by Gini Koch
The Committee looked at me derisively. “We’re in your dream,” the Senator in charge said. “And we agree that whoever thought it was a good idea for you to be in such a public position was an idiot.”
“Can we sentence her yet?” one of the other Committee members asked. “Or at least ruin her husband’s budding political career?” The rest of the Committee nodded eagerly. They were all over the idea of disgracing Representative Martini.
“Can I wake up now?”
“Do you want to?” the Senator in charge asked.
“Am I hanging out with The Congressional Grand Inquisition when I wake up?”
“Not as far as any of us know. Today. Tomorrow? Who knows?”
“That’s the story of my life. By the way, as far as dream men go, none of you are what I’d like to see the next time I have a horrible nightmare.”
“Who would you prefer?” the Senator in charge asked.
“Billy Zane would be a good option, he doesn’t get nearly enough work. Hugh Jackman. Chris Evans. Really, anyone who starred in The Avengers would be acceptable. Tom Cruise, Will Smith, Nathan Fillion, pick a hot leading man of choice.”
“Sorry. You already live with the best-looking people on Earth. You’re stuck with us. See you next time, Ambassador.”
“Can’t wait.”
The Senator in charge nodded. “Tomorrow night will come soon enough.”
“As near as I can tell, only if I keep on killing bad guys.”
CHAPTER 2
MY EYES OPENED and I looked around. I wasn’t in a big room with a lot of important people looking at me while I incriminated myself and everyone else I knew. I was lying in bed.
I’d had a version of this dream pretty much every night since Jeff had become the Appointed Representative for New Mexico’s 2nd District, starting right after Operation Sherlock had concluded.
Sure, people being murdered left and right and my somehow becoming the “adopted niece” of the two best assassins in the business could give anyone nightmares. But those situations never came up in my dreams. No, I got the nightly reminder of what I was really stressed over—my husband was now in a very public position and we had a hell of a lot of skeletons in our big walk-in closet.
Rolled over. Sure enough, Jeff was in bed next to me. Mr. Clock said it was five in the morning. Heaved a sigh of relief and snuggled next to Jeff.
He made the low growl that sounded like a purr in his sleep and pulled me closer to him. Buried my face in between his awesome pecs, rubbed against the hair on his chest, and let his double heartbeats lull me back to sleep. Thankfully, this time, dreamless.
The smooth sounds of Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love” woke me up. Now Mr. Clock shared that it was eight in the morning. I really wasn’t a morning person, but these days Jeff had to go to Capitol Hill most days out of the week, and Jamie liked to get up early to start her day.
However, Jeff wasn’t in bed with me. Not so unusual—he usually heard the alarm before I did.
Got up and trotted into the bathroom. No Jeff. Checked in the closet. No Jeff. Went to the nursery. Happily, I wasn’t having yet another nightmare—Jeff was in there with Jamie and all the animals, from Earth and Alpha Four both.
I received hugs and kisses from our daughter, snuggles from the furred and feathered beasts, and a nice good morning kiss from Jeff. Even when he wasn’t trying hard the man was the best kisser in the universe.
“I hear you two have a big day planned,” Jeff said as he finished helping Jamie dress and the music changed to The Pretenders’ version of “I Got You Babe.”
“Yep. Today’s my ‘be seen being all diplomatic, casual, and yet efficient’ day combined with a Mommy-Daughter day.”
“So, you’re planning to eat every meal and snack, other than dinner, out,” Jeff said more than asked.
“Yes, what’s your point?” Tom Petty’s “Yer So Bad” came on. This was the music mix Jeff had made for our second anniversary. He’d put a lot of thought into it, and I’d been using it as our wakeup music for the past two months.
Jeff grinned. “No point at all. I may be a congressman now, but I still know how to be diplomatic. If you hurry, I have time to keep an eye on Jamie while you shower.” He swung Jamie on his shoulders and gave her what she called a giraffe ride, since a horsy ride required the “horse” be on hands and knees.
