Live a Little!

by Nancy Warren

  “Absolutely. Take my motto—Live a Little.”

  The older woman sighed. “I wish I could be as bold and adventurous as you, Cynthia. I admire you.”

  “There’s nothing to it. Trust me on this one.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Having salved her conscience, and fobbed Agnes off, Cyn left for lunch a few minutes early and headed for the closest hardware store. She bought a crowbar, industrial flashlight, dark gloves and a black woolen sailor’s hat. She glanced at her watch and saw she’d been almost an hour.

  Drat. She’d hoped to have a filling lunch, but there wasn’t time. On her way back to the office, she passed a shoe and handbag store with a nifty looking black leather knapsack in the window. Perfect! It would match her black leather miniskirt and she could stuff her purchases in it. While she was there she also bought a pair of black trainers, more suitable for after-dark snooping than the strappy heels.

  Then she ran all the way back to work, pausing at a newsstand to grab two chocolate bars. Hardly a nutritious lunch. Good thing she’d remembered her multi-vitamin this morning. She promised herself an extra serving of veggies when she got home.

  She arrived back at work breathless, but feeling awfully pleased with herself. She unwrapped one of the candy bars and ate it at her desk while she tried to concentrate on work.

  Was Jake thinking about her? Was he reliving last night as often as she was? She touched a finger to a tender spot on her wrist. Raunch Magazine hadn’t let her down. She’d written her own “orgasmic drama of legendary proportions.” Now she was ready for the curtain to go up again. And again.

  Now that they’d broken the ice, and he knew about the magazine, she wondered if they could explore some of the ideas in Intimate Intermediates. There was that one with ice cream….

  “Cynthia. Cynthia!”

  “Hmm?” She turned, and her vision melted like the ice cream would on Jake’s— “Sorry, Agnes, I was miles away.” She shot the older woman a sheepish grin, straightened her spine and yanked her skirt down a bit. “What did you say?”

  “I’ve decided to take you up on your kind offer.” Agnes stood there in her doorway like a Crusader about to start off for the Holy Land. “I’m ready to get my hair colored.”

  “That’s great! I’ll make the appointments right now.” Before Agnes could change her mind, which she looked in imminent danger of doing, Cyn dug Michael’s card out of her purse and made appointments for the two of them for Saturday morning.

  As the afternoon dragged on and boredom threatened to set in, she nudged her lumpy backpack with her foot, just to remind herself of the adventure she’d promised herself later.

  Frequent peeks at the office clock didn’t speed the afternoon at all.

  Finally, the clock showed it was just a few minutes before five. The office staff were starting to pack up, ready to go home. Cynthia turned off her computer, straightened her desk and picked up the backpack, slipping her purse inside. “I’m just going to visit the washroom, then I’m leaving for the day,” she said breezily to Agnes as she headed out of the accounting department and into the main office.

  She didn’t mention that the washroom she’d be visiting was located in the warehouse. She saw Eddie and a couple of casual workers on the far side as she entered. A quick glance revealed where they’d stacked a shipment of chopsticks. The crates appeared untouched. Excellent.

  Casually, just in case anyone was watching, she sauntered to the ladies’ room. She’d never seen a woman working in this area of the company, so she imagined the women’s bathroom was a tip of the hat to equal opportunity. An easier step than actually hiring a woman on the shipping crew.

  Not that such behavior was evidence that the bigwigs in Oceanic were drug smugglers, but it didn’t help their case that they were antifeminists—didn’t help it at all, in Cynthia’s eyes.

  She was grateful that the men were too macho to enter a door with a silhouette of a woman on it. The tiny bathroom was spotless, and smelled faintly of disinfectant.

  Using the light from the open door, she did a quick reconnoiter—very quick; it was a pretty small bathroom—and in seconds had the layout memorized. One stall, a single white sink with a small mirror stuck to the wall above it. A paper towel dispenser, empty trash can. Lino floor that looked pretty clean. No window.

  Swiftly she closed the door behind her, not turning on the light just in case it showed under the door.

