Laynie Portland, Retired Spy

by Vikki Kestell

  “Word from on high came down ten days ago. All Marstead operatives within the Russian Federation were to cease operations, take extreme precautions, and prepare to evac on a moment’s notice. Things here are very tense, Linnéa.”

  “I don’t understand! Could someone have intercepted the package I had you send Petroff?”

  Vyper’s mouth went slack, and her jaws ceased their chewing. What have I stumbled on? Marstead operatives? Cover blown? Make the entire Marstead organization suspect?

  She was familiar with Marstead as a tech company—wasn’t everyone? Marstead wasn’t some elaborate front for international espionage—was it? It couldn’t be!

  Vyper’s fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up screen after screen of information.

  MARSTEAD INTERNATIONAL

  Global Technologies of the Future

  According to its website, the Wall Street Journal, USA Today, and a thousand other hits regarding Marstead International, Marstead was a legit—emphasis on legit—global, multimillion-dollar technology firm traded on the NYSE, JPX, and others.

  Was it all a lie? Camouflage?

  Vyper added the name “Linnéa” to her Marstead search parameters and sat back, staring at the return. Linnéa Olander, Senior Account Executive, based out of Marstead’s St. Petersburg offices since 1995.

  “All right, Linnéa Olander. I have you now—but who is this Petroff you are so concerned about?”

  She searched on the string, “Linnéa Olander,” “Petroff,” and “Russia.” The data that the search returned blew her mind. Photographs in the Arts and Life section of the English language Moscow Times—a tall, distinguished Russian man and his stunning Swedish companion attending state dinners. Articles and more photographs in the Society and Culture section of the Information Telegraph Agency of Russia (TASS).

  Vassili Aleksandrovich Petroff. A high up, mucky-muck, personal technology advisor to Security Council Secretary Rushailo himself.

  That Petroff? Advisor to that Rushailo?

  It was this Baskin fellow who had contacted her. Who, precisely, was he? Who did he report to?

  She searched on “Baskin” and “Petroff.” Nothing.

  She switched out “Petroff” for “Rushailo”—and sat back, stunned. Sergio Stepashin Baskin. Chief of Security to the Secretary of the Russian Security Council, Vladimir Borisovich Rushailo.

  Rushailo’s personal chief of security was running Zakhar?

  Vyper swore under her breath, then swore again. Elaine Granger, this Linnéa Olander, was no innocent woman fleeing an abusive relationship. She was the long-time mistress of a prominent Russian demi-oligarch—but not just Petroff’s mistress. Apparently, she was also a trained operative sent to spy on the Russians!

  Which explained why the Russians—all the way up to Secretary Rushailo—were hunting her! And this Zakhar was Rushailo’s man?

  Holy crap. I have toyed with and thwarted an agent of the Russian Federation and Vladimir Borisovich Rushailo’s personal hit man? An agent now working hand-in-glove with the Ukrainian mafiya?

  What do I do now?

  When Granger’s VoIP call ended, Vyper backed up the conversation to her most secure location, a remote server she kept in a second apartment across town under an alias. The remainder of the day, she was nervous and off her game. Her thoughts returned to what she’d heard again and again, analyzing the implications and dangers of what she’d learned—and what she’d dabbled her fingers in.

  The remainder of the day, she frowned, chewed gum, and muttered the occasional, “Oh, crap!”

  FEWER SPECTATORS SAT at the picnic table this afternoon. Many of them huddled together against a cold drizzle and blustery winds.

  “This weather is the pits, man,” a kid sitting near Laynie said to his friend. “Ain’t worth it.”

  They got up and slouched away. Laynie, for her part, was dressed right for the slightly soggy weather and remained ready and eager to observe the next game.

  The team assembled on the field seemed unfazed, too. They were raring to get it on.

  “Look, we only have nine players today. Who’s going to sit out?” the leader asked.

  His question was met with groans and protests.

  “No way, man. I already paid,” several complained.

  “We all have. Guess I’ll have to refund someone’s fee.”

  “How much is it? The fee, I mean.”

