authority to do this, do they?”
“I dunno. Should I go ask to see their creds?” With that tone, Talia doesn’t have to scoff.
“How long do I have?”
“They’re already halfway to you.”
I peer up at the building where she’s hiding, like I’ll be able to see her through the metal and concrete. “One more minute.”
“E.” Talia’s single-letter nickname for me is a warning. She can’t call me Elliott over comms, but even that’s more than she’d usually say.
I tamp down the tension tightening my gut. “I got this.”
“Four more cars.”
I check the windows again, and now I can see the flashlights up the block, around a minivan. Then a sedan. Fast. Too fast. My stomach frosts over. I don’t have one more minute.
I click to stop the recording on the laptop and lay the mic into its case as quickly and carefully as I can.
“Two cars,” Talia says. “Are you moving?”
“Yes, Mother.” I grab the tool belt off the hook by the van’s back doors, thread it through my belt loops and take a deep breath.
“One car. Get going or I’m dropping something on them.”
“Subtle.” Now or never, right? I stick the back door open. Though I’m careful to keep my feet from hitting the ground too loudly, I make sure the metal toolbox clatters against the small square of exposed floor.
“They heard you.” Talia’s voice reminds me to finish my cover. I switch on the display of the iPod that acts as a disguise for my comms, pop the other earbud in and slam the van door shut.
I barely reach the sidewalk before your local neighborhood Emirati security force is on me. Talia stays quiet, and I don’t check the sky for falling objects. I just size up these two not-so-secret agents and nod, like I’m a plumber finishing a late-night call.
They do those, right?
“Where are you coming from, sir?” Dude Number One’s accent is medium-to-heavy Arabic.
I jerk my head at the other side of the street and pull out my best Ottawan twang. “You wouldn’t believe what some people flush.”
Dude Two and Dude One exchange a glance, then look at the side of my van. Time to go.
“Have a good night.”
“Be careful where you park,” Dude Number Two intones like it’s his favorite verse of the Quran. There are a lot of Islamic laws, but I’m pretty sure none of them apply to parking.
I salute and head around the front of the van for the driver’s door. I could’ve gone straight there, avoiding these guys, but it has to seem like I’m not avoiding them. Less suspicious.
I yank my door open. They don’t move on.
“I’m sorry,” I throw in for the extra-Canadian effect. “Is there a problem?”
“You know there are no trucks on this street, yes?”
“Oh, yeah. This isn’t a truck.” I grin.
But they’re still waiting. Watching. Wary.
The seconds add up on the awkward clock. Finally, Dude Two speaks. “We were wondering if you wear your tool belt while driving.”
My breath stops, and I hear Talia’s soft grunt, like their little catch is a gut hit.
I can recover. CIA? Try CYA. I unbuckle the belt and toss it onto the seat. “Nope.”
“Ah. Have a good evening, sir.”
“You too.”
I hop in the van, but I don’t dare to address Talia until I’m clear of the Emiratis’ sweep. “You getting out?”
“Yeah. Packing up now.”
I check the rearview. The flashlight beams scan another car, a few spaces down from the spot I left. A word problem plays out in my mind: if one American spy leaves a Canadian apartment traveling at three miles an hour, and two security guards she’s not supposed to be spying on continue toward her at four miles an hour . . .
The exact answer eludes me, but it doesn’t add up to something good.
I swallow hard, the burnt coffee aftertaste like acid. No more time to calculate. I hit the gas and flip the first right. These blocks are long, but I might be able to make it in time to help.
“Locking up. Am I black?” Talia asks, using Agency
“I dunno. Should I go ask to see their creds?” With that tone, Talia doesn’t have to scoff.
“How long do I have?”
“They’re already halfway to you.”
I peer up at the building where she’s hiding, like I’ll be able to see her through the metal and concrete. “One more minute.”
“E.” Talia’s single-letter nickname for me is a warning. She can’t call me Elliott over comms, but even that’s more than she’d usually say.
I tamp down the tension tightening my gut. “I got this.”
“Four more cars.”
I check the windows again, and now I can see the flashlights up the block, around a minivan. Then a sedan. Fast. Too fast. My stomach frosts over. I don’t have one more minute.
I click to stop the recording on the laptop and lay the mic into its case as quickly and carefully as I can.
“Two cars,” Talia says. “Are you moving?”
“Yes, Mother.” I grab the tool belt off the hook by the van’s back doors, thread it through my belt loops and take a deep breath.
“One car. Get going or I’m dropping something on them.”
“Subtle.” Now or never, right? I stick the back door open. Though I’m careful to keep my feet from hitting the ground too loudly, I make sure the metal toolbox clatters against the small square of exposed floor.
“They heard you.” Talia’s voice reminds me to finish my cover. I switch on the display of the iPod that acts as a disguise for my comms, pop the other earbud in and slam the van door shut.
I barely reach the sidewalk before your local neighborhood Emirati security force is on me. Talia stays quiet, and I don’t check the sky for falling objects. I just size up these two not-so-secret agents and nod, like I’m a plumber finishing a late-night call.
They do those, right?
“Where are you coming from, sir?” Dude Number One’s accent is medium-to-heavy Arabic.
I jerk my head at the other side of the street and pull out my best Ottawan twang. “You wouldn’t believe what some people flush.”
Dude Two and Dude One exchange a glance, then look at the side of my van. Time to go.
“Have a good night.”
“Be careful where you park,” Dude Number Two intones like it’s his favorite verse of the Quran. There are a lot of Islamic laws, but I’m pretty sure none of them apply to parking.
I salute and head around the front of the van for the driver’s door. I could’ve gone straight there, avoiding these guys, but it has to seem like I’m not avoiding them. Less suspicious.
I yank my door open. They don’t move on.
“I’m sorry,” I throw in for the extra-Canadian effect. “Is there a problem?”
“You know there are no trucks on this street, yes?”
“Oh, yeah. This isn’t a truck.” I grin.
But they’re still waiting. Watching. Wary.
The seconds add up on the awkward clock. Finally, Dude Two speaks. “We were wondering if you wear your tool belt while driving.”
My breath stops, and I hear Talia’s soft grunt, like their little catch is a gut hit.
I can recover. CIA? Try CYA. I unbuckle the belt and toss it onto the seat. “Nope.”
“Ah. Have a good evening, sir.”
“You too.”
I hop in the van, but I don’t dare to address Talia until I’m clear of the Emiratis’ sweep. “You getting out?”
“Yeah. Packing up now.”
I check the rearview. The flashlight beams scan another car, a few spaces down from the spot I left. A word problem plays out in my mind: if one American spy leaves a Canadian apartment traveling at three miles an hour, and two security guards she’s not supposed to be spying on continue toward her at four miles an hour . . .
The exact answer eludes me, but it doesn’t add up to something good.
I swallow hard, the burnt coffee aftertaste like acid. No more time to calculate. I hit the gas and flip the first right. These blocks are long, but I might be able to make it in time to help.
“Locking up. Am I black?” Talia asks, using Agency
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