by Susan Mann
She knew she would never be too old for him to tell her it was time for her to go to bed. Despite the fact it was only a few minutes after eight, she said, “Okay. Say good night to Mom for me.”
“Will do. Talk to you soon.”
“Good night.”
She set the phone down and turned up the volume on the TV. Between watching basketball and scrolling through her various social media accounts on her laptop, she managed to kill the rest of the evening. When a jaw-cracking yawn overtook her, she decided it was time for bed.
She switched off the TV and closed her laptop. Rasputin stood, arched his back in a stretch, and then jumped to the floor, paws thumping lightly on the carpet. She double-checked the locks on the door and turned off the lamp. Pale light from a nearby streetlight filtered into the room through the thin curtains.
After brushing her teeth, she found Rasputin lounging like a king in the middle of her bed. He never moved, even when she slid under the covers and settled back against her pillow. She picked up a book from the nightstand, the latest in a series of spy novels her grandfather had loaned her. She settled in, excited to find out how MI6 spy extraordinaire Edward Walker would escape the clutches of nefarious Brazilian drug lord Teodoro Aguiar Boaventura with only a Bic lighter, a gum wrapper, and an overripe guava.
Chapter Three
Quinn trained her rifle at the middle section of the tree and squeezed the trigger several times in quick succession. She watched where the rounds disappeared into the thick boughs. The way the branches bounced and shook—different than when moved by the breeze—confirmed her suspicion. The bogie was hiding up in the tree.
Whipping her head and rifle back, she pressed her back against the palm tree she hid behind. Pointy bits of bark poked her in the back of the head. She ignored the irritation, and focused on controlling her breathing. That’s what Edward Walker would do. She took a deep breath in and blew it out slowly, like he did in Target São Paulo. And sure enough, after a few more breaths, the pronounced pounding in her chest began to lessen.
She glanced at her brother John hunkered down behind a shrub a couple of yards to her left. “Hey!” she whispered. He looked at her and she pointed at the tree on the other side of their parents’ backyard. “Monroe,” she said. He sent her a thumbs-up in reply. She peeked around the palm tree again. A pellet exploded against the trunk inches from her face, the spray splattering the visor of her face mask with blue paint. She snapped her head back and tried to make herself even smaller behind the only thing protecting her from the paint-filled projectiles.
As long as Monroe was hidden behind the leaves of that tree, she and John, the last surviving members of Red Team, were pinned down. Madison had been the first member of their team to go out. But at least he’d taken Tom, of Blue Team, with him. Monroe must have climbed the tree during the skirmish. Quinn hadn’t seen since at the exact same moment, she and John had scampered for shelter at the other end of the yard. Now it was two against two. George, Quinn’s oldest brother, was hiding behind the far corner of the house.
“George!” John shouted. “Come out from there. You know we’re not supposed to get too close to the house. Mom will kill us if we get paint on it.”
“Then don’t shoot,” George yelled back. “If you hit the house you have to clean it up.”
“What are we gonna do?” Quinn asked John. “We move from here and Monroe will pick us off.”
John shook his head. “Dunno.”
A shout of “Hi, Daddy!” drew Quinn’s attention to the patio where her four-year-old niece, Bailey—resplendent in the Cinderella princess ball gown Quinn’s grandmother had made—stood. She waved at the corner where George hid. “Can you see me waving, Daddy?”
George peered around the edge of the house and waved at his daughter. His mask muffled his voice, but Quinn could still easily make out his words. “Hi, Bailey honey! I can see—Ow!”
A red blotch of paint bloomed on George’s shoulder. Quinn looked over at John just as he pulled his rifle back and crouched behind the bush again. Shots of retribution came from Monroe up the tree. Quinn was certain behind his mask, John grinned like the Cheshire cat.
Quinn peered toward the patio again and watched George step out into the open. He ripped off his mask and with a fierce scowl, shouted in John and Quinn’s direction “You su—” At the sight of his daughter’s big, brown eyes, the word died on his lips. He amended his almost “You suck!” to “Taking me out when I’m saying hi to my daughter? You’re the worst.”
