Page 13 of The Pleasure of Panic

I yawn. Declan sees me, closes his eyes for a second, misses the actual ramming of the door, and then opens them, still looking at me. “Be present,” he says. “This shit is no joke.”

“I’m here,” I say.

The three guys with guns go in first, battering ram set aside now, and Declan and I wait it out as they search the place. TV makes our job look a lot more exciting than it really is. I mean, I haven’t ever had to go inside a building alone like Fox fucking Mulder and take my chances. You send in the real team first to do your dirty work, then guys like me go in after it’s all clear.

By the time it is clear, the DEA has shown up with dogs, and Declan and I enter behind them.

There’s no one inside so I just stand there, looking around.

Lots of smaller rooms in the back. Like little offices, but with no computers or anything. Just tables. Maybe consultation rooms or something. There are motivational posters hanging on the walls. Posters that say things like, “There are no traffic jams on the extra mile,” and, “Success is not a destination, it’s a journey.”

The front room is huge. Tall, industrial ceiling with open ductwork. One side has mats and punching bags hanging from the ceiling, like they practice kicking men in the balls over there. The other side is set up with low tables and big overstuffed chairs and it barely takes any imagination on my part to picture small groups of sad women sitting around them drinking coffee as they lament what their lives have become.

Declan disappears out the front door. I stay behind, hidden in the shadows, and watch as a small woman with long, dark hair and fiery eyes comes running across the street, forcing her way through several Denver cops who try to stop her with a mad grab at her coat.

Issy Grey.

But she makes it and stands toe to toe with Declan, who is at least a whole foot taller, as they talk. Or, more accurately, she yells at him, her arms flailing as the whole what-the-fuck-do-you-think-you’re-doing act plays out.

A guy with a dog brushes past me, goes through the front door, and stands next to Declan, waiting to be seen. I push past people after him, wanting to hear this part, and end up standing next to the dog as it pants, looking up at me with a wide dog-faced grin.

I actually smile at him because… dogs.

“Finn,” Declan says. “Take Miss Grey down to Lakewood for questioning.”

“What?” the woman says. People have her by the arm now. Two men. Two big men.

And then shit just goes… awry.

Her body twists, her arms and legs also in motion. She’s got one restraining arm bent behind the guy’s back and he drops to the ground crying out in pain. The other one gets a chop to the throat that leaves him gasping for breath and even though I’m the agent and she’s the suspect, I find myself rooting for her to take out Declan too.

It’s not personal or anything. I just like to root for the underdog.

She doesn’t. Take him out, that is. A massive show of force has her face down on the pavement, her cheek pressed into the sidewalk, as she spits threats about lawsuits and unreasonable violence.

Seconds later she’s led away, wrists zip-tied behind her back, and shoved in the back of my car under Declan’s orders.

I just stand there, watching the entire scene play out with my usual level of indifference.

“Finn!” Declan yells right up in my face. “For fuck’s sake, get your shit together! Take her to Lakewood and put her in a room!”

So I do. Because that’s my job.

I get in the car, start it up, and make my way slowly through downtown and over to Colfax, deciding against the freeway, since there’s only one freeway route over to Lakewood anyway and it looks packed with traffic as I pass by. I drive slow, not in a hurry, and look at the woman in my back seat from the rear-view mirror.

She stares back, daring me to speak to her.

But I don’t.

Because I just don’t care enough about what’s happening to put forth the effort.

Almost an hour later she’s in a dimly-lit room, hands cuffed to the table, ankles shackled, screaming threats at the camera and two-way mirror that would make a biker blush.

I’m standing on the other side of the mirror in a room filled with monitors, holding a bag of Mrs. Fields’ Chocolate Chip Cookies I got from the vending machine, feeding them into my mouth one at a time, watching her.

She’s tiny. Everything about her is small. But fierce. Nothing about her is weak.

The door bursts open and Declan walks in, slamming it closed behind him. Issy Grey hears it—the room isn’t completely soundproof because of the mirror—and stops spewing threats to tilt her head and listen.