Spy Candy

by Gina Robinson

  To say I was getting leery about this exercise wouldn’t be exaggerating. But as I was in spy-girl mode, it was show-no-fear time.

  “Here’s the scenario,” Torq said. “You’re each going to take a turn playing my bodyguard. I’m going to call for help, and you’re going to come to my rescue—”

  “But we haven’t had any bodyguard training,” I objected.

  “Think of this as a pretest, Domino.” He turned and walked back to the podium. “I’m going to evaluate your instinctive reactions and how you handle pressure in an unknown situation. Since you haven’t had any time on the firing range yet, you can just use your fingers as a gun.” He made a gun out of his hand and gave it a friendly wave.

  “Remember, bodyguards never fire their weapons unless they have to, so use restraint. If you get the drop on the bad guy, I’ll let you know.” He snagged a pair of sunglasses from the podium in front of him. “I’m going to take you outside one at a time. Domino, come with me. The rest of you stay here and relax.” He slid his sunglasses on as I dutifully followed him outside and down the road to a small corrugated-metal shack that looked like a packing building for the oranges.

  “I’m going to go inside that building. When I call for help, you charge in and save me.”

  I gave him a skeptical look, but I don’t think he could read it because of my mask. “Okay, but what’s all this for?” I gestured toward my jumpsuit and mask.

  I don’t know what AUs it took to do it, but he gave me an “I know, but I’m not telling” look and walked off, calling over his back, “Remember, on my signal, you come in and save me.”

  I did a little huff. It was just barely ten in the morning, but the day already felt over one hundred and the air smelled arid and dusty. The stupid orange jumpsuit I wore had long sleeves and long legs, completely negating the cooling properties of my crop top. As I waited for Torq to call me, I moved into a shady spot beneath an orange tree. But the shade wasn’t discernibly cooler. A trickle of sweat formed on my brow under the plastic of my mask and dripped into my eyes. Good thing I’d used that makeup primer. At least my foundation was staying put.

  “Are you ready yet? You’re taking your sweet time and I’m melting in this heat.” I squirmed uncomfortably and shooed a sticky fly away. “I’m from Seattle, where a ‘dry heat’ means fifty-five and rainy. Much longer out here and I’m going to dry up and blow away and there’ll be no one to save you. You’ll be on your own, buddy.”

  “Stop exaggerating. You’re not blowing anywhere. There’s no breeze,” Torq yelled back, sounding kind of maniacally pleased about the no-breeze deal. “Now wait for my signal.” He paused. “And drink your water,” he added as an afterthought.

  “I haven’t got it.” The only appendage I was used to carrying around was an umbrella. Very thoughtful of him to remind me now so I could dwell on my thirst, maybe even become delusional and start seeing mirages.

  “I think I hear a noise,” he finally yelled.

  “That’s it? You hear a noise?” I started for the shed, my playing-cops-and-robbers hand at the ready. “Kind of wimpy for a big guy like you. Why don’t you just check it out your own self and call me when you have a real problem, like a hangnail.”

  I was all false bravado. I really didn’t want to go into that building. There had to be a reason the insurance company wanted me to wear this stupid mask.

  “Just come check it out.” I didn’t need to see his face to detect an uptick in his irritation level.

  My heart was doing a bit of a pitter-patter, but nothing major; probably it was just in the cautious range. I followed his voice into the shed and guardedly stepped over packing crates as I made my way through the small front room, scanning for intruders and noises as I went.

  Something skittered out from under a box in the shadows of the corner and scampered across the room. I let out a squeak of horror, jumped back, startled, and put a hand to my heart, completely forgetting to shoot my pretend gun at it.

  I thought I heard Torq give a heavy sigh from what looked like a storage room just off the room I was in. There were no lights on, just natural light filtering in through a dingy window, so it was hard to tell. As I calmed down, I muttered to myself, “Why doesn’t someone call an exterminator around here?”