“Boo frickin’ hoo!” John pushed his face mask up onto the top of his head. He remained stooped behind the bush when he shouted back, “You come out of your hidey-hole and I’m gonna pick you off.”
George crossed the patio and shed his gear. Once he was paint-free he picked up his daughter and kissed her cheek. “Hiya, pumpkin.”
“I’m sorry you got hit, Daddy.” Quinn heard a quiver in Bailey’s voice.
“It’s not your fault. Uncle John’s a cheater.” He smiled at his daughter. “This way, I get to spend more time with you.”
Bailey grinned and hugged his neck. Over her shoulder, George frowned and said, “You’re still the worst, John.” He flopped down in an empty chair and set Bailey on his lap. Father and daughter joined former combatants Madison and Tom, as well as Quinn’s father and grandfather who also watched the battle.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” John said. “You’re the cheater, not me. And stop impugning my reputation in front of my niece.”
Quinn chuckled. Her two oldest brothers had always had a competitive and at times combative relationship. As a little girl, she remembered more than one occasion when they had to spend time in separate rooms to cool off. Their rivalry had mellowed now that they were adults—except, apparently, when paintball was involved.
“Improve your reputation and I will,” George shot back.
That triggered a round of “ooooos” from the peanut gallery.
When John looked over at Quinn, she noted his set jaw and the flare of his nostrils. “I can’t lose to his team now. I’ll never hear the end of it.” She hadn’t heard that snarl in his voice in ages. “How do we get Monroe out of that tree? You got any ideas?” The way he squinted at her, he looked just like their dad.
Quinn pushed up her mask. She sucked in a deep breath and took in the familiar scent of ocean. It was good to be back at her parents’ house in San Diego County, not far from Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton where her dad was stationed. To Quinn, it would always be home.
“I might,” she replied. “You read The Basque Assassin yet?”
“Just finished it the other day.” He cocked his head and stared at her, trying to work out what scenario she might be alluding to. After half a minute, his face cleared. “You’re talking about when Edward Walker shoots the Basque Assassin when he comes out of his hiding place to help that pregnant woman who stumbled and fell, aren’t you?” John shook his head emphatically. “No. You can’t. What if Monroe doesn’t fall for it? He’ll take you out in one shot. Your sacrifice will be for nothing.”
“I know, but what choice do we have? We’re at an impasse. Monroe can sit up there all day, just like we can hide here all day. Something’s gotta give and I don’t want it to be my bladder. The only way is to flush him out—no pun intended.”
He snorted at her quip. Squinting at her again, he said, “Playing a pregnant woman? You trying to tell me something?”
“Ew. No.” She grimaced like she’d just slammed a glass of shark chum. “One more crack like that and I’ll shoot you myself.”
Chuckling, John replaced his mask and said, “Okay. Let’s go for it. I’ll lay down cover fire. Good luck.”
“Thanks. I’ll go after one.” She tugged her mask over her face and took a couple of deep breaths to center herself. When she did, she realized she sounded a bit like Darth Vader. “‘Luke, I am your father,’” she rumbled in as deep a voice as she could muster. After regaining her focus, she lo
oked over to John and held up three fingers. She started her countdown after his thumbs-up.
“Three. Two. One.” She gripped her rifle in both hands, spun out from behind the tree, and sprinted toward the wooden swing set. At the same time, John shot one pellet after another at Monroe’s position.
Quinn zigzagged across the grass, dodging Monroe’s volley. Thankfully, John’s cover fire seemed to be interfering with his aim. Monroe missed her every time.
Quinn was almost to the play set’s plastic slide when her left foot caught on a clump of grass, sending her sprawling. She lost her grip on her rifle when her hands shot out to break her fall. The air in her lungs gusted out in a whoosh when she crashed to the grass. Rolling onto her back, she ripped off her headgear and tossed it to the side. She stared up at the patchy clouds in the sky and cradled her left wrist against her abdomen.
She heard a chorus of “Quinn! Are you okay?” En masse, the spectators jumped up and ran to her.
Robert, her father, reached her first and dropped to his knees beside her. “What hurts, Quincy?”
“My wrist,” she groaned, her face contorted.
