Plan to Fail

by Perry Kirkpatrick

  “Only if you explain.” Emily’s eyebrows had risen at his answer, but she quickly dropped them and relaxed her face into a neutral expression again, remembering she had been asked to stay perfectly still so her haircut wouldn’t be lopsided.

  “Well, I guess I’m worried because you’re not a trained agent. Your lack of training increases the odds of there being danger for you—if that makes sense.”

  Emily stopped herself from nodding just in time. “Yes, I suppose it does. But—Brent?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re over-thinking it.”

  When he didn’t reply she wondered if her bluntness had offended him.

  He doesn’t seem to be the type to take offense easily, though...

  She continued. “What I’m trying to say is, I don’t think Santa would send a civilian to do something he didn’t think they could accomplish without too much risk. And don’t forget you’ll be there, too. For, you know, risk mitigation.”

  “You saying you expect me to punch someone?”

  She swallowed a snicker, knowing it might annoy the hairdresser. “It’s a gala! How often have you punched someone at a gala? Wait. Don’t answer that. I suspect the answer for you would be higher than the average person. What I’m saying is, Santa must think we can do this. He doesn’t seem reckless. And he did promise you I wouldn’t be in danger.”

  “Emily? You talk fast when you’re nervous.”

  Emily’s hairdresser muttered, “You wouldn’t believe how still she’s holding while talking so much and so fast.”

  “Hey, now, let’s not all gang up on me, shall we?” Emily protested, holding in a laugh and noticing her reflection in the mirror was turning a lovely shade of red.

  After a few moments, Brent spoke up again. “You’re right, you know. I’m sure everything will be fine.” He hesitated a moment. “You have good instincts, Emily. But you’d better believe I’ll be on crazy high alert for anyone posing a threat.”

  Emily’s face heated again at his compliment, and she cleared her throat. “Just so long as you’re not too obvious about it. Then we’ll have a situation where you look more like my bodyguard than my date.”

  “Well, that would be more accurate, wouldn’t it?” Brent said, and she could hear the laughter in his voice.

  “Infinitely.”

  Emily’s hairdresser finished the haircut and blow-dried it, watching how it shaped up as it dried. For the first time, Emily had layers in her hair.

  She hasn’t styled it or anything, and it already looks more interesting than it normally does. I could even leave it out of a ponytail!

  The woman was frowning at her hair, though. Before Emily could ask what was the matter, she’d disappeared from behind her.

  That’s odd.

  Nervous, Emily felt the back of her head. This lady was a pro, so there was no way she’d botched the haircut, right?

  “All right, sweetie, I’ve just checked the mission clock and we’re doing this thing,” the woman said grimly, returning to her position behind Emily.

  “What thing?”

  “Highlights. The color is just—blah.” She waved her fingers over Emily’s head dismissively. “Not your fault, of course. You work an indoor job, so your hair doesn’t get much sunshine. And it seems you have no budget for highlights. It’s in your file.”

  Emily wanted to sink into a hole in the floor. Even the hairdresser knew all about her life?

  “So anyway, we’re doing highlights to complete the look.”

  “Okay, sure. Um... am I allowed to make a request?” Emily wasn’t sure how much input she could have, although it was her hair.

  “Yep.” The woman was going through a multi-tiered rolling cart of supplies. “What are you thinking?”

  “Can these highlights be more understated and natural-looking? I have to live with them after tonight, so I’d rather they not be anything too extreme...”

  She trailed off as the woman straightened and looked at her in the mirror. “Oh, honey, no need to worry about that. I have taste.”

  Well then.

  “While I’m thinking of it, do you always wear your hair in a ponytail, like when you came in?” The woman had returned to rummaging around in the cart.

  “Y-yes?”

  “We’re definitely going to leave it down, then. Best not to look like your normal self when you’re going undercover.”

  Emily just nodded.