  Her heart began to pound. For the first time since she’d started the job, she was going against Jake’s specific instructions to stick to her regular job and do nothing out of the ordinary. If he found out she was actively snooping he’d kill her. Of course, if there were drugs in this warehouse and she got caught hiding in a pitch-dark bathroom with a knapsack full of tools, somebody might do the job for him.

  The darkness started to close in on her and she felt mildly panicked. It wasn’t too late to change her mind. She could still waltz out of this tiny bathroom, say goodbye to the guys and saunter on home. No one would know about her botched undercover spying attempt. She gnawed on her thumb and listened to her heart pound.

  She took a step backward and halted. She had to stop being a coward. Jake had offered her danger and excitement, and she’d been thrilled. Now she had a chance to grab some of that excitement by doing a little sleuthing, and she wanted to wimp out.

  Well, forget it. She was doing this. And not just for her own personal satisfaction.

  She kept up with the news; she knew the devastation caused by drugs. Families were torn apart. Teens became addicted and ruined their lives. And the senseless violence of drug wars made Cynthia sick. If there was any chance she could play the smallest role in helping to keep illegal drugs out of the country, she’d do it.

  Considering her options, she decided to sit on the floor rather than the toilet. She’d be here awhile. She sank down, wishing she’d chosen to wear her black leather pants this morning instead of the miniskirt. At least her black wool jacket was warm.

  She wished she had a way to pass the hours. She also wished she’d had time for lunch. She was already hungry. She ate the second chocolate bar in tiny bits, making it last as long as possible.

  After an eternity had gone by, she realized she had no idea what time it was. If she was going for a career in the spy business, she should invest in one of those fancy watches with a luminescent dial that were good to thirty feet underwater. Then she spent a long time fantasizing about doing naughty things with Jake thirty feet underwater.

  Which naturally led to memories of the night before and the way he’d made her feel: sexy and wanton. Powerless and yet powerful enough to make a man like Jake whimper. She smiled smugly at that. He’d moaned, too. But best of all was when she’d made him beg.

  She was starting to feel very warm all of a sudden. He’d been gone when she’d woken this morning, which was to be expected, given his paranoia about secrecy. She’d swallowed her disappointment and searched eagerly for a note. There hadn’t been one, but then again, if the bad guys broke into her house, he wouldn’t want them finding a note. It was so sweet of him to worry about her.

  Over coffee and granola it had occurred to her that if the bad guys broke into her house, she’d have more to worry about than a note. Her euphoria dipped sharply and all her old insecurities rushed back. Maybe he hadn’t had such a good time, after all. Maybe he thought it was a huge mistake.

  With a heavy heart, she’d prepared for work, defiantly putting on the black miniskirt and black panty hose even though she felt more of a fraud than usual in her sexy getup.

  She’d grabbed her purse with a sniff, set the alarm—vowing to upgrade to a top-of-the-line, state-of-the-art, unbreakable system—and hauled out her keys to lock the door. On her key ring was a small silver key she didn’t recognize. Puzzled, she stared at it for a moment—then felt a rush of delicious joy.

  It was the key to the handcuffs.

  That was better than any old
note, or dozens of red roses. What he was telling her, she was certain, was that he’d had a great time—and why put the key on her chain unless he was thinking she’d be needing it on a regular basis? The silver key tinkled merrily against the sturdier house and car keys.

  If she wasn’t scared of making a noise, she’d take her keys out now, just for the comfort of holding the little key that reminded her of her connection to Jake.

  Her backside went numb and she reviewed sections of the Tax Code in her head to stay awake. She knew the shipping and receiving guys worked until eight. She’d planned to wait until somewhere around midnight to make her move. Trouble was, she’d forgotten she wouldn’t be able to read her watch. She’d have to risk using the flashlight she’d purchased. Slowly, and as quietly as possible, she eased the big flashlight out of her bag and flicked it on.

  Nothing happened.

  She flicked the switch a few more times in increasing agitation. Still nothing. She should have tested it before she purchased it. Was it broken? She shook it.