He gently probed the bones of her wrist with the tips of his fingers. “It doesn’t feel like anything’s broken. Can you sit up?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
Robert slipped a hand under her shoulders and helped her sit. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Monroe as he sprang down from the lower branches of the tree and landed lightly on his feet.
Four quick shots came from John’s position behind her. Four tightly grouped blotches of red materialized on Monroe’s vest. Monroe tore off his face mask—his blond hair sticking out in all directions—and looked down at the stains on his chest. Incredulous, he glared at John. “You shot me? Our sister is hurt and you shot me? George is right. You do suck.” The second the word slipped out, he winced. His gaze traveled from Bailey to her father. “Sorry.”
George shrugged it off and pinned an accusatory stare on Quinn. “Are you even hurt?”
Now she felt bad for making everyone worry about her. She looked up at him sheepishly. “No. I fell on purpose to get Monroe out of the tree.”
Tom cast a glance up at the sky and shook his head. Wordlessly, he turned away and headed for the house.
An exuberant grin exploded on Madison’s bearded face. He stooped, grabbed Quinn’s hand, and hauled her to her feet. “We won!” He gave John, who had just joined the group, a high-five. “Nice shooting, bro.” To Quinn, he said, “Awesome fall, sis. I totally bought it.”
She smiled at her ever-ebullient brother. “Thanks.”
Quinn picked up her equipment and the group started for the house. As she removed her vest and peeled off her camouflage jacket, Grandpa gazed at her. His blue eyes gleamed with approval when he said, “Excellent use of deception, angel. How’d you come up with that idea?”
She lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. “The Basque Assassin.”
“Ah,” he said and nodded. “It’s on my reading list. I’ll get to it as soon as I finish Code Name: Tungsten.”
“I can’t believe I fell for that trick,” Monroe said, looking rather grumpy. He took off his crimson-spotted vest and dumped it on the pile. “Chance Stryker and Petra Vuinia did almost the exact same thing in The Hercules Transgression.”
“I haven’t read that one yet. I guess I know what I’ll be reading after Down the Spider Hole,” Quinn said with a smile she hoped would ease the sting of defeat. She plunged her hand into the ice-filled chest of drinks sitting on the patio, retrieved a bottle of beer, and held it out to Monroe as a peace offering. “Thanks for coming down from the tree to check on me.”
After a momentary scowl, he relented and smiled at her. “You’re welcome.” He took the proffered bottle and flicked off the cap with an opener. Before he took a drink, he pointed the top of the bottle at her and said, “It’s a big brother’s job to look out for his baby sister.”
“And I’m really lucky to have five big brothers.”
“Well, four who look out for you,” George said. “John was willing to sacrifice you if that plan didn’t work.” Good-natured teasing replaced the pique that had colored his tone earlier.
“Hey! It was her idea. She volunteered,” John said and shot a smirk at Monroe. “It was the only way it would work. We all know Monroe would’ve never come down to check on me if I was hurt.”
Monroe lifted his bottle in salute. “True that.”
Now that all the battle participants were paint-free and divested of their gear, Robert slid the patio door open and everyone filed past him into the family room.
Once George lowered Bailey to her feet after carrying her into the house, the little girl made a beeline for Quinn. “Aunt Quinn?” Bailey gently patted her aunt’s thigh. “Can I ask you something?”
Quinn squatted down and looked into Bailey’s angelic face. “Of course, sweetie. What do you want to know?”
Bailey’s dark brown eyes rounded and a somber look overtook her face. The four-year-old gulped and said in a timid voice, “Did you lie to us and Uncle Monroe when you said you were hurt but really weren’t?”
Oh boy, Quinn thought. Her first instinct was to leap up and shout to George or his wife, Isabelle, that there was a parenting emergency. She held off, though, once she realized she could call in the big guns if she crashed and burned. “That’s a really good question, Bailey,” Quinn answered, giving herself a minute to think. She reached out and moved one of the long, brown pigtails behind Bailey’s shoulder. “You know a lie is when you say something to someone you know isn’t true, right? Like, if you broke one of Wyatt’s toys and when your mommy asks you who broke it, you say Wyatt did?”
