Busted Play: The Series (Players, Books 1-6)

by Stella Marie Alden

  My fists clench and newly manicured nails dig into my palms. What should I do? It’s one thing to test out a program while sitting in my office, it’s another to use it for real. I’m not even sure how this beta version works outside the simulated environment.

  As our bus rumbles down Eighth Avenue, sunshine breaks through the clouds, and storefronts glow amber. New Yorkers hurry along the sidewalk with coffee cups in one hand and large bags slung over their shoulders. What would they do if they knew a bomb was driving by?

  Run. Just like you should be doing.

  Suddenly, I have an idea.

  Jenna: Execute 911.sh

  Jason: Done.

  Jenna: Execute NYCTraffic.sh

  Instructions = Force all traffic signals on Eighth Avenue to stop both directions

  Duration = 5 minutes

  Jason: Done.

  I have lots of scripts pre-written in case of emergency but I always pictured a war room filled with monitors, cops and analysts. These programs were never supposed to be executed by me. Chills run up and down my spine as I hold my breath, waiting and watching out the window.

  Finally we slow and then stop. Thank God. Maybe I’ve bought us some time. While I hesitate, one of New York’s finest blasts a whistle, another shouts angry expletives, and yet another directs a white Cadillac out of the intersection.

  And we’re off.

  The best gridlock ever, gone in an instant.

  Dammit. The bus engine grumbles, the vehicle jerks, and again I’m forced to grab onto the metal loop to keep from tumbling.

  Now what? Exhaling, I play out a couple scenarios in my head but none end well.

  Jason: JTTF is advising you to stand by.

  As I wonder how much Jason revealed, a sip from my water bottle chases down the bile in the back of my throat. If the wrong people find out about Jason, I am so screwed.

  Then we stop so two guys can get on. One’s in peach and the other wears a beige polo shirt. Carrying Nordstrom bags, they hold hands as they walk to the back of the bus and head right for where my suspect is sitting. I push to warn them off but no way can I get to them in time.

  Standing on my toes, my mouth drops open. This can’t be happening.

  Beige-shirt motions that he wants bomber-guy to slide over, arguing over a non-existent seat. There really isn’t any space to sit down and of all people, why choose him? Moaning, I scrunch my eyes shut when the suspect stands and his green canvas bag falls off his lap in slo-mo.

  I brace for the searing blast wondering if there really is a heavenly doorway with brilliant white light.

  There’s a clunk. I wait. Then nothing.

  Finally a male voice shouts from up front, “NYPD. Everyone remain seated!”

  I peek one eye open, stunned to be alive. Behind me, beige-shirt digs his knee into the center of the suspect’s back and cuffs him. Then peach shirt joins him and pushes the would-be bomber out the back door. A third officer, dressed like an alien bug in thick black armor enters, grabs the green bag, and disappears.

  Game over. The crowd applauds.

  “Please. Screeeeeej... yeeeeechchch... seats.” The front cop blares inarticulate instructions over the bus’s intercom.

  Right. Will do. No problemo.

  Seconds later, emergency vehicles scream down the street. Rotating lights flash around the bus’s interior creating a disco-effect. Eventually we’re allowed out and that’s good because I really have to pee.

  When my feet hit the sidewalk, I consider dropping to my knees and kissing the pavement but that would be weird, even for me. I can’t believe that I not only survived a would-be terrorist attack but my program saved all these people.

  Yay me!

  Then all of us passengers are ushered into a cliché of an Italian restaurant with wall-sized murals of the Coliseum. Another wall’s covered in four-by-six photos signed by movie-stars, most of whom I don’t recognize. Behind me and out the front window, two armored officers carry a big metal box toward a white truck with blue NYPD letters.

  That’s when my stomach turns traitor. Hot all over, I drop onto my knees with my forehead on the carpet. And I still got to pee.

  A concerned dark face with dread locks and high cheekbones squats to my level. “Hey lady, you okay?”

  I shake my head but that’s a lie. In reality, the awfulness of what could’ve just happened loops endlessly behind my eyelids. Instead of walking away without a scratch, searing heat burns my face and my skin boils black.

  It’s not pretty.

  “Right over d’ere, officer. Got off dee bus and den she just set down.” The Jamaican man sounds light-years away.

  When I open my eyes, I assume this is the afterlife, otherwise the chances of seeing Colin O’Brien are maybe a hundred zillion to one.

  When he squats with his nose inches away, it’s clear he doesn’t recognize me. That’s not all that weird considering the work I’ve had done. He however, hasn’t changed a bit. He’s still got those dreamy baby-blues and jet-black lashes.

  His dark brows crease as he hones in on me. “Miss? Should I call a medic?”

  “No. I’m fine. Just a headache.” That sounds a lot better than I’m about to have one seriously debilitating panic attack.

  Colin, the man who’s been my vibrator’s fantasy on occasion, holds out his hand. “Let’s see what I can do for that while we wait for a paramedic. Okay?”

  He applies pressure into the webbed area between my thumb and forefinger using some kind of acupressure. Then I close my eyes because I can’t handle his intense stare, his breath. Just his presence makes my panties melt. Yes, my panic is gone but only to be replaced by pure, unadulterated lust.

  “Better?” His headache cure is pretty near nirvana but when he helps me to stand, the room spins, and his large hands shoot to my waist.

  I swear to God electricity sparks and I squirm as liquid pools between my legs. That never happens.

  “Maybe you could walk me to the lady’s room?” Really? That’s it? Tell him who you are.

  I can’t. The reflection in the bathroom mirror serves to remind me that I lost sixty pounds, straightened my teeth, and bought a new nose since last we met. It’s not all that strange that he doesn’t recognize me and maybe it’s better this way. When I exit, I’m surprised to see him leaning against the wall, appraising me from head to toe.

  I’m pretty sure he likes what he sees. Now’s the time to tell him who I am so of course, I don’t. Do I really want him to connect me with that sad, ugly, fat girl?

  “Are you able to get in line now, miss?”

  “Sure. Ah... Thank you.”

  Colin turns on a dime and strides his way-too-fine-ass to the front of my queue. Then he fires off a short set of questions to each passenger which is good because I need time to rehearse. I’m in deep doo-doo. I’d just used my most guarded secret to hack into New York City’s network. Someone’s bound to notice.

  You think?

  One by one, each person is ushered out the door and onto an idling bus. Minutes tick by slowly into almost an hour. Dammit. I’m going to miss my first meeting. I text Jason to reschedule.

  Then it’s my turn. Steely-blues bore into my face and Colin’s espresso-breath warms my face. “Feeling better?”

  I nod.

  “State your name and address.”

  “Meh-uh, Jenna Jones.” I can’t believe my voice cracked and I almost gave him my given name. I haven’t gone by Megan McCarthy since I was eighteen.

  “Jones, you say?” With raised eyebrows, he scribbles on a small wire-bound pad that’s so low tech, I can’t help but smirk.

  He’s not smiling. “Address?”

  I rub the goose bumps off my arms. “Twenty-five South Maple, Ridgewood, New Jersey.”

  A drop of sweat drips down the side of my face and I swipe it away with the back of my hand. It’s really hot in here.

  “And did you call 911?” He leans in, staring without blinking.

  “No.�
�� Hey, to be precise, Jason called. I just executed my program.

  His eyes narrow, the creases around his mouth deepen, and he shoots off a high pitched whistle.

  When another officer jumps to take his place, Colin walks me down a hallway, hand at my back. “Please, this way miss.”

  I’m up a creek without a rowboat.

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