Spy Now, Pay Later

by Diane Henders

  It wasn’t as bad as I had feared. He hadn’t smashed my plates or glassware. The contents of most of the cabinets had been swept out onto the floor, but he had spared any place that could be checked at a glance. Unfortunately, that didn’t include the shelves of my fridge, and I picked my way around puddles of milk and pickle juice decorated with silvery shards of broken glass.

  In the living room, the contents of the open shelves were undisturbed but the furniture had been upended. The larger cushions had been slashed, their stuffing spilling out of the wounds.

  The rest of the house bore witness to the same thorough but ruthless technique. By the time I reached the basement I was numb. After a cursory glance at the disarray I dragged myself up the stairs again, holding back whimpers while my bruised knee flexed and straightened.

  Back to the door. Back into my parka and stinky boots. Back out to the garage, my dragging feet bulldozing twin trenches in the fluffy snow.

  When I stepped back into the garage, the mess struck me with even more force than the damage in the house. My house had been violated before, but my garage… my garage was my sanctuary. A place untouched by my spy life; full of the soothing smells of warm rubber and motor oil and memories of the cold crisp tang of beer and happy summer afternoons sprawled on the cool concrete with a wrench in my hand…

  I gulped down impending tears.

  Took a long breath.

  Okay, get it together.

  When I pulled out my bug detector, it shone steady green. I extracted a secured phone from the glove compartment of my car and crossed to the next bay to slide into my half-stripped ’53 Chevy, dangling my boots outside. Stroking a loving hand over its chrome-and-enamel dashboard, I inhaled its faintly musty old-car scent and rested my head against the big chrome-buttoned steering wheel.

  Thank God it was undamaged. If Sharkface had vandalized it, my heart would have shattered completely.

  I drew a deep breath and hit the speed dial button.

  The phone rang on the other end.

  Rang again.

  And again.

  Fear twisted my stomach. Something was wrong…

  Ring-

  “Dermott! What?”

  “Wha…” My voice came out in a dry whisper and I cleared my throat. “Where’s Stemp?”

  “Hell if I know. Personal emergency is all he said. You calling to kiss him goodnight, or what?”

  I was too worried to be irritated. “No, I’m reporting that I pretended to search Kane’s house as planned tonight. They saw me leaving on the surveillance cameras and Sharkf… Kevin Barnett followed me home and…” My voice wanted to wobble, but I wouldn’t let it. “…searched me to make sure I didn’t have the weapon. He also searched my house and garage while I was at Kane’s.”

  “Yeah, the analysts saw him going in to your place.”

  Okay, now I was irritated.

  “Why the hell didn’t you call and tell me?”

  “Analysts texted you; you didn’t reply. Get your shit together, Kelly!” He disconnected.

  Fuming, I pulled out my cell phone. Sure enough, there was a text from a couple of hours ago: ‘Call home’.

  “Fuck!” I stowed my own phone in my waist pouch and lunged to my feet to fling the burner phone at the concrete floor with all my might. It exploded in a satisfying spray of plastic shrapnel, and I aimed a savage kick at the largest part, forgetting my aching hip and knee.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I flung my arms wide, head back, and shrieked “FUUUUCK!” at the top of my lungs before trampling the remaining pieces of the phone in a berserk tantrum, shrieking obscenities and pouring all my pain and fear and frustration into the annihilation of the inoffensive device.

  At last I dragged to an exhausted halt. My throat was raw, my entire body aching.

  But the hot anger in my belly had loosened the icy grip of fear. Nicholas Parr and Sharkface had no idea what a world of hurt they’d just brought on themselves.

  They were going down.

  But first I needed a shower.

  I trudged back to the house, growling under my breath.

  My shower had to wait while I unearthed my bucket and scrub brush from the shambles in the basement and tackled my boots. After several scrubs and rinses while I shivered and cursed on the front porch, I deemed them clean enough to return to the house.

  Then I retraced every step I’d taken in those boots, scrubbing my stairs, porch, doormat, garage floor, and the floor mats from my car.