  Her hairdresser lost no time in expertly sectioning Emily’s hair before beginning the highlighting process. The chemical smells made Emily’s nose itch, but she held still as the hairdresser worked section by section around her hair adding foils as she went.

  When she was about half-way through, Brent appeared around the divider, a smirk growing on his face.

  “You’re gonna say something like, ‘Wow, how many signals does that thing get?’ I know it.” Emily preempted him.

  “You can’t prove a thing,” he said, crossing his arms and smiling impishly back at her mirror reflection. “I was actually wondering if all the tinfoil worked the same as the proverbial tinfoil hat.”

  Emily snorted and then waved her hand at the hairdresser. “You’d have to ask the expert.” She eyed Brent more closely. His stylist had trimmed the hair on the sides, but left most of the length on the top. He had then somehow combed it up and back into a perfect, swooping mound.

  “Wow,” she said. “You clean up nice.”

  He struck a pose.

  “Oh, stop it! I kind of liked the look until you did that.”

  Grinning, he relaxed his position and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

  Much better.

  “They said I could kill some time until we’re ready for the wardrobe folks. Looks like you’ll be here a while. I’ll be over there—” he jerked his head “—reading up on the case file. Give me a yell if you need anything.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and then covered her mouth to hide a yawn. “Caffeine? Does that count as a need?”

  “It’s the ultimate need. Be right back.”

  Chapter 4

  EMILY STOOD AND STRETCHED, working the stiffness out of her back and neck. Glancing at her watch, she mused that any ordinary day, she would be just leaving her shift at Sunrise Coffee.

  But today is no ordinary day. I’m headed to “Wardrobe” now and I look like I’m a princess or something!

  She took another glance in the mirror at her newly-highlighted and styled hair falling in relaxed, natural-looking curls around her shoulders. She didn’t think she looked like herself at all, but suspected that was mostly due to the makeup another woman had come and applied while the highlights set.

  The coffee Brent had brought her was long gone despite its inferior nature. She had resisted the urge to rib him about it. There was only so much one could do with nasty office coffee—even if one knew the difference between a French press and a frappe. Which he definitely didn’t.

  Still, she felt more awake, and she walked briskly across the wide office space to the corner housing “Wardrobe” as her hairdresser had called it.

  “There you are!” a round-faced young man said, waving her over. “I’m Derick. Normally, we’d do a bit of trying on various gowns, but I hear the emergency highlighting took up that time. Hope you don’t mind that we already selected something.”

  He beckoned his female assistant forward, and she held up a royal blue satin gown on a padded hanger.

  Emily was a bit at a loss for words. “It’s gorgeous!” she finally squeaked.

  “I guessed from reading your file that the rouched cap sleeves on this piece would make you most comfortable,” Derick said. “Was I correct?”

  Emily nodded enthusiastically. These people knew everything about her!

  The assistant added, “It’s a very practical choice. We hate dressing agents in anything truly strapless. It’s the most tactically unsound style.” She whisked the dress away into the changing room they’d temporarily curtained off.


  “She’s right. I need constant reminding, it seems, that these are not your ordinary gowns.” Derick shrugged. He swept his hand toward the changing room. “Go put it on, and then call us when you’re done. We’ll double-check the fit and make any needed alterations.” He squinted at her and stroked the tape measure slung around his neck. “It may be a bit long.”

  As Emily ducked through the curtains, she heard the assistant saying to Derick, “Wait for the shoes. You always worry until the shoes are on. Heels do wonders, remember?”

  Those two are perfect for each other.

  She hesitated just a moment before reaching for the beautiful blue dress. She’d never worn anything so lovely—or soft, she realized as she stepped into it and zipped up the back. She looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror in the small changing area. The dress skimmed nearly straight down in a slim silhouette, the hem pooling a little on the floor. It was understated, but very elegant, and she had a feeling it was precisely the right choice to fit in at the gala.

  “I’m ready,” she called. In a moment, Derick and his assistant ducked into the enclosure carrying several shoe boxes.