  Then she ground her teeth. Batteries. She’d forgotten all about batteries.

  It must be hours and hours she’d sat here. If she wasn’t careful, they’d find her sound asleep on the bathroom floor in the morning, and that would not look good at all. She slipped out of her heels and donned the black trainers she’d purchased earlier.

  Slowly, she stood. She rested her ear against the door and listened.

  Silence.

  Feeling for the door handle in the dark, she eased the door open a crack. A faint glow from emergency lights illuminated the warehouse, but it was very different from daytime. The dim lighting cast horror-movie shadows and turned the crates and boxes into sinister masses.

  But at least she was alone. No gang of cutthroat drug dealers had come to collect their booty, which had been her greatest fear.

  Still, she fought an impulse to dive back into the bathroom and curl up into a ball. I am Cyn the Bold! she reminded herself over and over as she crept slowly out of the bathroom, closing the door soundlessly behind her.

  Now what?

  Deciding to get her nosing around over as quickly as possible so she could get out of there, she crept toward a heap of crates stacked on a wooden pallet.

  She tiptoed along the cement, searching ahead for a path. She skirted trollies and a hydraulic lift. She passed boxes fresh from England and Ireland, thanks to Mr. Percivald senior.

  At last she reached the chopstick crates. They were stacked in front of the coffee, with an aisle width between.

  She stared at the heaped coffee sacks. The one she’d seen break had contained nothing but coffee, but wasn’t it possible some of the sacks contained drugs? She gnawed her thumb in indecision, then decided to stick with her original plan of action. She could always investigate the rest of the coffee later if she had time.

  She put her packsack on the ground beside her and dug inside it for the crowbar. She’d bought the smallest one she could find, for obvious reasons, but when she tried to pry the lid off the first wooden crate, she wished she’d gone for jumbo.

  Although she was happy to be the first person opening the crate, she cursed at how difficult it was. And noisy. Sweat prickled her forehead and neck as she worked the crowbar up and down, trying to ease the lid off as quietly as possible.

  She paused and her heart pounded double time. Had she heard something? Her eyes tried to penetrate the murky corners of the warehouse, but all she saw were menacing shadows. The crowbar grew slick in her hands.

  She remained rigid, all senses alert, for a minute or so, then decided she’d imagined the noise, and went back to the crowbar. Her arms began to ache from the strain, but slowly the lid started to rise. With a final loud squeal, it came free.

  Like a kid on Christmas morning, she leaned forward to peer inside the crate.

  What made her lift her head? Another sound? The sense she wasn’t alone?

  She turned just in time to see a black shape hurtling toward her. Even as she opened her mouth to scream, it was too late. A black-gloved hand closed over her mouth and she was hauled backward, her body shoved hard against the pile of coffee sacks. She still had the crowbar in her hand, but as she tried to wield it, she realized that her attacker was holding it, along with her hand, in an unbreakable grip.

  His other hand still covered her mouth and half her face. Through a fog of terror, she smelled the leather of his glove, felt the rigid strength of his hand. She worked her jaw, trying to bite him, but the hand clamped so hard she couldn’t even move her tongue.

  Frantically, she twisted her body, trying to get a good shot at kneeing him in the groin. Blood was ringing in her ears, and if it was possible to pant through her nose, she was doing it.

  “Stay still. I’m not going to kill you till later,” a fierce voice hissed in her ear.

  Her body stilled and sank bonelessly against the burlap bags. After a moment the hand eased from her mouth.

  “Jake!” she whispered, relief making her feel faint.

  “Don’t sound so happy to see me. I’m serious. You’re dead meat.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Same as you.”

  “Chopsticks?”

  “Chopsticks.” He cocked his head, listening. “Since you’re here, you can hold the flashlight.”

  For a second she pondered arguing, then she remembered how glad she was to see him, and what hard work it had been just getting the lid off one crate. “Did you remember the batteries?”

  “What?”

  “For your flashlight.”

