Page 130 of Jonesing for a Spy

Bad.

This is the part where if I had control of the op I would slow things down or call things off.

Everything is… wrong.

The location has no strategic value. Hitting this substation doesn’t impact the grid. Score one for Texans, but at the expense of the whole plan means this feels more like a suicide mission or like we’re making a point.

I don’t want to make a point.

Sally’s been raring to go. It’s like she’s itching for a fight. And for someone with no background, someone I can’t get a bead on, that adds to the unknown. Unknown is never good, but going in blind, with wildcards, with an excited and excitable unknown.

I should bail on this whole thing.

But it’s Fighter who worries me. Even not being the leader, he is in a lot of respects.

And the leader, Ricky? He was on the first leg of that flight that exploded. His ticket was for Minneapolis to Phoenix, but he apparently got off in Austin. The airline would ban him for skiplagging for sure.

But my gut says an FAA ban isn’t the issue. Blowing up the plane by leaving his bag on board while bailing out for this feels like a calling card and a sign he plans to go out in a blaze of glory.

So here I sit, in Young’s blacked out SUV pretending it’s an Uber with the light and everything, scanning through everything I know.

Mom arrived at the scene two hours ago and is laying low. If she doesn’t want to be seen, she won’t be. I don’t know whether I love that she has my back or if I regret pulling her into this trap. Because this looks and feels like a snare in every way.

My gut says this will fall to shit in an explosive manner. I’m only hoping that that doesn’t include the substation.

Or me.

Ants march up and down my nerves. I want to escape, scrape my skin off, and scream all at the same time.

“Settle.” Young’s one-word command does little good.

“It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. It’s a powder keg, and we’re carrying torches.”

“Except Fitzgibbons.”

Um, what? “Because?”

“That dude is carrying a flamethrower.”

Fuck my life. “Why do you say that?”

“Germaine is no leader. He’s the mouthpiece. He’s the spark that lights the flame. Fitzgibbons is the coordinator. He let Germaine assume that role to lay low. He’s been plotting big things. I dug more last night. Didn’t you see my text?”

I shake my head. No, I did not. Grabbing my phone, I see his text went to the group chat with Mom. Well, at least she’s clued in.

My eyes scan the message as Young keeps talking, filling me in on what I missed. “Aaron Fitzgibbons—Fighter—works for an electrical contractor in Illinois. The place has been under investigation by joint task forces for NSA and the FBI for conspiracy to down the national grid. You should know all this, Jones. It’s your fiancé they were investigating. Congrats by the way.”

I shake my head, my mouth popping open and closed with no words forming.

“You didn’t know?”

“About the investigation, yes. About him being here?” I’ve run out of oxygen, and my words are barely above a choked whisper. “No. I had no clue.”

And that’s not good. What else don’t I know?

“Yeah, well, regardless of what Germaine thinks, Fitzgibbons is in charge.”

I throw my head back on the seat and thump it twice, then a third time for good measure.