“Your sacrifice is duly noted.” I took a fast shower and got dressed while ZZ Top’s “Gimme All Your Lovin’”, Wall Of Voodoo’s “Hands Of Love”, Pat Benatar’s “Never Wanna Leave You”, and Tina Turner’s “Best” played, and Jeff and Jamie romped, assisted by all four dogs, several Peregrines, and a whole mess of Poofs. The cats and many of the Poofs chose to sit this one out and instead spent their time staring at me in the shower. Animals, they truly enriched a family’s life.
In the good old days before my daughter was born, I’d have taken longer to get ready, and not because I was skimping on the lather, rinse, repeat portions or anything now. During Operation Drug Addict some of our enemies had slipped some seriously strong, power-altering drugs into Jeff’s system, which he’d then passed along to our child when I’d gotten pregnant, and she’d in turn passed along to me. We were all about the sharing around here.
So, I was now kind of half A-C, though differently from how Jamie was truly half A-C. I had the super-strength, which wasn’t quite as good as the regular A-Cs under most circumstances, but was still pretty darned good for any human who wasn’t nicknamed “The Rock.” I also had faster healing and regeneration, which was excellent.
I also had hyperspeed. Jamie was eighteen months old, and I was just now sort of getting to a place where I could use hyperspeed for normal, mundane things without crashing through a wall or knocking myself out.
Jeff’s cousin, Christopher White, had also become enhanced—though he’d done it intentionally—and he and I worked on my skills all the time. This month, the focus was on completing my personal routine using hyperspeed. So far, showering and drying off had gone well, but I used regular human for hair care because I didn’t want to look like I had mange, and it was really easy to yank your hair out when you were super strong.
As “Looking Hot” from No Doubt hit my personal airwaves, I trotted to our huge walk-in closet to choose today’s ensemble. A-Cs were in love with the colors black and white, and Armani, in a way that made casual obsessions—like mine for all things Aerosmith or Gollum’s for the Ring—seem to be merely pale imitations of fidelity.
Therefore, my closet had a lot of black slim skirts, white oxfords, and a variety of black or black-and-white high heels in it. Happily, because I was both human—well, mostly human—and the Ambassador, I got to wear colors and other styles, at least occasionally. And because I was me, I also had a lot of jeans, several pairs of Converse, and an extremely large and eclectic set of concert T-shirts and hoodies.
For some diplomatic missions, going out to be seen all day would mean dressing up. However, I wasn’t your average diplomatic bear, and it was the middle of July, ergo I was going for casual. Got into jeans, my Converse, and my newest Aerosmith T-shirt, because having Steven, Joe, and the rest of my boys on my chest ensured I would prevail over all obstacles, even if the only obstacle I could foresee this morning was picking between orange juice, cranberry juice, or a combination.
In honor of “Looking Hot,” I selected a cute No Doubt hoodie, because summer back east was still nothing like summer in Pueblo Caliente, Arizona, or Dulce, New Mexico, and I could easily get chilled. Or sweat to death, if it was a high-humidity day, and a hoodie helped hide sweat stains. Plus it looked hella cute with this particular Aerosmith shirt.
“You look great, baby,” Jeff said as he swung Jamie down and into my arms. He hugged both of us. “You’ll be home for dinner, right?”
“I should be asking you that, but yes, we will be.” Turned off the alarm clock as “Honey, Honey” from ABBA came on.
“Good.” Jeff kissed us both g
oodbye, then headed out, holding the door open for our Embassy’s Cultural Attachés, aka Naomi Gower-Reynolds and her younger sister, Abigail.
Naomi had only been married to Chuckie for about six months, so I still tended to think of the sisters as the Gower girls. They, like Jamie, were hybrids, but their human mother, Erika, was a stunningly beautiful African-American human, and while A-C genetics were dominant for all internal hybrid workings, human genetics were dominant for the outside. Like their mother and two older brothers, the Gower girls had beautiful dark skin, but when they smiled I definitely saw their father, Stanley.
Basically, the Gower girls were typical Dazzler gorgeous, which was what I called the female A-Cs, because there still wasn’t one of them I’d met who was anything less than an eleven on a scale of ten. That the dumbest Dazzler was still MENSA material when stacked up against humans would have been even more unfair if almost all of them weren’t also incredibly nice.