  At last I retreated to the house and extracted a towel from the heap in front of my ransacked linen closet before creeping into the shower to scrub myself with copious amounts of soap. When I was positive every trace of dog shit had been eradicated, I dressed in fresh clothes and swallowed a couple of painkillers before tackling the most pressing parts of the indoor cleanup.

  By the time I finished cleaning the kitchen floor I was ready to take on Fuzzy Bunny with nothing but fists and attitude.

  Shooting was too good for those assholes. They deserved to be stripped naked and rolled through the broken glass and pickle juice they’d left on my floor. Then rolled through Max’s rotting shit. And then shot and pissed on.

  The hot current of rage carried me through the triage of the kitchen and into my bedroom to heave the box spring and mattress back onto the bed frame. As I was stirring through the jumble in search of my pillows, fatigue suddenly caught up to me, dragging me down like a leaden overcoat.

  I staggered to the front door to set my apparently-useless security system before sleepwalking through the tangles of clothing on my bedroom floor to fall into bed.

  Murder was my last conscious thought.

  Morning was more than enough to take the edge off my badass attitude. Groaning, I hauled myself out of bed. Maybe I should try to be grateful for my crappy sleep. All that screaming and thrashing had kept me from stiffening up too much.

  Or maybe I was in better shape than I thought after pushing to prepare for the physical qualification.

  That optimistic idea was enough to sustain me through the arduous journey from my bed to the shower. I shoved my face into the hot spray and stood there, eyes closed and brain in neutral until I remembered I’d practically scrubbed my skin off only a few hours before.

  Eyes still half-closed, I stumbled out again and dried off before taking stock of the new bruises blooming on my skin. My knee had been a murky yellow-brown before, but now black and purple had been added to the mix. I turned it from side to side, admiring the artistic blending of hues. At least the ice pack I’d applied last night had taken care of the swelling. It hurt like a bitch, but it worked.

  My elbow and hip were only slightly discoloured and I dismissed them after a brief examination. All systems go.

  By the time I’d finished my milk-less breakfast and trudged through the cold morning darkness to the garage only to realize I still had to fix my car window, I was fully awake and pissed off enough to start swearing again. I slogged through the knee-deep snow to my shed wondering what destruction I’d find there, but everything was undisturbed.

  I thumped my forehead with the roll of clear plastic vapour barrier I’d retrieved from my stockpile of construction supplies. Duh. No tracks in the snow. He hadn’t bothered to check the shed because he could see nobody had been there recently. Sharkface was smarter than I was.

  That revelation didn’t improve my humour. I stomped back to the garage, fully expecting the snow to melt from the heat of my invective.

  After several minutes of cutting, taping, and cursing, I finished securing my makeshift window and headed for town, the sharp rattling of cold plastic sounding like the hail of bullets Sharkface so richly deserved.

  When I parked at Sirius Dynamics, I caught sight of Dermott and Holt crossing the street toward the building, grinning and bantering. As I got out of my car, Holt socked Dermott on the shoulder and they both guffawed as they climbed the steps and vanished into the building.

  When I arrived a few mo
ments later, Dermott was just turning away from the security wicket, fob in hand. He grunted when he saw me. “Kelly. Briefing for Afterburner at nine.”

  I nodded and he slapped his fob on the reader and vanished through the doors.

  Holt finished signing for his fob and stepped away from the wicket looking happier than I’d ever seen him. “’Morning, Aydan,” he greeted me with a smile.

  I did my best to summon up a smile in return. “’Morning.” I took my turn at the wicket. “’Morning, Leo.”

  “Good morning!” Leo offered his usual grin and spun my fob through the turntable.

  Holt was still lingering when I turned away, and he fell into step with me as I headed for my office.

  “Good news.” His grin widened. “Stemp’s gone somewhere and Dermott’s back in charge. Dermott’s not afraid to let us do what we have to do. And he’s starting the paperwork to get me reinstated. Man, I wish we had him for a permanent director.”

  “Um.”

  The thought of Holt being reinstated scared the shit out of me. And I wasn’t sure Dermott was a good choice for director, either.

