Page 129 of Jonesing for a Spy

And Sally is straight-up unknown.

I can’t imagine a worse predicament to find myself in, that I put myself in. And my backup is unofficial, off the radar, with wildcard tendencies… at least two out of the three.

Speaking of wildcards, Mom pops over during the morning clusterfuck and gets read in on everything. I give her Young’s number, just in case, and start a group message with both on the off chance I need them.

By sundown, I’m claustrophobic from being in this dingy, polyester-coated motel room. I’ve eaten anything that can be delivered via mobile app. I need a workout in the worst way. I pull a ball cap low over my eyes and lace up my running shoes.

“Hey,” I say while tapping the door frame between our joined rooms. “I’m going for a run. I won’t be long. I can’t sit anymore.”

“I’m surprised you lasted this long,” Mom says from between her legs. Her downward dog is impressive, and the muscles in her shoulders are proof. “Be smart.”

“Always.” Sliding my keycard into my sports bra and tucking my phone into my shorts, I leave the hotel.

It takes no time at all to warm up, despite the chill in the December air and the darkening night sky. This isn’t the smartest time, and I wish I knew the area better, but leaving in the middle of the day couldn’t happen with all the plans being made. Ricky got chatty. Hell, everyone got chatty, and me bailing would’ve undermined the whole reason I’m here.

If I’m going to leave my family, risk my life, and spend time away from home, it’s because my conscience demands it, not because I need the thrill of it. Thrill burned out of me in the sandbox. I’m just fine with an unthrilling life. Except maybe in the bedroom. Strider manages to make that exhilarating. Thank God.

We’re on the hook and on the clock tomorrow. High noon. Fighter thinks it’s poetic. None of the rest of us argued.

I need all the time I can get. One, for research. Everything I can know going in will help me come out alive. And two, if my brain will allow it, sleep for recovery.

Strider

Is that Kevin?

Why is she using Kevin?

Just say no to Kevin.

It’s not her vibrator, it’s a random vibration pattern on my phone. Someone’s calling.

I swipe at my eyes hoping that wipes the sleep from my voice and answer, unable to see the caller ID. “Hello?”

“Strider. It’s June. Listen up.”

That’s more effective than espresso or a cold shower at waking me with a jolt. “Yeah.” My eloquence is astounding.

“Grab a flight to Austin now. I’ll text more as I know it. Something’s off. I can feel it in my gut. I want you here in case Mirren needs you.”

That panic is the feeling of acid cauterizing through my veins with lethal accuracy.

She has you and Fitzgerald. Why would she need me? Never mind. “I’ll be there as fast as I can. What do I need to know?”

My worst fears are coming to fruition. I throw my glasses on and hurriedly toss on clothes. I slide the dentist’s toothbrush from my first night here and a little travel toothpaste into my pocket and grab my wallet and keys.

She talks quickly, every word worse than the last.

I’m out the door and heading to the one person I know I can trust with this when I hear the words that chill me to the bone. “This is a trap.”

55

sua sponte

Mirren

The worst part of living and dying by my gut instincts is that I trust them. And I know when something’s off.

And something’s off.