<div class="floatright">(http://i1096.photobucket.com/albums/g323/shmband/langlois_2206264b_zpsb6mppd1l.jpg)</div>For most of his career, Drew Cartwright had lived by the principal that to get the story you wanted to tell, you had to first get the story your subject wanted you to tell.  And less than forty-eight hours ago, he'd found himself adrift without that anchor.  Because unlike politicians and spin-doctors who were more than happy to tell a story, even if you knew it was bullshit, the FBI had a long history of being tight-lipped and reticent, and content to neither tell a story of their own, nor confirm or deny anyone else's.<br/><br/>Which was why an opaque invitation to accompany active agents on a case in Florida had thrown him for a loop.  It was, as far as he knew, unprecedented, and wholly suspect.  But it was also irresistable.  For an organisation that was normally so secretive, it was impossible for him to come away without<em>something</em>to write.  Not that he was naive.  He knew that the bureau wasn't going to lead him into Area 51 or observe any sensitive operation.  He'd already chalked this up as an attempt to water down popular conceptions by getting him to sit in a room with three agents as they conducted a banal raid on some rogue trader's accounts, and to watch them audit his bank records for a week.<br/><br/>If nothing else, at least there would be sun.<br/><br/>"Stevens wasn't it?" Drew said, his eyes averting to the young man next to him.  He had chosen to ignore Ryan's comment about Sarah, not because it wasn't of interest, but because he was trying to detect the motive behind it.  Some sort of a feign?  Gallows humour among agents?  Instead, he chose to make small talk with the apparent newbie.  "How do you feel about that?  You joined the bureau on the language program right?  Was bikinis and partying what you had in mind as you worked through that?"