  Laynie had stripped off her coat and gloves and left them on the table before she’d had a chance to think her actions through. She had a five-dollar bill in her hand.

  “How much?”

  Laynie wore jeans, a formfitting, long-sleeved T-shirt, and running shoes with good tread. Nine sets of young, male eyes checked her out.

  She grinned. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

  Someone snickered. Leader-guy frowned. “You a paintballer? No offense, but . . . you’re not college age.” He squeezed off the obvious “anymore” before it spurted out of his mouth.

  Laynie shrugged but stood her ground. “I’m a fair shot.”

  In Little London, Marstead’s urban tactical training course. On a Boeing 767 at thirty-five thousand feet, shooting real bullets against real hijackers—who were shooting real bullets right back at me.

  She laughed to herself. So why not? Justin, my Final Fantasy “date,” said I’d be good at paintball.

  The leader glanced around. “Anyone object? No?”

  He waggled his brows at Laynie and chuckled. “Your money’s as green as mine—but should we make you sign a waiver first?”

  Laynie smiled a wicked smile right back. “But I already promised I wouldn’t hurt you—and in front of all these witnesses, too.”

  The boys burst into guffaws.

  “She got you, Brad! Got you good.”

  “Yeah, man. Let her play.”

  “Nobody wants to sit out, Brad.”

  “All right.” To Laynie he said, “You’re on green team.”

  “Great.” Laynie grabbed a green vest—My old color—and put it over her head, tied the strings on both sides. Someone issued her a paintball pistol and two tubes of paintballs.

  “These guns recock automatically, but the action is a hair slower than a real semiauto. Takes a little getting used to.”

  Laynie looked up into Max Thoresen’s face. “You shoot much?”

  “Sure do. Grew up on a farm. Loads of plinking and target practice.”

  “Okay. Thanks for the heads up.”

  She joined her four teammates behind their end zone wall. “What’s the plan?”

  “We ain’t sophisticated. Same old, same old. Two runners up opposite sides to force the other team out.”

  One boy looked at her. “We’re pretty new at this. You got a better idea?”

  “Don’t know if it’s better, but it might be unexpected. Unanticipated.”

  Who am I kidding? Yes, it’s better.

  They listened as she outlined her idea. Looked at each other.

  One of them, Vince, said, “Why not? At least they won’t be looking for us to do that.”

  “Who’s point?” Augie, another green, asked.

  “Right now, their natural and inbred instinct will make them hesitant to shoot me, a woman. Let’s use that against them.”

  Augie stared. “Geez lady, you’re hardcore. My mom would have a cow if I clobbered a girl.”

  “That’s my point. They’ll hesitate, and I’ll take advantage of that hesitation.” She looked around. “I want to win. How about you?”

  Green team nodded.

  When the whistle blew, the greens, Laynie in the lead, streamed out from one side of their wall. They were stacked in a tight line, presenting only a single target, making it impossible for the blues to shoot them all at once.

  As before, blue team sent out two runners, one down each side. When they saw the entire green team advancing, the blue runner on the far side of the field ducked behind a wall and started shooting, but he was too far
away and too excited to be accurate. Laynie, in the meantime, ran quickly toward her opponent, but dove into a somersault as he brought his gun up. The blue man’s eyes tracked with Laynie—as did his pistol. The green player behind Laynie was prepped and ready. He immediately nailed the distracted blue player.

  “Go, go, go!” Laynie shouted. Her four teammates surged forward, still stacked for protection. She, though, rolled to her stomach, steadied her pistol at the blue across the field from her, and hit him twice—once in the arm, once on his vest. She was up and running before he, disgusted and complaining, fell “dead” onto the grass.

  As she streaked across the field, another blue emerged from behind the wall. Max! Again, she tumbled, this time to her right, his left, throwing off his aim. She took up position behind a wall.

  In the meantime, the two remaining blues, seeing the green team surge toward one end of their end zone wall, raced out the other side—and ran into the last green, who had broken off from his teammates and was waiting for them.