Naomi put her arms out. “Mine.”
“Auntie Mimi!” Jamie squealed, while Naomi grinned.
“I resent that Sis is the favorite,” Abigail said with her own grin as I handed my squirming daughter over.
“I’m the godmother. I rank higher,” Naomi said as she cuddled Jamie and they did a set of hyperspeed kisses that was their personal thing. They looked like woodpeckers touching beaks at hummingbird speed to me, but they both loved it, and who was I to argue with what made my daughter happy?
Because she was a hybrid, Jamie had two sets of godparents—A-C and human. While we’d chosen the male godparents when she was born, the godmothers had been picked later. Amy Gaultier-White had won the human side based on her being one of my oldest girlfriends and also being married to Christopher, who was Jamie’s A-C godfather.
Naomi had lobbied for, and won, the A-C godmother role well before she and her husband, my best guy friend since ninth grade, had really officially started dating. Since her eldest brother was the A-C’s Supreme Pontifex, and also married to Reader, who was Jamie’s human godfather, it seemed logical. Plus Jamie adored her, and the feeling was clearly mutual, so there was that, too.
“I love you, too, Auntie Abby,” Jamie said, once she and Naomi were done being cutely nauseating in their shared adoration. “Don’t worry.”
Abigail gave her a kiss. “Good. Now, let’s go to breakfast. You need to help us at an important meeting.”
Jamie beamed and started sharing what she and her daddy had done this morning while I went and grabbed my purse. These days, I had a lot of different purses and handbags available to me, but Old Trusty, my big, black, cheap leather purse was still my go-to option. It took a licking and kept on holding everything and not falling apart. Ensured my Glock, my iPod, speakers, earbuds, Jeff’s adrenaline harpoon, my wallet, a bottle of extra-hold hairspray, my brush, a scrunchie, and anything else I could think of were in it. Shoved my phone into the back pocket of my jeans.
“I’m set. Com on!”
“Yes, Chief?”
“Walter, I need the pet sitters to come on by and ensure all the animals are living large and feeling spoiled.”
“So, just like every other day,” Walter said.
“You got it. Tell whoever’s drawn the short straws today that they’re the best agents in the world and we totally appreciate them. Call me if I’m needed—we girls are going to be out for most of the day.”
“Yes, Chief, Embassy is advised.”
“Len and Kyle are waiting for us in the garage,” Abigail said as the com went off and we headed downstairs.
The American Centaurion Embassy went up seven floors, down two for basement and parking garage levels, and then went down a lot more thanks to the hidden elevator that connected us to the Tunnels of Doom. It was a city block long and wide and, since Operation Destruction, was connected via a steel and bulletproof glass walkway on the second floors to the neighboring building we now owned, operated, and had personnel living in, which was nicknamed The Zoo.
The stairs, like the two elevators, only went down to the first floor. Then we had to cut through the first floor to either get to the stairs leading to the basement or the different set of stairs leading to the garage.
The sounds of the Embassy staff working filtered through as we walked by offices and salons. Everything sounded calm and normal as we went to the garage.
A gray limo was pulled out, idling. Officially, Len was our driver and Kyle was our bodyguard, but Len was happy to provide guarding as well. They were both former USC Trojan football players, Len as quarterback, Kyle on the line. I’d met the boys in Vegas right before Jeff and I got married, meaning during Operation Invasion. Now they officially worked for Chuckie at the C.I.A., but were assigned permanently to me and American Centaurion, in that order.
Kyle opened the door, then took Jamie from Naomi, which earned him a hug from her. We women piled in and Kyle helped me get Jamie into her car seat. Everyone in and buckled, Kyle took shotgun and we drove off and out.
“The driver is owed a hug,” Len said as we pulled out of the garage’s driveway and Kyle turned on the music and “Sugar, We’re Goin Down” from Fall Out Boy came on the limo’s airwaves.
But before Jamie or anyone else could reply, something hit the limo.
CHAPTER 3
“DOWN!” Kyle shouted as he slammed his fist onto the laser shield button.
