The Pleasure of Panic

by JA Huss

  I actually smile at him because… dogs.

  “Finn,” Declan says. “Take Miss Grey down to Lakewood for questioning.”

  “What?” the woman says. People have her by the arm now. Two men. Two big men.

  And then shit just goes… awry.

  Her body twists, her arms and legs also in motion. She’s got one restraining arm bent behind the guy’s back and he drops to the ground crying out in pain. The other one gets a chop to the throat that leaves him gasping for breath and even though I’m the agent and she’s the suspect, I find myself rooting for her to take out Declan too.

  It’s not personal or anything. I just like to root for the underdog.

  She doesn’t. Take him out, that is. A massive show of force has her face down on the pavement, her cheek pressed into the sidewalk, as she spits threats about lawsuits and unreasonable violence.

  Seconds later she’s led away, wrists zip-tied behind her back, and shoved in the back of my car under Declan’s orders.

  I just stand there, watching the entire scene play out with my usual level of indifference.

  “Finn!” Declan yells right up in my face. “For fuck’s sake, get your shit together! Take her to Lakewood and put her in a room!”

  So I do. Because that’s my job.

  I get in the car, start it up, and make my way slowly through downtown and over to Colfax, deciding against the freeway, since there’s only one freeway route over to Lakewood anyway and it looks packed with traffic as I pass by. I drive slow, not in a hurry, and look at the woman in my back seat from the rear-view mirror.

  She stares back, daring me to speak to her.

  But I don’t.

  Because I just don’t care enough about what’s happening to put forth the effort.

  Almost an hour later she’s in a dimly-lit room, hands cuffed to the table, ankles shackled, screaming threats at the camera and two-way mirror that would make a biker blush.

  I’m standing on the other side of the mirror in a room filled with monitors, holding a bag of Mrs. Fields’ Chocolate Chip Cookies I got from the vending machine, feeding them into my mouth one at a time, watching her.

  She’s tiny. Everything about her is small. But fierce. Nothing about her is weak.

  The door bursts open and Declan walks in, slamming it closed behind him. Issy Grey hears it—the room isn’t completely soundproof because of the mirror—and stops spewing threats to tilt her head and listen.

  “Did you talk to her?” Declan asks, slumping into one of two chairs.

  “Nope,” I say, shoving the last cookie into my mouth, bunching up the empty bag, and tossing it towards the trash can. I miss, but don’t pick it up. “I have no clue what’s going on, so just waiting on you. Where the fuck have you been?”

  Declan looks at me with an expression that says, Watch your mouth, son, but doesn’t bother to say the words out loud. Doesn’t have to. We both know who’s boss here and it sure as fuck isn’t me.

  He pulls up a screen on one of the many monitors stationed around the observation area, which displays a dossier of Ms. Grey. Three others contain footage of the raid. One is a live image of a chest cam on an officer still on the scene, two are looping different discoveries found in her back rooms, and the last three are trained on her, inside the interrogation room.

  “OK, so this is where we’re at. We got an anonymous tip this afternoon that there was a meth lab over at Go Fuck Yourself—”

  I laugh at the name because I sorta love it. Issy Grey is totally the kind of person who names a business Go Fuck Yourself.

  Declan just continues. “Upon arrival it was clear the tip was bogus, but during the search the dogs sniffed out a sizable amount of C4 explosive.”

  “What?” I say, pulling out the chair next to Declan and taking a seat. “Her?” I flick my thumb over my shoulder at the two-way.

  “Like a lot of it, Finn.”

  I laugh. “Bullshit. She’s an elf-sized demon, sure. But no one would be that aggressive and call that much attention to themselves if they’re holding C4 explosives in their back room.”

  “Obviously”—Declan sighs, rubbing his temples with two fingertips—“something’s going on here. So let’s go in there and get to the bottom of it.”

  “Wait,” I say, placing a hand on his shoulder to prevent him from standing. “You think she’s… what? Using her little women’s empowerment classes as a front for terrorists?”