  He dispatched the first blue, but the second took him out. It was that blue player’s last move. Three greens had run behind the blue’s wall, across the end zone, and come in behind him.

  “Hey, dufus!” one of Laynie’s teammates called.

  The blue swung around—and all three greens, whooping and hollering their victory, hammered him without mercy. The blue dropped to his knees, his entire front coated in paint splatter.

  Max was the lone surviving blue.

  Laynie called to him. “Surrender?”

  Max laughed. “Never! Come and get me!”

  But she hadn’t waited for him to answer. That was “dead air,” the ideal moment to move. She swung around her wall and raced down the field to flank the wall he hid behind. She gestured toward the greens to come forward. Within seconds, she and their stack formed a pincer from which Max could not escape.

  He jumped out and popped off two rounds at Laynie, who threw up her arms to prevent the balls from hitting her vest. She “lost” both her arms, intentionally giving the greens time and opportunity to converge on Max, hit him from three sides, and finish him off—which they did with enthusiasm, Max suffering the humiliation of all of the greens’ remaining paintballs.

  Shouting and whooping their victory, the greens formed a huddle and jumped up and down. Laynie laughed and jumped with them. She was having more fun than she’d had since she was a kid.

  “That was great!” Vince said, pounding her on the back. “You can play on our team any time!”

  Then the teams shook hands, the blues still irked at how the greens had pressed and executed their aggressive maneuvers.

  “Good game,” Brad admitted.

  “Well, I believe in being a gracious winner—and since I barged in on your game, what say I treat you all to burgers and fries?” She turned to Max and added, “You look like you could use a burger, Max.”

  “Shoot, I can always use a burger,” he laughed back, rubbing a shoulder that had been pounded to excess with paintballs.

  They used rags to wipe paint from hands, faces, vests, and hair. The guys hauled the gear and barriers to their storage locker, then they walked Laynie off campus to Mr. Lincoln’s Burgers & Shakes, a revered UNL burger joint. While Laynie went to put in the order, the players took over two tables.

  Laynie sidled up to the counter and glanced around. Everything in the restaurant had the look of a college favorite. Posters for the university’s sports teams adorned the walls, and a cork bulletin board next to the register was a colorful riot of pinned employment opportunities, ride share offers, house rental ads, and requests for roommates.

  “Hi,” Laynie greeted the girl at the counter taking orders. “I’d like sixteen double cheeseburgers, eight large fries, two onion rings, three vanilla shakes, five chocolate, one strawberry, and a large coffee.”

  She paid for the order and joined the boisterous crew. Brad held out a chair for her, so she sat down where he’d made a place. The guys talked, joked, and razzed each other. Laynie mostly listened.

  “Hey, we didn’t even get your name,” Brad realized.

  “Oh! Right. Sorry. It’s Elaine . . . Elaine Granger.”

  The guys introduced themselves around the table. She nodded at each name.

  It was her first opportunity to study Max up close. She desperately wanted to talk to him privately, but she couldn’t do that. In fact, she took pains not to pay him any special attention—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t learn more about him by getting the group to talk.

  “How did you guys start playing paintball?”

  “We all go to the same campus fellowship group,” Brad supplied. “Started playing a few weeks ago, start of the semester. We wish we had a better course, one we could pack some imagination into.”

  “And not have to haul in and out for every game,” another player added.

  “Yeah. Our fellowship leader suggested we get into paintball. We hope to have a tournament with several college fellowship groups during spring break Bible camp.”

  “I, um, recently started reading the Bible.”

  What? Where did that come from?

  “That’s great! Where are you reading?”

  “The Gospels. I . . . grew up in church but can’t say much of it rubbed off.”

  She changed the subject. “Where are all of you from?”

  They told her, one by one, but except for Denver, Colorado, and Bellingham, Washington, the rest were rural towns she hadn’t heard of.

  When Max said RiverBend, she asked, “Did I hear something about a long weekend? Is that why you were a player short today?”

  “Yup. Some students didn’t have classes tomorrow, so they took off early for the long weekend, Monday being Columbus Day and all. I’ll be heading out tomorrow afternoon.”