Though we all jumped, there wasn’t really a need for us to duck. American Centaurion limos were equipped with all the bulletproof stuff along with the aforementioned laser shielding, and many other snazzy extras. And while we’d had limos and other A-C vehicles blown up before, the bombs were put in or on before anyone got in, or they were tossed in through an open window.
Since it was summer and we had air conditioning, our windows were up. So I could see that what had hit us wasn’t all that dangerous.
“Why are people throwing rotten food at us?” Abigail asked as more things hit the limo and Len floored it.
Looked around and watched those tossing crap at us scramble onto the sidewalks. “Oh. Check out the signs. Club Fifty-One is gracing us with a visit and apparently protesting that we’re living here.”
“Unreal,” Len muttered. “Call the police,” he said to Kyle.
“I’ll do it.” I sent a text to Officer Melville, who was the head of the K-9 department and, by now, a personal friend. “We’re going to get complaints from our neighbors if those losers block the street.”
“I just don’t want them to hurt someone,” Naomi said, as she held one of Jamie’s hands and I held the other and Abigail called the Embassy and advised them that we had a problem outside and in the surrounding neighborhood.
Melville texted back. “Huh. Apparently the police are aware of the protestors and taking steps. He’s a little vague about said steps, but assured me all will be well.”
“So, should I take evasive action?” Len asked, as the music changed to “Everything Will Never Be Okay” by Fiction Plane, and we drove on past a lot more protestors, all of them equipped with a lot of foodstuffs.
Considered this as eggs and tomatoes hit the limo, because it wasn’t a stupid or overeager question—many times, the Club 51 grunts worked as distraction for their real heavy hitters. Considering our first meeting with them had resulted in our just managing to stop them from blowing up a packed commercial jet, it was wise to evaluate our options.
“I suppose it can’t hurt.”
Len nodded then started off down a series of random streets. We weren’t pursued, and once we were several blocks away from the Embassy, there were no more protestors.
The rest of the drive was uneventful, with all of us other than Len and Jamie taking calls or texts from Embassy personnel. We decided that a general, calm mention to our people in D.C. that Club 51 was out and about was sufficient.
I sent texts to Jeff and Chuckie so they’d know what had happened and be prepared in case the loons were protesting at Capitol Hill or around Rayburn House, the building
where Jeff’s office was. I received automated “in a meeting, will reply when able” messages from both of them. Oh, well, they’d see the messages when they saw them.
We arrived at our destination, which was near Capitol Hill—the Teetotaler. We’d been introduced to this restaurant by Edmund and Nathalie Brewer, right before someone tried to assassinate Jeff. A gift from the owners had inadvertently saved Jeff’s life. Sadly, Edmund Brewer hadn’t been as lucky—he’d been one of those murdered during Operation Sherlock.
Based on what had happened when we left the Embassy, Kyle got out first while Len kept the limo running at the curb. Kyle went inside and was in there for a good five minutes. He came out and opened the passenger door on the curbside.
“I’ve checked the interior, including kitchen and bathrooms,” Kyle said as he helped Abigail out. “We’re clear. Rosemarie has a table set up for us that’s in the back, with full visual access of the entrances to the dining area.”
“She and Douglas are great.” I got Jamie out of her car seat while Kyle helped Naomi out. Then he took Jamie from me and helped me out. “Len, where are you going to park?” I asked him through the now-opened passenger’s window.
“Actually, I want to wash the car.”
Took a good look at the outside of the limo. It was pretty much covered with rotten food and garbage. The laser shield was great for protection, but it didn’t repel things that were oozy or sticky—it just didn’t let them in, so to speak.
But while things couldn’t get through the shield, the shield itself was dirty, and Len couldn’t turn it off without essentially sharing that there was a shield on the car. “Wash the car” was code for “get it out of sight and bring it back ‘cleaned’ off.” In a case like this though, where we’d been seen by a lot of people, the smart move was to actually go to a car wash and run the limo through.
Considering we weren’t alone on the sidewalk, it behooved me to play along. “Good thinking. We need to get the egg off this puppy before it’s too late. But I don’t want you going alone.”