  I peered around the corner into a hall no longer than eight feet long, my loaded finger at the ready. A refrigerated room sat to one side, a storage room on the other. No one in sight so I slipped around real stealthily and flattened myself against the wall just like they do in all the spy movies. The thump of a motor turning on gave me another start and I jumped. Damn it! Where was my calm? It was nothing more than the hum of a refrigerator cycling on. I took a deep, calming breath and relaxed with my back against the wall.

  I heard another click and spun around just in time to hear a gun fire and take a bullet square in my left silicone breast. Just like in the movies, the impact sent me staggering as I grabbed my chest. I had the irrelevant thought that the physics of it was wrong. I’d seen MythBusters. Bullets slicing through you don’t send you flying. All this passed through my mind in a nanosecond, but it was like time had slowed. I let out a yelp, more of surprise than pain.

  Before I could wonder why my life wasn’t flashing before my eyes, I was shot dead-on in my chest. It all happened so quickly I didn’t have time to process where the attacker was hiding. I felt something oozing down my jumpsuit, something sticky to the touch, like blood. Did I mention I’m really squeamish?

  Another shot rang out. I covered my head with my hands and started screaming, trying to call for help, but only gibberish rolled off my tongue.

  On the verge of pure hysteria, I ducked my head down and raced back toward the entrance as fast as my wobbly legs would carry me, nearly colliding with Torq as he came around the corner into full view, carrying a lethal-looking rifle thing and shaking his head.

  “Anyone ever tell you it’s not smart to run into the line of fire?” He shook his head. “No survival instinct. You are so dead.”

  Seeing him, I nearly collapsed with relief, followed immediately by embarrassment and anger as I realized the truth of the situation. “You! You were the one who shot me.”

  “Who’d you expect, the Easter Bunny?”

  I looked down at my jumpsuit, expecting to see blood and saw—

  “It’s paint,” Torq said, “from this. It’s a paintball gun.” He shook his head again and gave me a “duh” look. “You’d think the paintball mask would have given you a clue.”

  Instinctively, I reached up to touch the mask. I yanked it off and shook it at him. “Paintball mask! How was I supposed to know this was a paintball mask? I’ve never played paintball. Decent people don’t play paintball.” Now I was glaring.

  I dropped the mask and rubbed my chest, mostly to make sure my falsies hadn’t slipped. Nope, they felt fine. That’s when I realized Torq was watching me and enjoying the view of me fondling myself.

  “Oh, stop it!” I yelled at him and brushed a lock of hair out of my face. “Decent people don’t shoot innocent people coming to their aid. Besides, that hurt!” Or it would have if that had been real me in my crop top and not falsies.

  “It stings.” He shrugged, looking mostly stoic. But I saw a micro expression of amusement cross his face, I swear. “The bad guys are going to use more firepower than washable paint. You gotta be prepared. This drill’s for your own good.”

  “Yeah, well, I could use more firepower, too. How come you get a paintball gun and all I get is a finger?”

  “'Cause I’m the instructor.” Of all the insolence, he grabbed my arm. If he thought he could just lead me around by the arm—

  But before I could tear it away, he read the heart-rate monitor strapped to me. “Peaked at one seventy-five. Dog-thinking mode.”

  His smile was the slightest upturn of the corners of his mouth. On him, I found it incredibly sexy. He should have dropped my arm. Instead, his warm thumb was doing a neat little rubbing tric
k on the tender inside of my wrist, which had unexpectedly pleasant consequences all the way down to my G-spot.

  He glanced at the monitor again. “Looks like your heart rate is spiking.”

  I yanked my arm away and gave him a glare.

  He smiled to himself, gave his head another shake, then walked to a small cooler that I hadn’t noticed before. “Let’s try it again.”

  “No way,” I said, rubbing my wrist, trying to rub out the sensations he’d caused and cover my embarrassment.

  He pulled out a chilled bottle of water and handed it to me. “Chicken?”

  Oh, damn him. No one called a Bond girl “chicken” and got away with it!

  “Fine. Only this time I’ll be ready. And don’t take so damn long setting up. It’s hot out there.” I jerked the cap off the bottle and took a big drink as I stormed outside.

