The Spy Who Kissed Me

by Pauline Baird Jones

  Power brokering.

  Shots heard round the world.

  I couldn’t get that phrase out of my head.

  Not while staring at a pig with a potentially big bang.

  If it was pointed in the right direction.

  Was it?

  I did a mental survey, added in the north and south.

  If I was right, the pig was pointed right at the capitol building where most of our government was assembling right now.

  No. It couldn’t be, could it? No one would be insane enough to fire this little piggie from the park.

  Not when we were at war.

  Surely they weren’t that crazy?

  I looked at Flynn and caught him looking at his pig. That’s when I knew, don’t ask me how, that he was that crazy. They were going to fire the pig. If they succeeded, the shot would be heard round the world. It might be heard on the moon.

  As if he heard me thinking, he looked my way and I knew that he knew I knew.

  He wasn’t just trying to limit the whole of Congress’s terms, he’d been part of the attempts on my life.

  I arched my brows questioningly, then looked away. There was nothing he could do to me now. Not with the world watching. The real problem was, what could I do about what I knew?

  Drum did this riff, startling me out of my thoughts. I hadn’t played a note for a whole verse and no one had noticed. Dang Flynn and his plots. I turned to glare at him. Only he wasn’t there to glare at. Where did he go?

  I looked right.

  I looked left.

  I should have watched my back.

  Someone grabbed my legs and tipped me off the back of the platform. My wounded arm scraped the side and I was out before my head hit the grass.

  * * * *

  Millions of kids were having recess inside my head. Jumping. Running. Screaming.

  No. That wasn’t right. I didn’t teach young minds, I twisted them with my roach.

  Headache. Not kid-ache. Ouch, arm hurt, too.

  I opened my eyes. Dark. Could see grass. Why was grass up my nose. Tried to push it away. Arms weren’t working.

  Where—oh yeah. Bless the USA. I could hear him singing somewhere off to my right. Couldn’t have been out long.

  Out? Why was I lying in the grass and not playing?

  Various gears in my head turned, inviting more children to rampage through my head, but eventually bringing up a memory of getting grabbed.

  Thwacked arm. Bright lights. No light.

  I sent the brain kiddies home, but could do nothing about the headache they left. The grass was another story. I went to brush it away and realized I was handcuffed. Again. At least my hands were cuffed in front. I used my elbows and lifted my head. The light wasn’t good, but I seemed to be lying between the two wheels right under the pig.

  I didn’t need to know the science of recoil to find this disturbing, not after what I’d observed on the tube.

  I inched sideways, in the direction of the stand and bleachers, but froze when I sensed, rather than saw stealthy movement. Dark, menacing silhouettes against darker shadow moved in and out of my limited view. Once I saw eye whites, more than once the gleam of moonlight off a weapon briefly highlighting malevolent silhouettes.

  Terrorists.

  I was a prisoner of terrorists.

  Talk about defying the odds. Did this mean my chances of getting married had just gone up? Or down? Would I live long enough to find out?

  Above the rising crescendo of Greenwood blessing the USA, I heard Flynn’s agitated voice.

  “You can’t do this, Dag!”

  “I think you’ll find I can.” The cool contempt in Dag’s voice sent a chill down my prone spine. “What do I care about one tin pot president when there’s twenty million dollars on the table?”

  “This isn’t about money! It was never about the money! You can’t kill the president now, while there’s a war on!”

  “Lighten up, old man. You can bet that whatever Cabinet member stayed home tonight won’t mind waking up president of this great land.”

  It didn’t make me happy to have my suspicions confirmed, though it was nice to know I hadn’t completely misjudged Flynn. He wasn’t a total villain, just the parent of one. And what was Muir in all this?

  As if he’d caught my thought, Flynn asked Dag, “Is your brother in it with you?”

  Dag gave a bitter laugh. “Hardly. We both know he wouldn’t have stood by and let us kill the delectable Isabel.”

  Delectable? Perhaps he wasn’t a total villain. Maybe ninety-nine percent with just a tiny corner of surprisingly good taste. Or really bad vision. Who can say?