  After choosing a pair of black heels that were the most comfortable out of the lot, Emily put them on and stood straight and still while Derick checked the fit of the gown.

  “Right again about the length being perfect,” he murmured to his assistant. “All right, Miss Abbott,” he said louder, “we’re going to be doing a range-of-motion test now. No worries if you’ve never done one before; I’ll walk you through it.”

  He coached her through a series of arm movements, and then had her try bending, squatting, kneeling, and twisting. Emily was surprised to find the dress was constructed in such a way that it didn’t inhibit any of her motions. “Now take the biggest step you can, and hold,” he said. “This will show me how much space the dress allows for your running stride.”

  Again, she was able to follow his instructions without the dress hampering her. Derick nodded in satisfaction.

  “We’re running low on time,” Derick said, “so give her the feature tour quickly.”

  The assistant cocked her head. “I can’t think of any features she needs since this is a low-risk op and she’s got Nighthawk with her. She’s not even carrying a weapon.”

  Derick snapped his fingers. “That’s right. Never mind, then.”

  Emily’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me this dress has secret pockets for if I were carrying a weapon!”

  The assistant nodded, and Emily worked to hold in a squeal.

  Such awesome spy stuff!

  Derick handed Emily a clutch purse and said, “The only thing that might come in handy—and hopefully won’t—is the pair of extra shoes in there.”

  She eyed the clutch doubtfully. “There’s a second pair of shoes in here?”

  Derick nodded, his grin making his round face look even rounder. “They’re collapsible flats. I designed them myself. They’ve become standard issue for any female agents going out in heels. If you find yourself needing to run, ditch the heels and switch to those.”

  She peered into the clutch. Sure enough, two minimalist ballet flats were folded inside.

  “This is decidedly better than in the movies,” she said. “I’ve always thought all those women kicking—er, backside in massive heels was a bit silly.”

  “Agreed,” Derick said fervently. “A broken ankle waiting to happen.” He held the curtain aside for her. “We’re all finished, Miss Abbott. I believe you’re to report back to Santa’s office now.”

  Emily crossed the open office space again, noticing that the salon setup was being taken down, and the usual desk layout replaced. Through the glass wall of Santa’s office, she could see Brent sitting back in one of the leather chairs, chatting with his boss. Pausing at the door, she knocked, unsure whether she should walk in. Both men looked up, Brent half-turning to see behind him.

  Santa waved her in.

  Brent scrambled to his feet, a look of surprise registering on his face. He wore a black tux and blue bow tie that Emily suspected exactly matched her gown. “Wow,” he whispered, a long pause making things terribly awkward for a moment. “You look nice.”

  “It’s just a look,” she joked, hoping to dispel some of the awkwardness. It nearly worked, and then she noticed Santa glaring at the back of Brent’s head, looking as if he’d like to say something.

  Apparently he noticed the awkwardness too.

  Chapter 5

  “PLEASE TELL ME WE’RE not taking the smart car again,” Emily said as they re-entered Brent’s garage. “Because I’m one-hundred percent sure your hairstyle will get smashed against the top.”

  Brent just grinned at her and punched something into a keypad on the wall. There was a whirring noise, and the smart car slowly lowered below ground.

  “What?!” Emily squeaked.

  After a moment, a new car rose in its place, black and shiny and fast-looking. She didn’t even recognize the symbol on the back of it.

  Smiling so wide her cheeks hurt, Emily breathed, “Now that’s a proper spy car!”

  Brent just smirked and removed a key fob from his pocket, pressing a button and starting the vehicle remotely. “C’mon, Sherlock, we have a gala to get to!”

  She followed him to the gleaming black car where he opened her door with a flourish. She sank into the leather seat and ran a hand over the posh interior of the car.

  When Brent got in on the driver’s side, he looked thoughtful. He spoke, but not to her. “North Pole: Nighthawk and Sherlock ready to exit garage.”

