Spies Don’t Fall for Their (Romancing the Spy)

1. Hoodies and Handoffs

CHAPTER 1

HOODIES AND HANDOFFS

LEDGER

I get to travel to a lot of places as an intelligence operative, and I love it when my job brings me to Philadelphia . This place has soul. It’s practically a playground for anyone with a sense of adventure.

I smile to myself as I cross the one-way street in the heart of Philadelphia , heading away from a giant mural on the side of a building toward the ancient building that holds the clothing shop where I’m meeting my asset. I nod at a couple of women seated at a small outdoor table in front of the sandwich shop next door as I pass by, and they both make flirty faces at me. I return it with a grin and a wink.

It’s probably because of my scruff. My job requires that I be clean-shaven except while on assignment. Since it never hurts to have a disguise, I applied the stubble during part of the forty-six-minute helicopter ride here. I think it looks pretty good. Obviously , the two twenty-somethings think so, too.

Of course, they could be attracted to the muscles. My biceps do a little twitching flex. They look pretty good in this shirt, too.

I step into the shop and glance at the layout of the store like it’s my first time in here— which is true— and I’m trying to figure out where to go to get what I’m looking for. Which isn’t true— I spotted my contact the moment I opened the door. But there are a dozen or so others in this shop, so the act is for them.

Then I let my eyes fall to where my asset is fidgeting in front of a rack of designer hoodies, but his attempts at casual browsing are pretty unconvincing. I let my face light up in recognition as if I just spotted my long-lost friend somewhere unexpected. “ Kolson !” There’s an underlying tension between us because of our real purpose here, but I don’t let it come out in my voice.

My asset jumps slightly, a clear sign of his frayed nerves, before schooling his features into a smile. It’s strained and doesn’t reach his eyes, which are currently darting around the shop as if expecting trouble to burst through the doors at any minute. It doesn’t surprise me based on our phone call this morning. We shake hands, transitioning into the bro clasp— a bit too hastily on his part— which is how I know that his palms are clammy.

“ How are you doing, my friend?” I ask, keeping my tone light, trying to ease Kolson’s nerves. He’s been invaluable over the past several weeks, but seeing him this rattled underscores the risks he’s taken .

“ Good . Just … shopping for a hoodie.”

“ Oh ,” I say. “ I need a new one, too.”

I start looking through the rack, and Kolson leans in and murmurs, “ I found out that the handoff is going to be right in front of Paws & Reflect .”

“ A ‘ Whimsical Pet Parlor ? ’” I say, remembering the tagline of that particular business. “ That’s where they chose?”

“ It’s over on Market Street , between third and fourth.” He wipes his brow with the back of his hand. It’s a quick gesture, as if he doesn’t want me to notice that he’s so nervous he’s sweating.

I nod. “ I know the area.” At the Clandestine Services Agency , we’ve been tracking some stolen art pieces, and we believe that they’re using the transporting of the art to move illegal arms. We think that the case Kolson called me about in a panic might contain smuggling routes or key contacts. “ When ?”

Kolson winces, abandoning the hoodie ruse entirely. “ At one.”

My eyes widen as I look at my watch. “ That’s in six minutes.”

“ I’m sorry. It’s the best notice I could give. I worried that you wouldn’t make it here in time at all.”

Fifty -three minutes ago, I got a call from Kolson . He said he overheard an associate talking about a handoff for the “ Abstract Exchange ,” the name he figured referred to the art thefts, and he said it sounded like it was going to happen soon. He planned to dig deeper while I traveled, and then meet me here to share what he found.

I was on a helicopter heading toward him from the Clandestine Services Agency building in Maryland seven minutes after his call. I’m not sure I could’ve made it any faster, but I really wish I could’ve shaved a minute or two off the time.

“ You’re the best,” I say, patting him on his tense shoulder. “ Thanks , man.”

As I walk toward the back of the shop, I say in a low voice, “ Did you catch the circus?”

In my earpiece, my handler, Kella , who is young, fun, and always exactly specific, says, “ Caught the tightrope act, and I’ve got eyes on where the clowns are supposed to emerge from their tiny cars. The handoff will happen point five two miles from your current location. I’m searching for a cab in the area.”

“ There’s no time. I’ll run.”

“ What’s your mile time?”

“ Six minutes.”

“ Okay , so factoring the corners, both pedestrian and vehicle traffic, you could probably make it in three-and-a-half minutes.”

“ Any cameras out the back door?”

“ Yes ,” Kella says, “but there’s a blind spot against the building until you reach the cross street.”

“ Good enough.” I’m not going to walk out the front door because when I grab this briefcase as it’s handed off from one bad actor to another, at least one of them is going to hack into some CCTV cameras and backtrack to where I came from. And they can’t see me walking out of a shop that my asset walked into not long before. I’m not about to burn him.

