Page 103 of Jonesing for a Spy

“What?”

“I have bills. I have a car note. I have doctor’s appointments when the VA is VA-ing. And I like pretty panties. I take care of myself⁠—”

“You’re in love with me?” he asks urgently.

Oh that. Nothing like making myself vulnerable while everything hangs in the balance. Vulnerability is hard, anger is much easier. “Yes. Are you happy?”

“Fucking elated, Freckles.” His soft laugh bubbles through the phone. “Fucking elated. So, tell me, baby, are you coming to me or am I coming to you, because being apart from you is torture.”

It is. I know from experience.

“When’s your return flight?” I ask.

“I booked a one-way. Yours?”

He booked a one-way ticket. What did I do to deserve this man?

“I’m set to return on Wednesday morning, but I’ll see if I can bump it up.” Besides, me being here will set off alarms, the repercussions of which could be terrible. I don’t say that. That’s face-to-face conversation, but I’m playing with fire if Brody discovers either by cell tower or plane ticket that I’m in Peoria.

Then again, Strider’s not here, so maybe this is a small miracle after all.

43

grenade in a pigpen

Mirren

Nate comes through big time. By Tuesday night, I have faked news articles, beautifully generated videos, and social media posts with bot reactions—everything I need to look legit. And lots of them.

Not able to get a flight out and with his parents already having gone to bed, I sit criss-cross applesauce on Strider’s little sister’s bed uploading links and evidence for approval by the Texas Trio and doing what I can to poke the bear to get more info. It works.

And all it took was Janis blowing up a coal-fired plant—at least, digitally—to earn their trust. There’s a reason the NSA exists, even if its founding was overreach and its methods are questionable.

I so wish Brody would be reasonable. When it comes down to it, he needs me and I need him right now. This is a full-blown op, and while I trust my mom, she loves the action so much she can forget the stakes. I’d rather have the resources of the federal government at my fingertips.

If this goes well, it’s career-making. If it goes poorly, it’s not just career-ending, it’s treason…

…if I survive.

Since I’m on my own, I’m cobbling together a team of friends of friends and random colleague recommendations. It’s the professional equivalent of a wing and a prayer.

A Ranger buddy of mine knows a guy named Young who lives not far from Austin and says he’s trustworthy.

Here goes nothing.

“Hello?” If cold had a voice, it would be this one.

“Young? Jorge Johnson gave me your name and number. I’m Mirren Jones. And I… I need some help.”

“Sorry. Wrong guy.” He disconnects.

Jorge told me Fitzgerald Young was calculating and aloof. He wasn’t kidding.

I dial again, and the call is screened and sent to voicemail.

I take one last shot.

Rangers lead the way.