  “No,” Flynn said. “And I shouldn’t have.”

  Nice to know who your friends were. Who’d have thought that beneath Muir’s dull exterior lurked a knight errant’s heart beating just for me?

  A pity I was learning too late that appearances are deceiving. Not too late though, I wondered, with a sudden pang. Did they think they had finished me off? No, I answered my own question. You don’t cuff dead people. Had I missed the disposition of my person, or was that the topic to come?

  “It’s too late to turn squeamish now, pater,” Dag drawled. “She should have kept her nose out of our business.”

  “You shouldn’t have grabbed her. There was nothing she could have done this late in the game.”

  “Except point the finger at us,” Dag said, turning my way.

  I played possum, though I wanted to lash out when I felt his fingers on my pulse.

  “Is she dead?” Flynn asked.

  “Not yet.”

  The chill turned to an ice flow.

  “Dag—”

  “Don’t try to stop me. I owe her for the car and I mean to collect payment in full.” I almost cried out when his fingers twisted into my hair. Survival won out over pain, though it wasn’t easy. Lucky for me, he got distracted when another figure approached and said something in a low voice.

  “Later, my sweet,” he said in a low voice, then straightened. “Show time.”

  “I won’t let you do this, Dag.” Flynn sounded determined.

  “You can’t stop me, old man.” Dag sounded ruthless. “Cuff him, Hamid.”

  “I will kill him,” a voice I presumed belonged to Hamid. I heard Flynn give a muffled groan, but felt no satisfaction. How much worse it must be for him to know his own son had betrayed him.

  “No. I want him to see it first. Then you can kill him.” Dag moved to the rear of the pig. “Pity Isabel isn’t awake to appreciate the irony.”

  “Irony?” Flynn’s voice sounded stifled, filled with pain.

  “You don’t find it ironic that you’ll both die because you tried to save Congress?”

  Here I’d thought things were as bad as they could be. He was worse than a bastard. For once I cursed my Baptist vocabulary that left me without a vile enough epitaph to spit at the toe rag.

  “Dag,” Flynn’s voice sounded strained. “You can still stop this. Fire now, before the President gets there!”

  He gave another muffled grunt. I saw a shadowy Hamid raise what looked like an Uzi and bring it down on the head of a slumped figure. Dag said nothing.

  “Three minutes,” another guttural voice intoned.

  In my mind I could see the slow sweep of the second hand tracking around the circle of numbers, moving closer, and closer to ground zero. One thousand…two thousand…I didn’t want to count, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself.

  “Isabel, if you’re playing possum down there, you might want to cover your ears. I’m told the blast will be rather loud.”

  I didn’t dignify that with an answer. Against the dark sky and earth, I thought I saw a darker figure rise, move toward us, and then sink into shadow again. Of course, my suits-out-of-suits were out there somewhere. Kel might be out there, too.

  “I know you’re awake, Isabel. I can feel you shooting daggers at me,” Dag sounded amused. He said something softly, and hands grabbed me, dragg
ed me roughly out from under the pig.

  I didn’t mind this, because I figured being in the recoil zone of the pig might not be good for my health. I did mind being thrust close to Dag. He patted my cheek. I jerked my head away, though my captor wouldn’t let me jerk my body away.

  “It won’t work. I’ve watched the war. Artillery isn’t that accurate.”

  Dag’s teeth gleamed white in the dark as he smiled. “Then you’ll also know the significance of laser guided shells, kissing cousins to the smart bombs they’re using. We even have men in position at the targets to guide them in with hand-held targeting lasers. It’s quite simple, brilliant, really. Let me give the credit where it’s due.”

  He made a mocking half bow towards Flynn.

  It wasn’t smart, but I still had to say it. “Smart shells to blow up Congress. Isn’t that, like, overkill?”

  Dag gave a surprised laugh. “Down, but not quite out. I’ll have to see what I can do about that when the President’s been blown sky high.”

  “One minute,” the time keeper intoned.

  Dag turned away from me. All eyes were on the barrel of the pig. In my mind I could see the second hand sweeping toward ground zero. Where was the CIA? Surely they weren’t going to choose this moment to screw up?