  “Maybe,” Declan says.

  I laugh. “Really?”

  “I follow the evidence, Finn. If you know anything about me by now, it should be that. And this woman had five hundred pounds of C4 in her back storeroom. So let’s go talk to her and see what the deal is. I’m Bob, you’re Joe.”

  “Fuck that,” I say. “I’m Bob and you’re Joe.”

  “Whatever,” Declan says, standing up.

  Bob is good cop and Joe is bad cop. Declan always plays good cop-bad cop during interrogations. It’s cliché, but it works. Usually. I’ve only been working with the Lakewood office for about three months, but Declan has already proven himself to be a powerful interrogator, so I generally just follow his lead.

  Besides, being bad cop requires a lot of effort and I’m just not into that kind of investment tonight.

  We exit the observation room, enter the hallway, then open the door that leads to the interrogation room, go inside, and close the door behind us. No one is watching on the other side of the glass now, but she doesn’t know that. And the whole thing is being recorded, so it hardly matters.

  “’Bout fucking time,” the demon-girl spits. “I want my phone call and my lawyer. If you think I’m gonna—”

  “Issy,” I say, because I’m good cop, and he always goes first and he always uses first names. “You’re not under arrest. We’re just here to question you.”

  “Then set me free. Unchain me and let me go. I’ve got nothing to say.”

  “What my partner meant to say,” Declan adds in his most unfriendly FBI agent tone, “was that you’re not under arrest yet. If you want a lawyer, you will be. So think very carefully about that request, Ms. Grey.”

  “Lawyer,” she says.

  “Issy, listen—”

  “Lawyer,” she repeats. “His name is Jordan Wells. I’m not saying anything until he gets here.”

  Declan looks at me, almost smiling, which makes me squint my eyes at him for a moment. “Jordan Wells, huh? You got that guy on retainer?”

  “Lawyer,” she says one more time.

  I take a deep breath and walk over to the table, taking a seat across from her. I have no idea who Jordan Wells is, but obviously Declan does. I’ve only been here three months and his name hasn’t come up before, so I’m just gonna roll with it.

  “Look,” I say. “It’s obvious that someone is fucking with you, OK? Even I can see that. So all you gotta do is help us out. Tell us who you’re in trouble with. We’ll get all the information we need and you’ll go home tonight and sleep in your own bed. How’s that sound?”

  She’s already opening her mouth to protest while I’m still talking, but then she gets a confused look on her face, shuts her mouth, and turns her head.

  “What?” I ask. “What was that?”

  She shakes her head, but I’m not sure if she’s telling me to go fuck myself—which kinda makes me happy if she is—or if she’s trying to convince herself that whatever idea just popped into her head can’t be true.

  Declan takes over. “Look, Ms. Grey, we already know you’re involved with some bad people. But what we don’t know, and what we need to know, and what we will know before you ever leave this room, is the name of the organization and the person you report to. So let’s all save ourselves some time and just button this up real quick.”

  She doesn’t take the bait. Just chews her lip and stares at the bland, grey cinderblock wall.

  “Issy,” I say. “It only gets worse if you refuse to cooperate.”

  “Lawyer,” she repe
ats one more time. “I want to see Jordan Wells and I want to see him right the fuck now.”

  “Well then.” Declan sighs. “We’re gonna do this the hard way then.” He leaves the room without further comment, which means it’s my turn to take over and convince her the lawyer is a bad idea.

  I lean back in my chair, trying to appear unaffected and casual.

  Issy Grey sneers at me.

  “Nice Valentine’s Day, huh?”

  “I’m not talking to you, so save your breath.”

  “I mean, you were over at the tea place, right? Having dinner with your boyfriend before all this happened?”

  She rolls her eyes at me.

