Page 132 of Jonesing for a Spy

“Fighter?” the shorter man with a thin mustache guesses looking at Sally’s back. To me he adds, “Are you Janis or Sally?”

So this is Ricky Germain, aka Hello. He’s wiry, even skinny, with too little muscle underneath. The man seems to have enough to hold his frame up, but in the way those skinny Hollywood actresses do, the ones who should be offered a cheeseburger and then made to eat it.

“You Hello?” I ask, with no enthusiasm, but nod. “Janis. That’s Sally.” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder and shuffle my boot in the grass.

A bubble of laughter escapes him. “Not what I pictured, but to each his own.” He extends a hand. “I’m Ricky.”

Shit just gets worse.

Real name. Bubbly personality from a social outcast with narcissistic tendencies. Less than two days after I presume he blew up an aircraft. He’s either on his meds… or has decided this is his final stand. How this continues to devolve is beyond me.

Maybe I should retire, become a content creator, and start doing Pilates. That sounds hard, but not life-threatening.

I snort. “Sorry.” I wave. “That wasn’t about you. Where’s Fighter? He’s the one who wanted this time and place.”

Hello shrugs. Sally eventually stubs out his cigarette on the ground and turns to extend a hand to the newcomer, grumbling about wasting his time.

After a few more minutes of the worst small talk, the three of us split up enough to wander the site, supposedly knowing what we’re all looking at and meet back at the locked gate. Hello pulls a pair of bolt cutters from his backpack and slices through the metal fencing. “No need to cut the bolt, when the fence is weaker,” he offers.

The fact that it wasn’t electrified was lucky for him. So many are, and he didn’t even bother to check. He takes DGAF to a new level. Hello squeezes through the hole he cut, scraping the backpack through the cut wires with more caution than he does his skin.

Sally scrubs a hand down his face as he watches. “Whatcha got in there?”

“Bomb,” Hello replies nonchalantly. “Took me since two nights ago to get all the stuff. Different hardware stores, some farm supply shops. Had to spread my shopping out to not get pegged. Fucking ridiculous what the government does these days. Am I right?” His speech is too quick, too excited.

“Thought we needed to wait for Fighter,” Sally surprises me by going on. He’d never be described as loquacious, and here he is chatty.

“Fuck him,” Hello responds. “He thinks he’s the brains, but he’s not. Always messaging me privately to plan and strategize.” He uses air quotes.

Sally and I glance at one another but both return our gazes to the man who puts on the fucking vest inside the cage of the substation.

“Vest,” I say, hoping comms picks up the sound.

The glasses show to the agency, not to the team here. And my crew very much needs to know the state of play isn’t someone fucking around.

Taking a step back, I place some space between me and the whacko who no longer fits the profile. Wanting to see pain inflicted and watch revenge play out is not the same thing as putting your life on the line for a plan that does not work.

This isn’t a coiling snake. It’s a den of vipers.

Now I have to know, and I have to get answers. “Ricky, if you wanted to take out the power grid, why not worm into the chips? Why not take it out remotely? Digitally?”

“I’m a hero, Janis. Not a computer geek. My name will be on every news channel. There will be blogs about me, articles for decades to come. I’ll have a Wikipedia article.” He laughs. “I already do… I wrote it this morning. Time to publish.” He whips out his phone and smiles with glee while pressing buttons. His smile rivals the Joker on any Batman movie.

“He’s sick,” I say to Sally, never taking my eyes off Hello.

“Does he know this won’t impact the grid at all, but be an annoyance for thirty thousand rural residents who rely on it?”

Turning my head, I study the man at my side. He’s probably my age if not a little older. Tall, broad. He has resting dick face, complete with a permanent scowl, and a small scar at the corner of his right eye. But his bearing is too straight, too perfect if he weren’t fighting to hold it differently.

“You must be my crew,” a voice booms behind us.

Startled, I jump. Get it together, Jones.

Spinning, I see the man I assume to be Fighter morph from pompous arrogance to surprise to fear. “You!” he seethes, staring straight at Sally.

“You,” Sally growls right back.

What the fuck is happening?