  Behind us Lee Greenwood’s voice rose triumphant. Disheartening to know I wasn’t missed or needed. Hamid paced towards the pig, his hand reaching eagerly for the mechanism that was to bring the imperialist Americans to their knees—

  Suddenly some of the lights shifted blindingly on our little group around the pig. A voice boomed out of the dark, “Don’t anyone move! Do not move—”

  I didn’t move. The terrorist holding me did. The sound of the shot had barely sounded when he dropped like a rock.

  A low swell from the people in the bleachers rose against the finale. The music faltered, the big finish losing its momentum in the face of this unplanned for federal distraction.

  “Lay down your weapons and move away from the howitzer or we will open fire!” The voice was disembodied, metallic, emotionless, but chillingly emphatic. I couldn’t tell if it was Kel. It didn’t sound like him, but I’d never heard him through a loud speaker.

  Hamid moved. Another shot rang out. He slumped into the dark, dead grass. Now there were a few screams from the stands, a sense of stirring, panic waiting to be ignited.

  “Anyone who approaches the howitzer will be shot. Lay down your arms and put your hands on top of your heads!”

  “It’s over.” Flynn, slumped against the ground with a bruise swelling on his right temple, looked accusingly at his son. “You screwed up again.”

  Dag looked like a man who’d just lost twenty million dollars. And been disowned. I had no inclination to feel sorry for him.

  The terrorists bent to comply.

  At that moment the lights went out.

  Not just the rally lights. Everything for several blocks. Houses. Street lights. Utter blackness.

  I heard a half scream of fright. A yell of, “Fire!”

  Then inhaled the acrid smell of smoke.

  Panic moved faster than patriotism through the crowd. I heard some shouted pleas for calm, but the sound system had gone down with the lights.

  This seemed like a good time for me to become an ex-hostage of terrorists, but before I could make my move, someone grabbed me again. Hope came first. Kel had grabbed me quite a lot this week. Now would be a good time to reprise the grabbing.

  Hope got dashed when Dag said in my ear, “You’re going to help me get out of here, love. Or die with me.”

  I didn’t like door number one or door number two.

  “You’re going to kill me anyway,” I reminded him. Not because I wanted to, you understand. It was a Ploy. I was stalling.

  “There’s a lot of ways to die.”

  “So I’ve been told.” I wasn’t surprised he was plagiarizing, just that he was doing it with bad dialogue. “Several times just this week.”

  He gripped my sore arm and jerked. It hurt so bad, I couldn’t cry out. I hated the whimper that made it past my lips. Hated him for forcing it out of me.

  An official voice gave commands over a bull horn, getting more emphatic, as the crowd became more panicked. In the dark I could hear the sounds of hundreds of feet against the wooden seat of the bleachers, cries for help, and shouts as officials tried to restore calm, the rising swell of a crowd out of control.

  Dag used the confusion to drag me towards the bandstand. I didn’t resist. Pain was still sending barbed wire tracks back to my brain. And there’s something very persuasive about an Uzi in your kidneys.

  The cries got louder. There were shots. He pushed me against the bandstand, adding stars to wheel above the barbed wire.

  I could feel his cornered-rat panic as he looked for an out using a woman for a shield. No surprise he was a coward.

  Then, when I thought things couldn’t possibly get any weirder, they did.

  Lights came back on. Not normal lights. Strobe lights.

  Instead of providing illumination, they added to the confusion, turning the manic multitude—lightly interspersed with terrorists—into a jerky, slow motion frenzy. As a final touch, the fireworks started to go off in bright bursts of patriotic color against the dark, cloudy sky. No question now whether our rally would make it on Fox News tonight. Not even a scud attack would pre-empt this.

  “Better late than never,” Dag muttered, sounding relieved. “That should cover our retreat. Come on.”

  He pushed me through the crowd. Ahead of us, Flynn ran into the pack, looking back at the dark figure, with FBI written in light-catching white on his jacket, pursuing him.