  “For home?”

  “Yeah. It’s only a four-hour drive.”

  Speaking to the entire group, she said with nonchalance, “Well, if you ever need another player, I’ll be around.”

  “Cool!” Vince said.

  Laynie glanced at Max and added, gently tapping the table, “I’ll be right here.” She paused and added, “I’d like to play again . . . especially on upcoming Monday afternoons.”

  Max felt momentary confusion. It almost seemed that she was talking not to the team, but directly to him. His quizzical expression gave him away.

  Laynie relaxed her face into bland lines. “What?”

  “Dunno. Something about you seems . . . familiar. Have we ever met?”

  Laynie shook her head. “Nope. I can assure you that we’ve never met.”

  “Okay.” He took a long pull on his shake and turned to a friend.

  Chapter 29

  MAX DROVE ALONG THE country dirt road, past acres of farmland, the road sloping down to the hollow where his family lived. He pulled his pickup to the side of the driveway where he usually parked and set the brake. He hadn’t turned off the engine before the front door swung open and Shannon and Rob flew from the house like shots fired from two cannons.

  It was all, “Max! Max! Max!” with his two siblings glommed onto his legs, arms, and waist until Kari reached him.

  “My turn, kids. Make way for Mama!”

  Kari folded Max in her arms—amazed as always that he had grown taller than her. Tears wet her face.

  How did that happen? You were my sweet young boy when I became your Mama. How did you suddenly become a grown man?

  “Hey, Mom. Please don’t cry.”

  “I’m just so happy to see you, Max.”

  “And I’m happy to be home. Three-day weekend—yay!”

  Shannon and Rob cheered. With one of them glued to either side, he grabbed his bag and headed in. After he’d deposited the bag in his room, he asked, “Where’s Dad?”

  “Finishing up his and Rob’s chores, I imagine.”

  Rob turned red. “Sorry, Mama.” He grabbed his jacket.

  “I’ll go with you, Rob,” Max said.
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br />   They strode down the slope together toward the creek that separated Kari’s land from the homestead Søren had inherited from his father. Neither said a word—but when they hit the bridge built over the creek, they burst like runners from their marks and raced across the bridge and up the road, turning onto the long drive that led to the old house where their Aunt Ilsa lived.

  The hand pump in the yard was their finish line. Rob pulled ahead because Max held back, but not for long. Max stretched out his longer stride and caught Rob two yards before the pump.

  “Dang it!” Rob shouted. “I never beat you!”

  “Careful with your mouth, Robbie.”

  “Sorry.”

  “And don’t worry. In a couple years, you’ll be as tall as me but I’ll be older and slower.”

  Rob grinned. “Naw, you’ll never be slow, Max. I’ll just be faster than you!”

  Max threw his arm around Robbie’s shoulders, and they marched toward the barn to look for their dad.

  Over dinner, Max entertained the family with tales from college. The school fellowship group he’d joined and his love for paintball were big parts of his stories. “Golly, yesterday, we had the best game ever—even though my team lost. Because of the three-day weekend, we were a player short, right? And this lady just waltzes up and asks to play.”

  “A lady? Not a co-ed?” Kari asked.

  “No, not a college student. She . . . well, I figured she must be in her, well, your age, Mom. Dunno. Anyway, paintball can be kind of a rough game, and Brad, our leader, didn’t want her to get hurt, but she says, just as cool as can be, ‘I promise I won’t hurt you.’”

  Max attempted to imitate her voice, and around the table, everyone laughed.

  “How did the lady do, Max?” Shannon asked. “She didn’t get hurt, did she?”

  “Are you kidding? That was the amazing part. This woman—I mean lady—she whips the green team into shape, sends them racing out of their end zone in a tight line—‘stacked,’ one of the guys said she called it—and then they just blew us away.

  “I was the last blue player standing, and she sacrificed herself so her three remaining players could get behind my position and pulverize me. Gonna have bruises on my shoulders, for sure. I hope we see her again. Next time, I want to be on her team.”