  “Oh, I get it,” I say, laughing. “No boyfriend, then? You were there with all your single-girl friends? Trying to forget all about this day? Trying to make it go away? Trying to—”

  “I’m not going to fall for it.” She squints her eyes at me, her gaze lingering on my chest, like she’s looking for a badge. But of course, there is no badge. I’m in a suit, not a uniform.

  When her eyes meet mine I say, “Finn Murphy. Special Agent Finn Murphy.”

  She shrugs like it hardly matters.

  Declan comes back into the room, slams the door behind him, walks over to the table, plants both hands on the hard, stainless-steel surface, and says, “Got a backup lawyer? Because it appears Jordan Wells is out of town and unreachable.”

  “Bullshit!” Issy says, her voice high-pitched and agitated. “I just saw him a couple hours ago. We were going to have dinner!”

  “Ah,” I say, snapping my fingers and pointing at her. “So that’s why you didn’t want to talk about it. He broke up with you, didn’t he? And on V-day too! Jesus, what a dick.”

  But she doesn’t take the bait. Just looks down at the table, like she’s having some sort of private revelation.

  Finally, after several long, silent seconds, she says, “Then call his partner, Glenn Stratford.”

  “Can’t,” Declan says. Which has me curious as to what he’s playing here.

  “Why the hell not?” Issy yells.

  “Because the whole office is shut down for the mid-winter holiday.”

  She scrunches up her nose. It’s a nice nose. Small, with just a slight upturn to the end of it. Which, I have to admit, is kinda cute on her. “What?” she breathes.

  Declan shrugs. “That’s what the answering service told me. On mid-winter holiday for the next week.”

  “But that makes no sense,” Issy whispers under her breath.

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Because,” she says, “it… he… we were… never fucking mind why, OK? It just doesn’t. There’s no such thing as a mid-winter holiday!”

  Declan and I exchange a glance. He picks it up from there. “So… you can either find another law firm and spend the night being booked and violated as your internal cavities are searched for drugs while we get another warrant and seize the contents of your house”—he stops to smile and spread his hands wide, like he’s about to offer a gift—“or you can just make this easy. Make it all go away by being cooperative.”

  I chuckle, mostly at the aghast look on Issy Grey’s face at the mention of a cavity search. But also because Declan plays bad cop pretty well.

  A knock at the door makes all three of us look at it. Declan walks over, has a whispered conversation with whoever is on the other side, and then nods and takes a file folder from the visitor. He turns back to us and closes the door behind him.

  “Well, this might be your lucky day, Ms. Grey. Seems like we’ve picked up some chatter about your case. Come with me, Finn. We’ve got news.”

  I take one more look at Issy Grey, whose wide blue eyes are darting back and forth between us with equal parts curiosity and fear, and leave the room with my partner.

  Back inside the observation room I say, “What the hell was that?”

  “For real,” Declan says, easing himself into the chair in front of the monitors. “We’ve got chatter. Seems like she might be telling the truth. The DC office just sent us an alert about a terror cell using unsuspecting female-owned businesses as fronts for a massive campaign.”

  I can’t stop the laugh that bursts forth. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Why would I joke?” Declan asks.

  “Because that’s… a little convenient, don’t you think?”

  He shrugs. “I’m just doing my job, Finn.”

  “So we’re just gonna let her go?”

  “No,” he says. “No. You’re going to take her up to the Silver Springs safe house and keep her there until we figure out what’s going on.”

  “Is that legal?”

  Declan smiles. “It is if she agrees to go. Just make her agree.”

  “And how the fuck am I supposed to do that?”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. Go on, I’ll text you directions to the safe house and meet you up there later. And don’t underestimate this one.” He slaps the file onto the desk, opens it up, and points to something.

  I read the paragraph and yet another guffaw comes out in response. This tiny woman might be the most interesting thing to happen to me since I came to Denver. Because Issy Grey has the rank of seventh-degree black belt in Jujitsu. That’s like ten years of serious, disciplined study.

  “Who the fuck is this chick?” I ask.