  He should have been looking forward. Flynn slammed into Mrs. Macpherson, his body wrapping inexorably around her “S” shaped body. His head got stuck between her massive, pointed breasts. His hands slipped on her polyester coat without finding purchase. They both went down in a tangle of arms and legs and breasts. Talk about symbolic. The former saint Flynn, sliding around on polyester while Mrs. Macpherson’s dress climbed her hose to expose her cotton knickers for a Fox News cameraman. The other networks were going to be sorry they snubbed the patriotic party.

  “Thanks, dad,” Dag muttered with a half laugh.

  Hey, I never said the guy didn’t have a sense of humor.

  He steered us around his struggling father and shrieking Mrs. M, holding me tight against him as we half-walked, half-trotted towards the street. Jostled by panicked bodies moving weirdly in the midst of strobing lights, inhaling smoke from fireworks and the fire, it all seemed unreal. Like it was a movie and we were just following directions.

  “You got a car?”

  “I came with the feds.” Pissed did a return engagement in my head. Goons and bad guys had been shooting at me and kidnapping me all week. I was getting tired of it. “Is this a real fire or smoke bomb sleight of hand, Dag?”

  “Clever girl. I had a feeling we’d need the time to get away. Only those fools didn’t set them off at the right time.”

  “Maybe you should have synchronized your watches.”

  Someone bumped into us and Dag’s grip tightened. Since I was the one who took the brunt of it on my wounded arm, the ground did a one eighty around me, adding a distinct stagger to my already unsteady gait.

  “Don’t flake out on me now,” he said, savagely, giving me another pain spiraling shake.

  “Oh, that helped,” I muttered as the world did two one-eighties this time. I didn’t have to exaggerate the stagger that followed that one, but I did anyway.

  I had a Plan.

  I moaned, wobbled, then went limp. It’s not as easy as you might think. I mean, all I had was the world’s most selfish son of a bitch to catch me.

  He did, but only, I suspect, because I was so close I almost took him down with me.

  “Damn you! Stand up!”

  That did it. I let my weight go his way so I could land on him when we went down. Would have worked if
someone hadn’t broad-sided us from the other direction.

  We sprawled untidily in the grass and the Uzi went flying. I was on the bottom. The two on top of me began to grapple and I moved up in the queue to become a kind of victim sandwich, with my head sticking out between two armpits. Someone’s belt was digging into my elbow. Someone’s elbow was digging into my throat. Both sets of feet were applying bruises to my shins. In one roll I found myself lip to lip with Kel, then another roll put me nose to belly button with Dag.

  Not pretty.

  After I took a nasty blow to the eye that set off my own private fireworks show, I’d had it with being in the middle.

  I applied just enough elbow to a handy solar plexus. When it didn’t gasp like Kel, I did it again, only harder. Dag’s gasp caused him to retreat enough that I was able to roll over. I hooked my still cuffed hands into the grass and pulled.

  It was like being ironed from above and below. And then I was free, breathing, not gasping to get back the air squeezed out of me. The two men rolled close to me, both reaching for the Uzi. I don’t know what came over me. I just grabbed it and slammed the butt down on Dag’s exposed temple.

  No surprise when he went limp.

  Kel rolled off him and sat up. Looked at Dag, then at me.

  “Nice job,” he said. He wiped the blood from the side of his mouth and grinned at me. His face was blacked with whatever it was they used for blacking. Most likely something way more expensive than shoe polish. It was kind of sexy, except I couldn’t see his dimple. “You ever considered a career in the CIA? They’re looking for a few good women, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know,” I said, sort of bemused as men in black rushed forward, uncuffed me, cuffed Dag instead and hauled him away.

  In their wake, more men in black led Flynn, also in cuffs, to a waiting truck. A gap in the crowd revealed Reverend Hilliard, looking somewhat less saintly than before, trying to calm Mrs. Macpherson.

  I felt sorry for him, but not enough to go to a Bible class every Saturday night.

  “Can you get up?” Kel asked, recalling my attention. His blue eyes looked even bluer against the black of his skin. I felt like singing hallelujah. Instead, I took the hand he held out and, let him pull me up and into his arms.