  A few minutes later, he called out again. “I hear a noise.”

  “He hears a noise. I’m going to make him hear a noise, all right,” I muttered to myself as I ran to the shed, heart racing, opened the door, and—

  Bang! He shot me in the chest again.

  “Yeaouch!” I gave him a glare as he came around the corner, smiling.

  “You sadistic bastard, you’re enjoying this,” I said as soon as my heart rate slowed down enough for me to form words. “And stop shooting me in my girls!”

  “You want me to shoot you in the head instead?”

  I kept glaring. “How about in the arm or leg? Did that ever occur to you?”

  “Bad guys aren’t going to be aiming for your arm, Domino. They shoot to kill.” He grabbed my wrist. “One seventy-five. Let’s go again.”

  I yanked my arm away before he could try the thumb trick again.

  And so it went. He called. I approached with my racing heart. He shot me and took my pulse. Until finally, I wasn’t afraid anymore.

  He called. I approached, hand-as-a-gun at ready and much smarter about how to check out a building and keep behind cover.

  I didn’t exactly get the drop on him. But just as he shot me, I managed to keep my finger aimed at him and say, “Bang, bang!”

  He took my pulse. “Ninety.” He grinned. “Congratulations, you’re now inoculated against stress.”

  But not against him.

  “Yeah? I look like a Jackson Pollock painting!” I did a little victory dance. I was covered in paint and drenched in sweat, but I’d never felt so exhilarated.

  “You can drop the mask and the coveralls in the corner and head back to the barracks for a shower.” He looked down to record my heart rate on some kind of chart, but not before I caught his smile. “Don’t let the other CTs see you or talk to them. The element of surprise is key in this exercise.”

  Surprise? I grinned evilly to myself as I had a Domino moment. I paused. He looked up from his charting.

  Making sure I had his full attention, I slowly unzipped the jumpsuit. Down to the tops of my fake breasts. Pause.

  His pen stilled.

  Zip. Over the girls, past the hips, down to the crotch. I gave one shoulder a shimmy shake sending the silicone girls bouncing as I stripped the jumpsuit off one shoulder. Then the next. I’d watched Logan’s strip aerobics DVD a time or two and it was coming in handy now as I worked up to the grand finale.

  I gave my bottom a healthy wiggle as I scooched the overalls past my hips and stepped out of them, one elongated leg at a time.

  His gaze was glued to my crop top. When I looked down, I realized it was plastered with sweat against my body in much the same way a wet T-shirt clings. I kicked the coveralls into the corner and stepped directly in front of him, feigning trying to get a glimpse of my chart. In reality, I was just giving him a better look down my blouse.

  “Hey, you were a real trouper.” His tongue was thick on his words. He was looking down at me. I was looking up at him, standing way too far into his personal space. “Five times isn’t bad. Great big, brave policemen don’t do any better.”

  Our gazes locked.

  “Thanks.”

  He cleared his throat. “You probably better send the next CT in.”

  “You’re probably right.” I reluctantly stepped back and turned to leave. I paused at the door to call to him. “Bet no one else is as good as me.” I winked and raced out, giving him a wave over my back, being careful not to turn and let him see the big, fat grin on my face. Let him figure me out.

  My exhilaration hadn’t faded by the time I reached my room. Maybe I did have the thrill-seeking gene after all, just like James. When I’d read on my favorite Bond fan site about scientists isolating the thrill-seeker gene, I’d been depressed because I didn’t need a DNA test to tell me I’m mostly a thrill-dreamer. Or thought I was. Until now.

  I pulled out my magnetic key card and unlocked my door, pausing with my hand on the knob. Wasn’t someone supposed to be bugging the room while I was gone?

  I cupped an ear and listened at the door for spurious bug-planter noise. Not hearing any wild rummaging going on in there, I stepped inside and pulled the door closed behind me, freezing just inside the room to survey it, wondering if my room had been hit yet.

  After fourteen years of being the first person to arrive at the bank after Uncle Bob opened it in the morning, I had a lot of practice taking stock of a room before entering.

