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And no, I can’t think of another safe place off the top of my head, but that’s no excuse. If nothing else, I should have left her in the treehouse, even if I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get back to pick her up for a few days. The treehouse had food, water, plenty of wood for the fire, and the advantage of being completely off the Sweetwater crew’s radar.
“Pies,” I mutter, slamming the heel of my hand against the steering wheel as the reason for my tongue cramp comes rushing into my conscious mind. I told Wimpy my sister was a caterer, who made the best holiday pies. If he remembered that, it wouldn’t be hard to track down Mel’s catering company. There are only three in town and the other two are named after their head chefs, both of whom are men.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I curse, pressing down harder on the gas as my heart races faster.
Praying I’ve reached them in time, I take a sharp left into the alley leading to the back parking lot, and nearly run head-on into a wild-eyed Nora. She’s clutching an equally terrified-looking Clyde to her chest, but nearly drops the cat as Mel crashes into her from behind. She recovers at the last second, snatching Clyde around the ribs and holding him close as she squints into the headlights.
Wrenching open my door, I shout, “It’s me. Get in!”
I don’t have to ask them twice. A beat later, I see why.
The man with the ponytail running around the house behind them isn’t someone I’ve met, but I’ve seen enough pictures of Cassie Ann’s oldest grandson around the cupcake shop to know Rex on sight.
Rex, the apple of his grandmother’s eye.
Rex, the only Sweetwater descendant trusted with establishing his own mini mob upstate.
Rex, the truly dangerous man the Sweetwaters call in to do their dirty work when mob life stops being cute and starts getting real.
Rumor has it Rex killed his first orthodontist, the one who spaced his teeth out so far that he looked like a deranged, slightly rotten jack-o’-lantern. Rumor also has it that he originally needed braces because he liked to beat people up by repeatedly slamming his teeth into his victims’ noses so he could taste the blood when it started to flow.
I don’t know how true that last part is, but I know for a fact that Rex is the one who broke into Clyde’s owner’s house and stole the cat in the first place. It takes a real psychopath to break into another person’s home in the dead of night, having no idea what he’s going to find there or how well the other person might be armed.
There’s no doubt in my mind that Rex is dangerous, a fact he proves by pulling what looks like a stun gun from the waistband of his pants and aiming it at where Nora is flinging open the passenger’s side door. On instinct, I slam on the horn and flash my lights, startling Rex enough, that by the time he lifts the gun again, Mel and Nora are both in the SUV.
I zoom down the driveway in reverse and spin out into the street.
Thankfully, there aren’t any other cars around this part of town on Thanksgiving night. I avoid a collision and seconds later we’re flying down the road away from the catering company.
“What the hell was that Matty?” Mel asks, her voice strained as she pokes her head between the seats. “Whothe hell was that?”
“Buckle up,” I say tightly, checking the rearview mirror. “We need to find a place to get out of sight before they catch up with us.”
“Iambuckled up,” Mel shoots back. “And, no, we don’t need a place to hide. We need to go to the police. Right now.”
“I second that,” Nora says. “That man had a gun.”
“A stun gun,” I correct. “Cassie Ann doesn’t let her guys carry actual firearms. Just stun guns and knives.”
“And?” Mel screeches directly into my ear. “You can kill someone with a knife! Probably pretty easily once you stun them and they’re lying helpless on the ground. I don’t care if you’re a mobster or a spy, Matty, this has to stop. Now.”
“What?” I ask, cutting a sharp look Nora’s way.
“We both think you’re a spy,” Nora says, clutching Clyde tighter as I take a sharp right, then another right, heading back the way we came on an alternate street.
“We do,” Mel pipes up. “It makes the most sense. But either way, this has gone too far.”
I sigh, my stomach balling into a knot as my thoughts race.
She’s right, this has gone too far, but I can’t take them to the police, come clean about being in the CIA, and get backup just like that. Contrary to popular belief, CIA officers aren’t all-powerful and have zero law enforcement power. We gather intelligence on foreign governments and bad actors. That’s it. The few times I’ve been part of an arrest operation, it’s taken dozens of hours of work behind the scenes to get other agencies involved, obtain the proper warrants, and sort out jurisdiction and protocols.
In the movies, being a “spy” is all glamor and zooming around in fast cars, taking out the bad guys with impunity.
In the real world, I drive a muddy SUV and am likely to end up in jail if I take this to the police. At least, unless I’m willing to blow my cover and my shot at making it out of the CIA without becoming a liability to the agency. I don’t want to live the next five to ten years under the radar in witness protection while a more competent officer takes down the Sweetwaters. I want to get this done and get out, free and clear, like I planned.
Which means continuing to lie to the people I love, but only for a little bit longer.
Assuring myself this is the best way to keep them safe—the less they know about my real job, the better—I say, “I can’t go to the police. They won’t believe I stole Clyde from the Sweetwaters to return him to his owner, and they really won’t believe I didn’t know that half the work I’ve been doing for Cassie Ann involves wire fraud.”