  Holt leaned closer to mutter confidentially, apparently oblivious to my lack of joy. “It could happen. Stemp’s up for review in a few months, and if Dermott can pull off a couple of good ops, the mucky-mucks might consider giving him Stemp’s position.”

  “Oh… uh… well, I guess that would be good for you, right?”

  “Too right.” Holt bopped me lightly on the shoulder. “Good for all of us.”

  He turned and strode into an office on the main floor while I made for the stairs, wondering if Stemp knew Dermott was gunning for his position. And whether Dermott would push Holt’s reinstatement through before Stemp got back, whenever that might be. And what Stemp’s ‘family emergency’ really was.

  A chill snaked down my back. As far as I knew Stemp didn’t have any family except Katya and his little daughter Anna in Bulgaria. And it would have to be a real emergency for him to leave so suddenly.

  My mind filled with a vivid memory of his ashen face when he’d thought Anna had been harmed the previous summer, and I floated a heartfelt three-word prayer skyward.

  Please, not that.

  Chapter 27

  I trailed into my office frowning, and tossed my jacket over the back of the chair before wandering to the window to peek out through the blinds at the lightening sky.

  Could I trust Dermott?

  Stemp never failed to irritate me, but I trusted him. Well, trusted his competence, anyway. Dermott’s bluster was annoying, but did it conceal capability or inadequacy? I was going to need all the help I could get to nail Sharkface and Fuzzy Bunny…

  “Good morning, Aydan!”

  I yelped and spun to see Spider leaning into my doorway.

  His smile dissolved into concern. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “It’s okay.” I tottered over to flop onto my sofa. “I was just…” I hesitated. Not the time or place to discuss Dermott. “…um, preoccupied,” I finished. “Come on in.”

  “I can’t.” He twitched his shoulders. “I’m working with Tammy and Jill and Brock this morning.”

  I raised a restraining hand. “Hey, Spider, before you go… do you have a minute?”

  “For you? Of course.” He glanced up and down the corridor before coming into the room to fold his lanky body into the chair opposite me. “What’s up?”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you. Is Brock… um, are you okay with… um… You guys don’t get along, do you?”

  He grimaced. “Was it that obvious?”

  “Well… yeah.” I eyed his youthful features fondly. “You don’t have much of a poker face.”

  “I know. My face doesn’t seem to learn from experience.” He blew out a breath and crossed his arms, scrunching deeper into the chair. “It’s no big deal. Brock and I were in the same classes through CSIS training. He’s an okay guy, but…”

  He hesitated and I could tell he was trying to come up with something nice to say.

  “He’s a bit of a prick,” I said.

  Spider blushed, but laughed. “Ooh, burn!” He sobered. “He’s… really smart. A lot smarter than me and really good at what he does. He just…”

  “Spider, you’re the smartest guy I know.” I leaned over to pat his bony knee. “Don’t let him intimidate you. He’s trying to make himself look good by making everybody else look bad, and that’s just stupid and childish. You’re a better manager and a better person, and that’s why Stemp made you the team lead.”

  Spider flushed, his expression brightening. “Thanks, Aydan. That makes me feel better.” He hesitated. “Was that all you wanted to ask me?” At my nod, he rose smiling. “I’d better go. See you later.”

  After he left I slouched on the sofa a few moments longer, picking at an errant cuticle and fighting my rising uneasiness. Why hadn’t Dermott included Spider in the Afterburner briefing? We needed his technical wizardry…

  I climbed to my feet, wincing when my knee straightened, and limped over to check my email. Sure enough, there was the meeting request for nine o’clock. Kane and I were the only ones invited. What was Dermott thinking? Why hadn’t he invited Germain or Spider?

  A glance at my watch assured me I’d find out soon enough, and I trailed down the hall toward the meeting room.

  It was empty, and I sank into a chair with my back to the wall. Nerves twitching, I fidgeted with my pen and watched the clock. Its hands crept toward nine at the pace of a crippled snail.

  Then past nine.

  Shit, had I gotten the location wrong?