  A quiet sound she could have sworn was a chuckle erupted from his general direction. “Don’t tell me Mata Hari forgot batteries for her flashlight?” His teeth gleamed white for a second, while she decided it was more dignified not to answer. She didn’t care for him laughing at her, but at least his anger had cooled.

  She held the flashlight he handed her, and got her first glimpse inside the crate. Rows and rows of chopsticks met her gaze. “Could be a ruse. Maybe the drugs are underneath,” she whispered.

  He shot her a glance that, even in the dim lighting, she had no trouble interpreting. Shut up.

  She did. And watched as Jake lifted layer after layer of chopsticks out of the box, each layer buffered by transparent packing material. Patiently, he removed each layer from the crate and laid the chopsticks on the cement. Then he got right in the box, taking the flashlight from her and doing a minute inspection of the wooden crate.

  He shook his head as he emerged. Then turned his attention to the chopsticks themselves. Slipping a set from its paper sleeve, he broke them apart, then snapped one in pieces, sniffing it, then touching it to his tongue. He grimaced and wiped his tongue on his gloved hand.

  “Drugs?” she cried hopefully.

  “Sliver.”

  “Ouch.”

  He wrapped the chopstick pieces in a bit of the packaging and slipped the small bundle into his pocket. He made a close inspection of each layer as he returned it to the crate, careful to preserve the same order.

  Suddenly he cocked his head, listening.

  She heard it, too. A deep male voice, muffled, but growing louder. Even as her eyes widened and her heart pounded in panic, she watched Jake shove the last few layers of chopsticks back into the crate.

  The flashlight beam wavered all over the place as her hand started shaking.

  He slid the lid back on top of the crate, then grabbed the flashlight, flicked it off and took her hand in his. He hauled her back behind the last of the crates, against the sacks.

  They crouched there, and he lifted a black sleeve to reveal a watch with a luminescent dial, which had to be good to at least thirty feet underwater. Figured. Cynthia hoped it also had some kind of secret agent contraption to get them the hell out of there before they were discovered. The glowing numbers showed it was just after midnight.

  Jake leaned toward her and put his lips to her ear. “Night watchman,” he whispered.

/>   She turned to him, startled. She didn’t remember seeing any night watchman on the payroll. But, of course, they employed a security firm. The night watchman—or men—must be part of the security contract.

  The sound she’d been listening for, and dreading, came. She heard the heavy door to the warehouse open. She peered cautiously over the top of a crate and saw two uniformed security guards. They were armed and burly, which was not good, but they also carried lunch boxes and thermoses, which made them somehow less frightening.

  They headed straight for the scarred table where the guys played cards on their lunch breaks. They put their stuff down, and one said to the other, “I’ll take a turn round the main offices, you do a walk around in here.” He gestured broadly, and Cynthia felt her already tight nerves crank another notch.

  Agent Wheeler, who obviously didn’t have any nerves, put a finger to his lips and flipped the flashlight so the handle faced out. She was puzzled until she recalled how heavy it had felt when she was holding it. Presumably it doubled as some kind of a weapon. He reached beneath his jacket with his free hand and withdrew his gun.

  Jake angled his body so it blocked hers from sight, and she stared at the dark outline of his back until it started to blur. Her senses were superheightened as she crouched there, feeling as though she were caught in a nightmare. She heard the slow footfalls of the guard against the cement. He was overweight and wheezed slightly as he walked. The coffee beans smelled as potent as a triple espresso. She heard her own swallow, and tasted a hint of the chocolate bar she’d eaten earlier.

  Closer and closer the slow, plodding footsteps came. She felt Jake’s muscles tense in readiness. Her own fight or flight response was on full alert, adrenaline pumping through her system. She reached for the crowbar, knowing it wasn’t much, but it was heavy and she could whack the guard with it if she had to.

  Had the man seen them? He seemed to be heading straight for their hiding spot, not checking the other areas of the warehouse. But if he’d seen them, why hadn’t he called his partner? She licked dry lips and tried to think up some plausible explanation as to why she, an office accountant, might be crouching among the crates in the dark.