Page 135 of Jonesing for a Spy

“Yeah, so no one can know.”

He levels me with his gaze. “Are you telling me I need to be discreet?”

“I’m telling you she’s going to give me hell for bringing you, but I knew I could trust you.”

“Fuck you for being all chivalrous and shit.”

We’re cuffed, surrounded, and being marched to our respective cruisers when June appears out of nowhere, extends a foot, and puts Price-slash-Sal face down in the dirt. “Oops,” she says with feigned apology.

Jamie looks like he’s seen a ghost. “Mom?”

57

the truth, only sanitized

Mirren

I was in a concrete room with a metal table and metal chair for hours.

Brody knew the moment I enabled the glasses that something was going down. He lost visual when they flew off my face during the blast wave but still had a live signal. Geolocation showed I was outside Austin, Texas. To his credit, he began working on getting here immediately.

That took hours but at least the local sheriff and Texas Bureau of Investigation took me at my word when I asked for two thick Ace bandages and ice for my knee. They agreed to cut my jeans off at mid thigh and allow me to dress the wound.

It’s not as bad as it could be. The original surgery was state-of-the-art, the kind used on professional athletes to avoid reinjury. But they don’t test those out on the violent, unpredictability of bomb detonations, so I’m a pioneer in that respect.

The detectives locally and with TBI were skeptical. I offered my key and my hotel room number, explained everything they would find, down to the tablet and the messages on the dark web hidden by the game logo. I explained my op, and what I knew of Sal’s op, though he could get out of his own mess. I only wanted them to see my transparency and willingness to participate where and how I could.

Brody and the agency swept in and commandeered my equipment, even if it wasn’t theirs to begin with, and found a way to get me sprung. It didn’t go over well that I wouldn’t leave my family.

It also didn’t go over well that I had info that I didn’t have a source for. But Young and Ranger had done me a solid, and I wouldn’t drag them in to anything where I could avoid it.

So I’m in the waiting room of the local sheriff’s department, Brody looming overhead, tempting me away with promises of a hospital visit if I’ll just leave.

Nope. And he should know me better than that by now.

Sal walks through the door, looking pulpy and swollen. He stares down at me with loathing and malice. I can see it in his face. He would come after me—woman or not—if he didn’t have witnesses.

“Ice your face. Get home to your kids and have a good Christmas. Impressive lack of digital footprint, by the way.”

He stutters out some random sounds before shaking his head and leaving with what appears to be his handler.

“He has two strikes, you know. This is not a good look for him.” Brody says as if I’m supposed to get some hidden meaning.

“Is this a strike against me too?” I lift my chin and hold his gaze.

“I don’t know yet. Off the books is frowned upon. Pulling me away from home on the night of our neighborhood holiday party is fifty-fifty. My wife is pissed, but I’m relieved. Catching the bad guys is a win. Even if you only found one.”

“That’s the worst part of all of this. A fried substation. A suicide bomber. An aircraft full of people whose families have funerals instead of parties. And the guy left standing is a dumbass who gives no fucks. In the meantime, my cover is blown, my knee is wrecked, and we probably stopped nothing, because our grid security is weak at best, unsecured at worst.”

“You summed up everything about government service in one fell swoop. We try. Things get lost. People get hurt. And things don’t always get better. But everyone who has heat when the temps drop tonight, and everyone who flips on a light switch or can cook a meal is indebted to the actions of a woman who wouldn’t allow tragedy to happen on her watch. Proud of you, Jones. Unofficially, of course.”

I pretend there aren’t tears wanting to spill over my lashes. “Of course.”

Mom walks out at that point and takes the seat next to me. “How’s your knee, Scooter?”

Not Scooter in front of my handler.

“Mrs. Jones.” Brody dips his head.