  I was on the verge of scurrying back to my office to recheck the meeting request when Dermott strode in. He scowled. “Where’s Kane?”

  A knot of worry tightened around my heart. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him. Didn’t he check in?”

  “I don’t know.” Dermott crossed to the phone and dialled. “It’s Dermott. Did Kane check in yet? …Damn!” He slapped the receiver back into its cradle. “He’s late.”

  I swallowed rising fear. “No, I meant, did he check in after his op last night? Maybe something happened-”

  “What op?”

  The sight of Dermott’s deepening scowl drained the blood from my face. “What do you mean, ‘what op’?” I quavered.

  “This isn’t the Three fucking Stooges, Kelly! What op? Kane didn’t call in anything new to me last night and Stemp didn’t leave anything in his notes.”

  “Oh, shit.” My words strained out between cold, stiff lips. “He got a coded message last night and took off like a bat out of hell. He must have forgotten to call it in.”

  Even as the words left my mouth I knew they were wrong. Kane would never forget something that important.

  And now he was missing.

  “You don’t just fucking forget to call in an op-” Dermott’s ire was interrupted by the phone. He snatched up the receiver. “What!” His knuckles whitened on the receiver and I could have sworn wisps of steam rose from his forehead. “No, it’s Dermott. Stemp’s buggered off. What the hell’s your problem?”

  The crackle at the other end of the line had an instant effect. Dermott’s ruddy face blanched, the change so startling I thought he might faint.

  “No… No, I didn’t. And if Stemp did, he didn’t leave me any note about it.” He groped for a chair and dropped into it, staring wide-eyed at the wall. “Oh, shit.”

  The receiver crackled vociferously as Dermott’s hand sagged. After a moment he gave his head a shake and raised the receiver again to break into the tirade on the other end.

  “Yeah, I know. Yeah. Yeah, I fucking get it, okay? You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. I’ll get back to you… I don’t know, later! Once I figure this out!”

  He slammed the receiver back into its cradle before raising it to dial again, his hands shaking. “Yeah, it’s Dermott. Get me the access records for the secured weapons lab between five o’clock l
ast night and nine this morning… Yesterday! I need them fucking yesterday! Move it!”

  I clenched my icy fingers together as Dermott turned to face me at last.

  “What’s wrong?” My words fluttered weakly into the silence.

  “The weapon’s gone from the secured lab.”

  My jaw dropped. “But… almost nobody has access… could they have just misplaced it…?

  Dermott sprang to his feet. “It’s a fucking top-secret weapon in a fucking classified lab, for fucksakes! They’re not going to fucking misplace it!”

  Even if I hadn’t already realized that a split second after the words left my mouth, Dermott’s spate of f-bombs would have convinced me not to pursue that line of questioning. We were staring at each other in silence when the phone rang.

  Dermott snatched up the receiver. “Dermott!” He listened for a moment before shouting, “Who the hell is George Harrison? …Well, find out!”

  The receiver went down again, only long enough for him to disconnect and dial again. “Send Webb to the second-floor meeting room. Now!”

  Silence descended except for loud, regular pops as Dermott systematically cracked one knuckle after the other. My mind hurtled in frantic circles.

  The secret weapon, gone. And the mysterious George Harrison somehow involved. Stemp gone. Kane gone. What the hell was happening?

  Spider hurried in looking anxious, his ever-present laptop tucked under his arm.

  Dermott practically pounced on him. “Who the hell is George Harrison?”

  “Um…” Spider eyed him uncertainly. “…the Beatle? He’s dead…”

  “Not the fucking Beatle! The George Harrison that waltzed into the secured weapons lab at eleven o’clock last night and waltzed out again with the fucking weapon prototype!”

  “The George Harrison that works here at Sirius. The one Nicholas Parr was trying to contact,” I added.

  “What? Oh, crap!” The colour drained from Spider’s face as he sank into the nearest chair, whipping open his laptop. For a few minutes the only sound was the frenetic clicking of keys, his hazel eyes blazing with fierce concentration.

  At last he looked up, gnawing his lip. “There’s no George Harrison in the personnel records. Not even the black ops.”