But this place does have a back room, so I pretend that I’m really drawn to some clothes near it. Just as I get to them, a woman pushes the door open with her body, her arms full of folded pants. Like a gentleman, I rush forward to hold it open for her, and then I slip inside as it closes.

I take two steps into the back room and see another shop worker, standing at a table, looking like she’s been folding shirts all neat and crisp but is now frozen mid-fold, just staring at me.

“ Do you have a back door out of here?” I ask. “ I just saw that my ex-fiancée and her mean friend are sitting at one of the café tables out front. If I exit that way, they’re going to start throwing things at me. I have a job interview in fifteen minutes, and I can’t go there with shaved beef, onions, and Cheez - Whiz on my shirt.”

I am currently wearing a fitted t-shirt and drawstring cotton pants with elastic at the ankle, and at the moment, I can’t think of a job where this would be appropriate interview attire. Maybe I should get into the habit of wearing a suit on missions like my brothers Jace and Miles do. Except that would mean I’d have to stop doing the opposite of what Miles does, and I’m not willing to do that.

“ Yes , of course,” the woman says, and instead of just pointing toward the door, she actually rushes to it and opens it for me.

I give her a smile. “ Thanks . You totally saved me.”

Then I step out and take off all-out running, keeping close to the buildings as the sound of the Liberty Bell echoes in the distance.

The trick to getting people to do what you want is to mention one bad thing that could happen to you— the ex-fiancée and mean friend throwing things at me. Don’t let them think about it for too long before mentioning a second bad thing— not wanting to be embarrassed at a job interview. The person might not relate to the first thing, so the second thing has to be more universally relatable.

Saying something specific is important, too, like the Cheez Whiz on my shirt, because that gets the person picturing it. And once they picture it, it’s as good as real. Inevitable . And once it’s inevitable, people are always more than willing to help out.

Kella says, “ Oh ! I see you’ve already shot off like a bullet! So you’ll get there in time, assuming the guys doing the handoff are the on-time sort.”

As soon as I get to Sixth Street , I cut across the grassy area by the Liberty Bell , not slowing my pace at all. I ran track all through high school and college, and I still train as though I’m trying to win gold in the 800-meter run.

I weave in and out of tourists and leap over a dog lying in the grass next to its owner. A woman must’ve decided she forgot something and spins around unexpectedly. I dodge, but we still manage to brush shoulders enough that she nearly gets knocked off balance. I call out a “ Sorry !” as I exit the park and turn onto Market Street , passing by a tour bus that looks more like a boat with wheels.

The sounds of the city surround me— people talking, cars, buses, and trucks running, dogs barking, construction sounds in the distance, occasional horns honking, and street vendors calling out to people. I try to tune it all out as I run. Just like I’m trying to tune out the way my lungs are burning and focus only on the adrenaline coursing through me.

In my ear, Kella says, “ I’m looking at the cameras in front of Paws and Reflect and see clown number one leaning against his car— a black late-model Chevrolet Impala — so not a tiny car, after all. He’s exhibiting classic shady character behavior: glancing around casually, but the nerves just below the surface are evident.”

I’m on the wrong side of the road, and I don’t have time to wait for cars to stop at a crosswalk, so I run between a gap in the cars. Only one honks at me, so I count it as a win.

“ Well -played game of Frogger ,” Kella says. “ Okay , clown number two just stepped out of the building, holding the case, and flanked by his personal fan club. He’s headed toward Shady Clown and the black Impala .”

“ I see him.” I’m only about two hundred and fifty feet away. I’m running like I’m just out for a jog, not running like my life depends on it, because people ignore joggers. Everyone notices run-for-your-life-ers. But really, my speed suggests that my life depends on it. It’s all in the facial expressions. Mine are calm, like I run marathons in my sleep and this is just a light Sunday jog. And I will catch up to the man with the case before he reaches the man at the car.

“ I bet you a coffee you can’t snag it before he makes it twenty feet.”

“ You owe me so many coffees I could start my own café.”

I’m picturing exactly how I’m going to do it as I run. The sidewalk is extra wide, so I move to the middle, looking like I’m not on a collision course with the case-holding man. At the last second, though, I’ll veer toward him, go right between him and the man on his right, grabbing the case as I do. Then I really will run with life-depending speed around the corner and use evasive maneuvers until I’ve lost them. I can feel my body drawing in more oxygen, muscles tensed, already preparing for the burst of speed it will need.

A hundred feet from my target, the man with the case is a dozen feet from his target, and I spot the one thing I never wanted to see on this mission. The one thing guaranteed to throw a mammoth-sized monkey wrench into the system.

Zoe Steele .

Even though I am running fast, frustration and anger still manage to hit me hard as she steps out from the doorway that the man with the case just passed. Everyone on this street is dressed casually— jeans, t-shirts, shorts, sneakers. Even from this distance, I can see that Zoe’s blonde hair is in a low ponytail, and she is wearing a deep purple top cut just low enough to bring the eyes up from her black leather pants. Do they not teach CIA operatives how to blend into a crowd?

Now , instead of my body preparing for the extra burst of speed it’ll need, heat is building. And not heat in a “she is so hot” way, even though she is and once upon a time, I even made the mistake of falling for it.

No , it’s heat more like blood boiling. She’s closer to my target than I am. Zoe gives me a look of surprise, which I don’t trust is genuine, and then her expression turns sly. Like she already knows she’s won. Now I do summon that burst of even faster speed.

She’s faster, though. She grabs the guy’s case in exactly the same way I was about to, had I been closer, and she heads to the same corner I was going to head toward. She cannot be here collecting this case. It contains information I got from my asset. The one I’ve been developing for weeks.

I run past the men, who’ve barely had time to realize the case was ripped out of their hands, as I chase Zoe . I turn the corner to see that she’s halfway up a two-story building she is scaling. She gets to the flat roof on top, turns and gives me a wink, then disappears across the rooftop and out of my view.

I want to go after her. To climb that building. To get to where she’s going even faster than she can. I could easily beat her in a running race, and she knows it. Which is why she’s on the rooftops where she’s out of sight. But I don’t chase after her, even though my body desperately wants to fight for this win. To chase her across this city, if I have to.

If she was the enemy, that’s exactly what I would do. I would chase her across the world if needed. I would get that case out of her hands and into the hands of the CSA .

“ Zoe is not the enemy. The CIA is not the enemy ,” I hear playing on a loop in my head, in the CSA director’ s voice, of course, since she’s the one who’s said it to me countless times.

Right now, though, it feels like Zoe very much is. It makes me want to outdo her at every one of her missions. To claim every single win. To put every single tally mark in my column, not hers. I stand at the base of the building for a couple of seconds, breathing heavily. Zoe won.

I just don’t know why she is playing the game.

Or how she even knew that this particular game was being played. To my knowledge, we haven’t shared any intel about this mission with the CIA . They shouldn’t even know it exists, let alone think they can put a player in the game.

There are cameras on the street. I know Kella saw exactly what happened in real time. So I skip an update and let my voice come out in the growl I’m feeling when I say, “ Tell the director to call me.”

“ Will do,” Kella responds, and I appreciate that she doesn’t say another word.

The agency helicopter is on a helipad at a local hospital that’s only about a block from where I originally met my contact, which makes it only about a half mile away. Or .62 miles, if you ask Kella . But I don’t run back to it. In fact, I stomp back, not even caring how many cars I make honk at me.

I’m mad. I’m mad that after so long of working on this mission, building up my relationship with Kolson , shaking so many trees to see what fell out, and finally getting a big break, it gets stolen from under me. I’m furious that the CIA thinks they can just swoop in on our op .

And I’m mad that Zoe Steele bested me. She’s probably sitting back in an agency copter right now, buffing her nails, reveling in her success.

I’m walking across the roof to my helicopter when a call from the director comes in on my secure line. The director is also my mom, but I never think of her like that when I’m working. I don’t even say hello before asking, “ Why is the CIA here? Why did Zoe show up? This is our op.”

“ It is,” she says in a voice that is so much calmer than mine. “ I’ve already spoken to the director of field operations in the Global Intelligence Division at the CIA . They are running a different op that just happens to overlap with ours. So he’s going to share with us the information in the briefcase that pertains to our op the moment that Zoe gets back with it.”

Our operation overlapping with another agency’s isn’t common overall, but it does occasionally happen. Sometimes with the CIA and sometimes with the FBI . Although “occasionally” is how often other operatives experience it, “frequent” is the word I’d use when it comes to my missions overlapping with Zoe’s . Knowing that Zoe is working on an op that is different from mine— that she wasn’t just trying to steal mine— helps a bit. I can’t say I’m all zen right now, because I’m never okay with losing, but my anger is fading a fraction.

“ This should still be counted as a win,” I say. “ We wouldn’t be getting the information in that case if I hadn’t secured the meet time and location from my asset and gone there to get it.”

“ We’ll count it as a win,” the director says.

“ Good ,” I say before ending the call.

Not that it is really a win. Maybe one-third of a win. If even that. In this contest between me and Zoe , I know I lost. I don’t like the feeling and it makes me determined to never take second place again. But I do like the director calling it a win. I like my job. It gives me everything I need— adventure, new places, new people— and it never hurts to show the agency that I’m indispensable.

Even if a certain building-scaling blonde is always trying to prove otherwise.

And this isn’t the end. We’ll get the information in that case— information that I’m sure is actionable. Then I’ll secure whatever it is that the CSA needs, and I’ll do it long before Zoe gets what she needs for whatever op the CIA is doing.