  Emily looked closely at him, trying to figure out where his communication device was. He wasn’t obviously wearing a bluetooth headset.

  Catching her look, he tapped the entrance to his ear. “Micro radio.”

  “Really? That’s not just movie spy stuff?”

  “Well, in this case it’s real—oh, you’re supposed to be wearing one too. Nearly forgot.” He pulled a small case out of his inner jacket pocket and opened it to reveal a tiny, flesh-colored device.

  “So, so cool.” Emily swept her hair back over her shoulder and tilted her head to the right so Brent could see her left ear better. He plucked the tiny device from the case. Tucking a stray strand of her hair out of the way, he slid the micro radio into her ear canal.

  It was louder than she expected, but surprisingly unobtrusive-feeling once he’d gotten it into position.

  “North Pole,” he said aloud, “I was right about her needing an extra small. Just for the record.”

  “Oh, now you’re placing bets on the size of my ear canal?” Emily teased.

  “I don’t bet.”

  “I’m surprised the exact sizing wasn’t included in my file.”

  “Our people are pretty thorough with their dossiers, aren’t they.”

  A voice blossomed inside her head; quiet, but sounding close. “Nighthawk, this is North Pole Surveillance. External camera checks complete. You are clear to exit the garage.”

  “Roger that, and thanks,” Brent said. The garage door rolled up behind them, and he put the expensive car in reverse.

  They drove through the neighborhood in silence, eventually reaching the interstate and merging. Traffic was already heavy although rush hour hadn’t yet officially begun. Once they’d settled into the carpool lane, Brent spoke.

  “The micro radios are always transmitting so North Pole can hear if we’re having some kind of trouble.”

  Emily raised her eyebrows and whispered, “So they’re listening right now?”

  Brent started laughing.

  “What?”

  The voice in her ear said, “Sherlock, this is North Pole. We can hear you even when you whisper.”

  Emily groaned and would have put her hands over her face if she hadn’t been afraid of smudging her makeup.

  After a moment, Brent looked sideways at her. “You know, your codename doesn’t really—”

  Emily interrupted him hastily.
“It’s fine, Brent.”

  “It just doesn’t seem to fit the occasion very well. I’ll have to think of something—”

  “No really, I think it’s fine.”

  “I’ll be thinking about it.”

  Traffic slowed to a crawl as they approached an interchange. Finally, they stopped altogether, waiting with long lines of other cars in the brilliant sunshine. Emily traced her fingers on the heavily tinted window, gratefully. Between the car’s top-notch air conditioning and the tinting, she wasn’t sweltering like everyone else.

  Brent took the opportunity to quiz her on her cover identity.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Amelia Rosenburg, children’s book reviewer, 26 years old,” she recited. “And I actually look it with all this makeup on.”

  “Great! Just don’t recite it like that if someone asks you.”

  “Of course not.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Who am I?”

  “Brandon Orange, literary agent, 28 years old.” Anticipating his next question, she added. “We met at a publishing convention in New York where you criticized an article I wrote on Charles Dickens’ stories without realizing I was the author of said pieces. I thought the situation was amusing, so I kept you in the dark about my identity. Surprise, surprise... we actually had a lot in common aside from our differences on Dickens, and the rest is history. Oh, and all that took place last year.”

  Brent looked pleased. “That’s good, Emily, very good!”

  She warmed at the praise. It was easy for her to remember their cover story because it was just that: a story. Fun to read on the sheet of paper she’d been given at the North Pole, and fun to play with in her mind.

  A short time later, they arrived at the resort where the gala was being held. A few other vehicles as nice as their own waited to pull up before the doors where a valet took over. While they waited their turn, Brent withdrew the case containing the bug from his jacket pocket and passed it to Emily.

  “Better get this positioned under your fingernail,” he said. “It’s adhesive on both sides. The blue side is less sticky—that’s what you want attached to your fingernail. The red side will adhere permanently to the nose pad on Gremlin’s glasses.”