Page 134 of Jonesing for a Spy

“Finally fucking got you, Fitzgibbons.”

Wait. I twist to get a view of the man speaking. If my eyes aren’t betraying me, that’s Price O’Neill, the man who assaulted me and nearly killed me. The man who broke out of prison. The man who was undercover at Electric Peoria to sink me. A man I can’t know anything about without blowing Mirren’s cover and getting her fired.

I fucking hate secrets.

“Price.” His name on my lips is bitter and incredulous. “Price O’Neill.”

Later, I’ll wonder how those are the words that roused Mirren from whatever stupor she was in. Later, I’ll wonder how she could move so fast when she was in so much pain. Because my feisty, perfect woman rolls to one side, rises on her good leg, and lunges, pummeling the man Jamie holds at gunpoint. When he’s bloody and she’s spewed everything hateful she can think of, she shakes her wrist in the air as if that will make it hurt less.

It’s the opening I need since managing to dodge elbows and fists is more precarious than it looks in the movies. I pry her from his supine form and throw her over my shoulder yet again, being careful not to reinjure whatever is hurting her.

I retreat a few steps and slide Mirren down my front. When we’re eye-to-eye, I kiss her hard on the mouth and ask against her lips, “What hurts?”

“My knee.” Tears pour over her lashes. It’s pain, but I can tell it’s defeat too. She’s worked so hard on her recovery.

“We’ll get you checked out. When can you leave?”

She shrugs. “Never had an op go belly up so badly or so quickly. Since I have no one to report to, I really don’t know.”

That’s when the whirling sound of sirens comes careening over the hill.

“You good, Jones?” Young says, looking over his shoulder.

Mirren, now on her feet under her own steam, nods. “Go.”

With nothing more than a return nod, the man takes off at a clip I’d never expect from someone so solid.

Within moments, we stand—my fiancée, her brother, one former employee and one soon-to-be former employee—completely surrounded by more cops than I’ve ever seen respond to anything ever, all with guns pointed straight at us.

If it weren’t December, this would be brilliant marketing for a deodorant company. Five people, arms all aloft, everyone trying to talk at once. But it’s my lady who takes the lead—tip of the spear as it were—and speaks.

“My name is Mirren Jones. I work for the CIA under handler Brody Daxton.”

“What the fuck?” Jamie whispers as if there’s no air in his lungs.

“Behind me you will find another agent named Sal Smith,” Freckles continues.

“Way to blow my fucking cover,” Price, or rather, Sal, grumbles.

“CIA doesn’t operate on U.S. soil,” an officer says.

“That’s what you think,” Sal mutters.

“As well as my fiancé and my brother, who have nothing to do with this op. There’s also a man named Aaron Fitzgibbons who will, after you release his custody to the FBI, be charged with treason, conspiracy, and sedition as he plotted to take down the U.S. power grid. He was one of two co-conspirators. The other”—she nods to the wreckage— “the other was Ricky Germaine of Minneapolis. You’ll find he’s wanted in connection with the flight to Phoenix that exploded not long after taking off night before last.”

Their faces go ashen as they look between each other in disbelief.

She attempts to kneel but collapses with a hiss of pain, and we silently follow her lead and all take a knee. “Smith and I have been working the case from different angles. Langley can corroborate. We all willingly accept our cuffs and our Miranda rights. Please contact the agency to follow proper channels.”

“Did you know?” Jamie whispers.

I nod.

“And you let her walk into this?” His face is set as stone.

“Does anyone really let Mirren do anything?”

He snuffles, as if he stopped a snort mid sound and is trying to swallow it down.