The Takedown

Chapter 2

2

What does one buy a crime lord for Christmas?

Nose scrunching, I lift the cotton tea cozy and examine it. Tiny reindeer waltz across the fabric in a pattern. This is a no. My basket is already filled with way too much Toblerone, and I’ve snatched up two knitted sweaters, a tin of Holiday Spiced Black Tea, and a T-shirt emblazoned with the Swedish royal family. I was planning on drop-shipping something from Amazon, but since I’m actually going home for Christmas, I should arrive with presents in hand. Really thoughtful presents, like...

My vision catches on the love from stockholm arlanda airport mug. There’s a Viking on it, belching a greeting.

Again, not quite what I’m looking for.

All around me, airport patrons peruse the gift shop, so light and carefree and—by the looks of it—well rested. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. Around 3:30 a.m., my handler confirmed that my mission with Alexei was a success—and that Gail was telling the truth. She really does work for the FBI. Calla really is marrying Johnny Jones.

How the hell did this even happen ? How’d they meet? How long have they been dating? When’s the wedding? Does Calla know her fiancé is wanted for alleged criminal activity?

She can’t.

I rub my eyelids, telling myself no way . Calla is a habitual rule follower. She’s the type of person who actually reads the terms and conditions before a software update. Once, in the fifth grade, we were hand-delivering Christmas cards to our neighbors; she refused to open their mailboxes because of mail fraud. What if we accidentally tampered with their junk flyers? And she’s kind. I once saw her cross an eight-lane highway, on foot, to save a turtle. She swerves for pigeons. She recycles with the type of fervor usually reserved for Olympic sports.

I know my sister.

I know her.

But that little voice staggers around inside my head, the one that always comes out when I’m tense, when I’m questioning someone’s motives: Do you, Sydney? Do you really? Anyone is capable of anything, aren’t they?

Can I trust my judgment when it comes to the people I love most?

“Just these,” I say, dumping my basket by the register. How was Calla acting when we last met? Normal, right? Herself? It was four months ago, on a quick trip back to the Northeast. I was meeting a contact near the Boston Public Library, so I stopped by Calla’s apartment that Saturday morning—brought bagels, coffee, peace offerings. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy. I suck. She gasped when she saw me, pulling me into a tight hug, and we talked on her couch for two hours. About her job at the local elementary school. About her students and their tiny vegetable garden and how she was thinking about adopting a cat.

Hardly anything about me.

I’ve gotten good at dodging those kinds of questions.

On many levels, my sister and I are the same. Organized, meticulous, driven. Honey-brown eyes and thick lashes from Dad’s side of the family, sharp cheekbones and a wide smile from Mom’s. But Calla’s much more trusting than I am. More open. She leads with her heart, while these days I’m more like that aloof cat she wanted to spring from the shelter: warm sometimes but also wary. When you let your emotions get the best of you, when you let people in too deeply, that’s when shit hits the fan.

“Lot of Toblerone,” the cashier observes.

“Big holiday,” I deadpan, unwrapping one and taking a bite.

Halfway to my gate at the airport, I remember something with a jolt—riffling through my backpack and fishing out my non-burner phone. Calla’s last voice mail is dated almost a week ago. Her voice chirps through the speaker.

Hey, Syd. It’s me. Remember me? Your sister? Around your height, brown hair, a scar on my knee from when we both jumped off the swings? Okay, now that you have the right mental picture... you’ve been particularly absent lately. Call me, please? I have some... I have some news. No one’s died or anything. It’s not bad at all, but just... call me back, Okay? