In a Fix

by Linda Grimes

  I wasn’t quite through bitching yet. “How do you guys put up with that? It’s like having a gerbil wake up in your pants when

  you’re least expecting it.”

  They both cracked up, though Mark recovered faster. “Not every guy’s gerbil is as jumpy as Benjamin’s,” he patiently

  explained.

  Bily was more than wiling to elaborate. “Some of us have our gerbils wel trained. Take mine, for instance—”

  “No! You can just keep comments about your gerbil to yourself.” I scooted around the banquette, making room for Mark to

  sit. “I want to hear what Mark knows. What did you find out from the Swede? And is it connected to my condo getting trashed?”

  He hesitated, obviously considering how much—or how little—he could get away with teling us.

  “Everything,” I said, knowing ful wel he’d say only what he pleased. Sometimes I like to pretend he listens to me. Just another

  one of my spook fantasies.

  Before he answered, he retrieved a bottle of Scotch and two glasses from the galey. He put one in front of Bily, the other at

  his own place, then turned to me. “I think I have some of those wine coolers you like somewhere in the back. Just a sec, I’l see.”

  “You stil drink those glorified juice boxes, cuz? We realy need to work on your palate.”

  I lifted my chin. “Thanks anyway, Mark, but I’l just have what you’re having.”

  Mark paused to give Bily a Look, but fetched another glass. He poured a generous amount for each of us, neat, careful not to

  skimp on mine. Crap. Now I had to drink it. I don’t even like Scotch, but if I ever wanted Mark to start seeing me as older,

  maybe I should quit the teeny bopper drinks. Bily had been getting adult treatment from the time he turned twenty-one, and we

  were the same age, damn it. (Al right, so he had a couple of months on me. Wel, five. Okay, almost six. Big whoop. Everyone

  knows girls mature faster than boys anyway.) I lifted my glass and took a hearty swig, figuring the sooner I downed it, the sooner

  it would be gone. I only choked a little. Bily didn’t say anything—his shin was stil within reach—and neither did Mark.

  After taking a much smaler sip, Mark began carefuly. “Trey has been with us peripheraly for years. His import-export

  business is a legitimate family operation—one of the reasons he was recruited by the Agency to do occasional jobs for us. At the

  time, he wanted to be more than just a trust-fund boy, but now that he’s ready to marry and settle down he wants out. He agreed

  to one last job, since it had been in the pipeline for months.”

  I was puzzled. “Why didn’t you just do the job for him and let him off the hook? Then he could have proposed to Mina

  himself.”

  “I offered, but it would have taken too long to bring me up to speed on the details. Besides, he thought he could zip over to

  Sweden, do what needed to be done, and be in the Bahamas in time to pop the question himself. I was only there to cover his ass

  in case he got delayed.”

  “So what happened?” Bily asked.

  “Don’t know yet. We lost contact.”

  Two creases materialized between Bily’s dark brows. “Shit. That’s not good.”

  Worry wasn’t a look I was used to seeing on Bily, and it concerned me more than the simple facts Mark had stated.

  Something was very wrong.

  “No, it’s not good. But don’t invite trouble—it might just be a mechanical failure. Dead battery in his satelite phone, maybe,”

  Mark said, smiling reassurance at me.

  “That’s a crock. Stop treating me like a kid,” I said, not in the mood to be reassured.

  He gave me a quick once-over, noting, I was sure, the baggy clothes I was drowning in, probably looking like a twelve-year-old boy. I stared him down.

  “Okay,” he said. “Somebody tried to grab Trey in Sweden last week. He got away, checked in with us once, and that’s the last

  we heard. I think I was taken in the Bahamas—when I was Trey—because somebody picked up on me—him—being there. So

  far the Swede hasn’t coughed up much information, other than he was getting paid a whole heluva lot of money to return Trey to

  whoever had him before.”

  “Did he tel you who that was?” Bily leaned forward, intent.

  “Not yet, but he wil.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Mark looked at me with eyes so remote they left me chiled. “I’m sure,” he said quietly, and sipped his drink.

  “Oh.” I leaned back, shrinking into my clothes even more, trying not to let my imagination loose.

  Mark swore softly under his breath. “Are you going to throw up? Do I need to get you a bowl?”

  I glared at him. Once upon a time I’d had starry-eyed visions of joining the Agency myself. Mark had tried to discourage me,

  explaining calmly and reasonably why he thought it wouldn’t suit me. When I persisted, he took me aside and painted graphic

  word pictures of some of his wetter assignments. (And by wet, I don’t mean water. Think redder.) He held my head tenderly over

  the toilet while I puked my guts out, and then asked me a simple question: if I couldn’t hear about stuff like that without losing my

  lunch, how would I handle being in the middle of it?

  He had a point. That’s when I decided to start my own business instead.

  Of course, he wasn’t overly thriled with my career as a facilitator either. Thought there was too much exposure inherent in

  building my clientele. As far as Mark was concerned, the less known about our kind, the better. His bosses knew there were

  more like him, naturaly (hard to keep something like that from the top echelon of the CIA), but Mark had worked out some sort

  of deal that entailed them leaving the rest of us alone in exchange for his exclusive services.

  He was right about there being safety in anonymity—al adaptors know that, and try to preserve it. But heck, you can’t live in a

  total vacuum. And it wasn’t like I was renting bilboards or taking out banner ads on popular websites. Referrals from friends and

  family worked for me. Discreet word of mouth, too. Kind of like with a traveling poker game. People might start to suspect

  something funny was going on, but as long as they couldn’t pin it down, it didn’t matter.

  “No, you don’t need to get me a bowl. I’m fine,” I said.

  “You sure, cuz? You do look a little greener than usual, even for you.”

  I glared at him, too. “Shut up, Bily.” I downed the rest of my Scotch and pushed my glass toward the bottle. “You, Mark—

  keep talking. If they only wanted Trey, why cal Mina and tel her to come to the warehouse?”

  Mark poured, a much smaler amount this time, and let Bily field the question.

  “Leverage over Trey—threaten Mina, and Trey was more likely to give them what they wanted.”

  “Why not grab her at the same time, then?”

  Back to Mark. “Only one guy—even with a gun, it’s hard to control two grown people. Much easier to nail one down, and

  then add the other using the first one as bait. If Mina had been first on the scene, she would’ve been taken.”

  “Okay. But why blow up the bungalow?”

  Mark shrugged. “That was a simple ‘we mean business’ statement.”

  It made a warped kind of sense. “The men at the airport?”

  “Probably activated when the Swede didn’t come through with Trey in the Bahamas.”

  “So where’s the Swede now?” I had to ask. I just hoped the answer wouldn’t make me hurl.

  “I dropped him off with some people who have a few more questions for him. They’l let me know when he comes out with

  something useful.”

  I took a dee
p breath and drank the Scotch. It didn’t taste quite as bad this time. “Al right, then. Unless there’s been a

  tremendous coincidence, somebody has connected me to Mina. Why else would my condo be ransacked?”

  “Somebody must’ve been watching Trey for quite a while. He never uses his own name when he travels for us, but obviously

  he can’t change his appearance al that much. If someone tagged him on a job, it wouldn’t be impossible to keep him under

  surveilance, leading right back to his private life. They’d know about Mina, probably folowed her to your office. I only hope they

  don’t know what you realy do for your clients.”

  “My office! Do you think they’ve been there, too? Maybe we better go—”

  “Hold on there, Wonder Woman. I have somebody watching the building. He’l cal if anything looks suspicious outside. We’l

  check inside ourselves first thing in the morning.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. You and Bily need to sleep. So do I. We are al going to take a nice nap.”

  “I cal the double berth,” Bily said quickly, patting the cushion beneath him.

  “Sorry, bud. That’s mine. And the quarter berths are loaded with some extra gear I’ve been storing. One of you can have the

  V-berth, and one of you wil have to make do with that.” He pointed to the short banquette sofa across from the dinette.

  Bily took one look at the narrow cushions and said, “Wel, that’s a no-brainer. Shorty, the couch is al yours.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I grumbled automaticaly, though I was just as happy not to get stuck up front. The V-berth didn’t have any

  windows, and I tend to be claustrophobic.

  Bily heaved himself up, chucked me under the chin, nodded to Mark, and left with a cheery, “Night, al.” He crawled into his

  pointy but ample accommodations and puled the privacy curtain shut behind him.

  I looked at the Scotch, considering one last nightcap—the rich, smoky flavor was starting to grow on me—but Mark removed

  temptation from the table before I could reach for it.

  “You too. Off to bed with you.”

  Just as wel. I yawned my acquiescence and unfolded my legs for the two-foot journey across the floor. Stood. Stepped. Fel

  on my ass. Damn baggy cargos.

  Mark hooked me by my armpits and lifted me easily—almost right out of my pants. I dove for the waistband, and bashed my

  face into his chest. He steadied me before I fel again.

  “Ow,” I said, cradling my nose. “Geez, are you wearing armor?”

  “You okay?” He moved my hand, and gently probed the length of my nose. “Not broken, anyway.”

  I scrunched up my face, testing. “Yeah, I’m fine. Nothing bruised but my dignity.”

  He smiled, eyes shifting to the dove-gray that always made me go al soft and gooey inside. “A few more scars there wil hardly

  be noticed.” He ruffled my hair and kissed the top of my head. “Good night, Ciel.”

  Damn, I was getting sick of the hair-ruffling, head-kissing routine.

  Maybe it was the Scotch doing my reasoning for me, but I decided this was a fine time to do something about that. So I

  reached up, dragged his face down to lip level, and planted a big one right on his mouth. I caled upon some of my recently

  acquired job-related expertise and kissed him for al I was worth, slowly and thoroughly, working my body closer to his.

  I puled back before he did, which was somewhat gratifying. He looked totaly stunned, which I chose to take as even more

  gratifying.

  “Hey, Mark,” I whispered, savoring a power I’d never before felt around him. “I think your gerbil jumped.”

  His eyes widened, and I could swear he was blushing under his tan.

  “Good night,” I said before he could respond, and laid myself down on my bunk, my back to him. He didn’t say anything else,

  but a minute later a pilow and a blanket landed on me. I smiled. For once I’d gotten the upper hand with Super Spy.

  *

  The frigid shock of a piece of ice jerked me upright. I shook my T-shirt away from my back and glared lightning bolts at Bily.

  “There. That ought to do it,” he said, removing himself to a safe distance.

  Mark shook his head in wonder. “You are a brave, brave man.”

  “Just a hungry one. If we don’t leave soon, I know we won’t have time to stop for breakfast,” Bily said, with emphasis on the

  final word.

  “Breakfast?” I said hopefuly, and yawned, tugging the oversized shirt down over my knees. I had ditched the pants during the

  night.

  “See? She’s easily distracted from her murderous impulses by thoughts of food, especialy if her brain hasn’t started functioning

  for the day.”

  “Good to know,” Mark said. “Come on, Ciel. If you don’t hurry up, it’l be daylight and you’l have to put on Benjamin again.”

  I dragged myself to the head. Anything to avoid that aura. After making quick use of the facilities, I did a cat-wash at the sink.

  Mark kept extra toothbrushes in the cabinet, thank goodness. Post-Scotch morning mouth was not a sensation I wished to live

  with for long.

  Once I was clean, and as clearheaded as I was going to get before ingesting massive quantities of caffeine, I realized I didn’t

  have anything to wear. Shit. I did not want to assume Benjamin again just so something would fit—it would feel like putting dirty

  clothes back on after a bath. Yuck.

  “Mark!” I holered as I opened the door, holding a towel in front of me for decency’s sake. “I need—”

  He was standing there with a smal stack of clothes balanced on one hand like a waiter’s tray. I recognized them as some I had

  left on the boat after a day trip with Mark, my parents, and Thomas the previous summer. It was the spare set my mom had

  insisted I bring, she being sure I would fal off the boat at some point during our outing. She’s such a worrywart. (Okay, so I did

  fal off, but only once, and I dried off in the sun after Mark puled me out of the bay, so I didn’t realy need the change of clothes.)

  “Bless your mind-reading little heart,” I said, and closed the door in his smiling face.

  Mark’s face … smiling … lips … Oh, shit! Had I realy?

  I had. Goddamn Scotch. I knew I hated it for a reason. It was a treacherous drink, an evil drink, and it made people do stupid

  things. How was I going to look him in the eye again?

  Chin up, that’s how . Face it head-on. I slipped into my jeans, T-shirt, and green hoodie. You look him right in the eye

  and … I swalowed … and you pretend it never happened. Act like you don’t remember.

  Yep. Selective amnesia: the better part of valor.

  I went back out to the main cabin, looking everywhere but at Mark. “Didn’t I leave some shoes here, too? I can’t wear Bily’s.

  They’d fal off my feet.”

  “There—in the net,” Mark said. Nothing unusual or awkward in his voice. Good. This might work.

  I found my old docksiders and slipped them on, sock-less. “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go.”

  Mark led the way. Bily got to the exit next, but stopped short of leaving. To play the gentleman, I thought, and let me go ahead

  of him. I should’ve known better. As I got closer, he puckered up and held out his arms.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, not bothering to hide my exasperation.

  “Waiting for my good-morning kiss. You gave Mark a good-night kiss. Fair is fair.”

  “You saw?” Mortification now complete.

  He shrugged. “Heard a thunk. Had to investigate.”

  “Ass.” I slugged him as I passed. “That’s for the ice cube.”

  “Ouch,” he said, rubbing his arm. “Shees
h. You are so grumpy before your coffee.”

  Chapter 8

  My company headquarters is located on the third floor of an old office building in the heart of D.C. I rent office space from my

  brother. As with my condo, no way would I be able to afford the primo location without the family discount. I think it’s Thomas’s

  way of keeping tabs on his little sister, and I should resent it, but he’s so damned nice about the whole thing I mostly don’t. Stil,

  as soon as I was financialy able, I’d be saying toodle-loo.

  The only drawback to the current arrangement is that I’m surrounded by lawyers—no offense to anyone in the legal profession.

  If lawyers can be offended, that is. Thomas claims not; I’l defer to his expertise.

  When we got to the building, Mark puled around back and parked in Thomas’s reserved spot, which took some major

  cojones. Nobody but my brother ever parked there, on pain of … wel, I don’t know what, because to my knowledge no one has

  ever dared try it.

  Bily unlocked the back door and quickly disarmed the security system. There was no sign of forced entry. Ditto the door to my

  suite, with its simple brass plate reading “Ciel Haligan, Facilitator.” (I stil felt a burst of pride every time I saw that. My business

  might be smal, and currently holding on by a financial thread, but it was mine.) When Mark punched in the code to open the

  door, I didn’t bother to ask how he’d come by it. Obviously, my life contained no secrets.

  We passed through the tiny reception area, straight back to my office, which is minimaly but tastefuly furnished with leftovers

  from the lawyers who’ve moved to greener pastures. The dark, heavy wood of the antique desk, along with the burgundy leather

  chairs, gave an air of ancient reliability to the place, or so I told myself. It sounded better than “stuffy.”

  First thing that caught my eye was the rock. In the middle of my desk, atop a piece of cream-colored parchment, was a

  smooth, black stone. It was about the size of my palm, with some sort of symbol carved into it. Mark zeroed in on it immediately.

  He gave me a questioning look.

  “Wel, it sure wasn’t there when I left for the Bahamas,” I said.

  Mark stopped me when I would have reached for it, snapped a few pictures of it with his cel phone, and sent them whizzing off