  Ever security-minded, Uncle Bob, who was always the first person at work, let himself into the bank, checked it for intruders, and then returned to the lobby, where he changed the date on the front desk to the current date. If I arrived and the date hadn’t been changed, I was to assume something was wrong, leave the area, and call the police immediately. Yes, we had a security system, but you could never be too careful at a bank. The thought of free money, lots of it, had a way of inspiring a certain type of person with amazing ingenuity.

  For my part, I always scanned the lobby for more than just the changed date, looking for other signs that something was amiss. Fortunately, I’d never had occasion to call the cops yet.

  I used those same observation skills as I surveyed my room. The window was closed. The door hadn’t been obviously jimmied. Neither had the bathroom door. If someone from the other squad had been here, it looked like Fry had simply let them in with a key.

  My gaze bounced around the room as I did a comprehensive visual. I paused at the lamp shade. No one who’d watched even one Bond movie would bug a lamp shade. Too obvious. I’d check it later anyway just in case someone was going for the too-obvious-to-be trick. Then I spotted the wall clock and grinned. It was an impostor. How did I know? It had a second hand. The clock that had been there when I left didn’t. And this one was five minutes fast. I’m kind of compulsive about synchronizing my timepieces. I shook my head. Sloppy, sloppy spy work. A real dead giveaway that I’d been bugged. Wonder how much they could hear? One thing was for sure, I wasn’t giving them a show.

  I turned on the radio to cover any noise I made removing the clock. Wham! Static and white noise blasted into the room. I jumped, startled. It took me a sec to adjust the station and set the volume to a comfortable level that covered the sounds of me moving about the room. The idiot had obviously bumped the control dial when they switched out my clock. I shook my head. Amateur!

  I surveyed the rest of the room, trying to decide how much dirt I’d left out that could give my identity away. With a sigh of relief, I pretty much decided I was in the clear as far as blowing my Domino cover.

  After my shower, I checked the lamp shade just because I’m a thorough person and I’d said I would. As suspected—nothing. I debated for a second what to do with the clock.

  I’d watched enough spy shows and cruised enough spy equipment Web sites to know that it was possible the clock contained a transmitter, an electronic bug. But since I didn’t have a receiver, it was worthless to me. It might also simply house a voice-activated recorder, which I could use if I had an instruction manual and knew how to remove the device from the clock without damaging it. I decided to ta
ke the clock to Rockford and ask for my original back. I really didn’t have any other option.

  Mission accomplished, I caught up with Emma and the others in the lunch room. She sat with Max and John at one end of a long table. All three of them were munching down subs and fries. I slid in with my tray at the end of the bench. From the far end of the table, Ethan leered at my fake breasts and elbowed his buddy Bishop.

  Ignoring them, I turned to Emma next to me. “Was it you or one of your cronies who bugged my room?”

  “Like I’m going to tell you. Mum’s the word.” She popped a fry in her mouth and grinned at me.

  I shrugged. “No matter. I’m bug-free now.” I’d made a very surprised Rockford give me back my original clock, even making him run his bug-detecting wand over the original before I’d take it back. Remembering his surprise made me smile with pleasure.

  “How do you know?” Emma asked.

  “I found it, of course. Didn’t I tell you I’m a spying genius?”

  She had surprise written all over her face. “Okay, genius, how?”

  “Two can play the secret-keeping game.” I opened a little pack of mayo and spread it on my sub.

  Emma had no choice but to change the subject. “How was face recognition?”

  “You mean mind reading?” I put my napkin on my lap and reached for my sub. Being pelted with paint had given me an appetite. “Terrific.”

  Max, who’d been listening with rapt attention, broke into our conversation. “Emma here was saying that some of the gang are heading into Surprise tonight to barhop. Want to come?”

  I turned to Emma, who nodded her affirmation. My first inclination was to decline. “How are you getting to town?” If they were taking the camp helicopter, I might consider going.

  “The camp bus,” John said.

  “They’re letting us out of this joint after only a day?” I took another bite of sub and tossed back a cola chaser.