  “That’s what we need to find out,” Declan says. “She might not be a terrorist, but I’ll bet you a hundred bucks right now she’s not who she says she is. Find out, Finn. And then call me. Because DC is all up in our shit about this new threat and we need to figure out her connection quick or lots of people might get hurt.”

  He leaves me there to figure things out. I study her file a little more. Mother was a veterinary technician, no father listed on the birth certificate, no college education, an assortment of odd jobs since age eighteen—including a Burger King in Waco, Texas, one Nate’s Auto Repair in Escondido, California, Hialeah Racetrack in Florida, and then a short stint as a cab driver in New York City.

  All of which is weird in and of itself. Her job history reads like a classic runaway, except she was already eighteen… so not a runaway. At least not an underage one. But the really curious thing is that her juvenile record was sealed. Not just sealed, but absolutely sealed. Meaning even the FBI can’t see it without a court appearance and permission from a judge.

  Which is unusual.

  You have to read between the lines a little to get it. You have to know what the empty spaces mean. You’d have to’ve been there yourself.

  Issy Grey isn’t who she says she is.

  Issy Grey is lying.

  CHAPTER THREE - ISSY

  Finn Murphy is lying.

  I’m not quite sure about what, but I know men, it’s my job to know men, and I know when a man is lying.

  First he and his partner came in here blustering about terror cells, threatening me with a cavity search if I didn’t waive my rights. Then some file got delivered, they disappear, and only Finn Murphy returns, this time trying to sweet-talk me into believing I’m one sleepy judge away from having the entire contents of my juvenile record unsealed and my house seized in a search warrant.

  And then he said I was in danger. Someone was looking for me, someone whose identity he wasn’t at liberty to divulge, someone who would hurt me badly if I was found.

  And that’s the only part of those threats that hit home.

  “So which is it, Issy? Easy way? Or hard way?”

  “How about my way?” I say.

  “Sorry, darlin’. Not an option. ’Fraid it’s this way or the highway.”

  I consider everything he’s told me so far. It’s a scary scenario. I mean, you tell anyone that a dangerous person is looking for them, especially after they were just set up and hauled down to the local FBI satellite office for questioning, they tend to believe you.

  I just don’t believe him. I’ve been too careful. I’ve been free for a long time. And the only
asshole I need to fear is already in prison.

  “I’ll take the highway,” I say, smiling up at him as the words come out. “I’m grateful for your offer of protection”—I have to control myself when I say that word to avoid rolling my eyes—“but I can take care of myself, thank you. So I’ll just be going.” I jingle the cuffs, which are still attached to the table.

  He pauses, thinking, then offers me a very fake smile and says, “OK,” as he reaches into his pocket to reveal a key.

  Too easy. So I’m still on high alert. But it’s all fake, so I play along.

  This is about Jordan’s Game, and as soon as the thought manifests in my head, I have to stifle a laugh. What a dick. He turned me down and then the game started.

  But I have to hand it to him, that dick is good at this. Because this shit is seriously real.

  “Something funny?” Finn asks.

  “Nothing you need to worry about,” I say, rubbing my wrists once he removes my cuffs. “Don’t forget the feet,” I say, nodding my head at the shackles around my ankles.

  Finn releases those and backs off, like he wants to keep his distance from me.

  I find that interesting. Because it means he has some idea of what I’m capable of.

  Would he know that if this was just Jordan’s way of starting the game he insisted I would never be playing?

  I shrug it off as diligence. Stand and stretch languidly. Like I have no cares whatsoever.

  Which is a lie. I’m a champion liar.

  I’m thoroughly intrigued by Special Agent Finn Murphy for two reasons. He’s either the man Jordan has assigned to me and is playing along like this performance will win him an Oscar, or—and honestly, I find this far more interesting—he’s got no idea he’s playing the game.

  I decide to find out.

  “Can I have my personal belongings back now? I need my phone so I can call an Uber.”

  He laughs, a loud, incredulous burst of joy that echoes off the ceiling. “I can take you home, Issy.”