced. The left side of his face was discolored from his recent altercation with Agent Riley. The NSA logo gleamed in the sunlight. He took a step away, allowing her to open the outer glass door.
“Yes?” she asked, innocence in her voice. “Can I help you?”
Kanigher, Martin’s long-time partner, shuffled closer. He held the door open for her and smiled. “We need you to come with us, Susan.”
She leaned along the frame of the door. “What is this about?”
“Step over to the car, ma’am,” Martin continued, unwilling to entertain questions. They followed orders, the only thing they truly understood.
Behind the pair on the stoop, another two agents took up positions along the sidewalk. A cargo van was parked in front of her property with a fifth man behind the wheel. All wore matching deep blue uniforms with the same insignia dotting the upper right. Despite the varied agencies they served, all now appeared to belong to a single entity.
The DSA.
Sullivan’s move. It was time. Metcalf scanned the block. No neighbors poked their heads out. No innocents dotted the area.
“If I refuse?”
A pair of cuffs dangled between Kanigher’s waiting fingers. Martin unclasped his holster and pulled out his Glock.
“You won’t, Susan,” Kanigher explained.
Behind the frame of the door, her fingers typed on her cell phone. When she finished, the message received with nothing but a smiley face in return, Metcalf dropped the device into her jacket pocket. She pulled the coat free from the hanger. She closed the door behind her and joined the agents.
“Let’s go, then.”