Bailey’s eyes grew even wider as she slowly nodded her head. “Mmm-hmm.” Her nod morphed into a headshake. “I would never do that.”
Quinn smiled and rubbed a hand up and down Bailey’s arm. “I know you wouldn’t. What I did is a little different. It was a trick. I wanted Uncle Monroe to come down from the tree, so I pretended to be hurt. As soon as he fell for the trick and climbed down, I let him know I wasn’t really hurt after all. Does that make sense?” Quinn wasn’t sure if it made sense herself.
Bailey’s eyebrows drew together. “Kinda.”
It was clear the little girl was not convinced. Quinn racked her brain to come up with an example. Fortunately, one came to her when she looked past Bailey and into the living room. It was pretty lame, but it was the best she could come up with. “Say you really, really, really want to see Santa when he comes to your house on Christmas Eve, so during the night you lie on the couch near your Christmas tree and wait. You hear Santa come down the chimney, but you know he’ll leave right away if he knows you’re awake. So you pretend to be asleep, but peek at him through your eyelashes. By pretending to be asleep, you trick Santa and see him. Do you understand?”
She held her breath as Bailey tipped her head to one side and thought it through. Quinn hoped there wouldn’t be any follow-up questions regarding the intricacies of Santa Claus’s omniscience.
After what seemed like an eternity, Bailey said, “Yup, I understand.” The little girl brightened and chirped, “Will you read me a story now?”
Quinn released a relieved breath and smiled. “I would love to read you a story.” She looked over to her mother who moved around the kitchen with the efficiency of a general before launching an attack. With an iron fist in a velvet glove, Marie had raised six kids on her own when Quinn’s father had been deployed at different times as she grew up. The woman was Quinn’s hero.
“Hey, Mom. Do you need me to help you right now or do I have time to read Bailey a story before we have cake?”
“Go ahead and read. It’ll be a little while yet.”
“Okay.” To Bailey, she said, “Go get a book and meet me on the couch.”
Bailey scampered off, Cinderella dress swaying as she ran. Quinn barely sat down on the leather couch when her niece skidded t
o a stop in front of her. Bailey dropped the book onto her aunt’s lap, clamored up onto the couch, and settled in next to her.
Quinn immediately knew which book she’d chosen, despite only having caught a glimpse of the cover. “You picked a great one. I love Tacky the Penguin. Grandma used to read it to me all the time when I was your age.”
Quinn opened the book to the title page and huffed a half laugh. Her five-year-old self had scrawled her name in large, hesitant letters in the upper right-hand corner of the page. She had obviously misjudged the length of her last name and had only gotten to the second L in Ellington before she’d run out of room. Her solution had been to turn the book sideways and finish the rest of her name down the side of the page.
“My friend Nicole is a children’s librarian and she says the kids always want her to read them Tacky stories.”
Bailey didn’t seem particularly impressed by Quinn’s observation and wiggled with impatience. Taking the hint, Quinn turned to the first page and read the story of how Tacky the Penguin’s nonconformity to penguin stereotypes saved him and his penguin friends from a group of hunters.
After Quinn finished the book, she noticed her grandmother had joined her mother in the kitchen. “I’m gonna go help Grandma and Great-Grandma get Great-Grandpa’s birthday cake ready. Maybe I can read you another story a little later.”
“Okay. I’m gonna see if Wyatt is up from his nap.” Bailey slid off the couch and bolted from the room in search of her two-year-old brother.
“Don’t wake up Hunter. Aunt Stephanie and Uncle John had a hard time getting him down for his nap and he still needs to sleep.” Bailey and Wyatt’s three-year-old cousin hadn’t wanted to miss out on the excitement and had battled naptime with every fiber of his being.
“I won’t,” Bailey called, already in another part of the house.
Quinn joined her mother and grandmother in the kitchen and was immediately put in charge of placing the candles on the cake. An in-depth discussion ensued between the three generations of women as they deliberated the merits and dangers of having eighty burning candles on one cake. It was decided the hazards far outweighed the benefits, and the best course of action was to use two number candles: an 8 and a 0.
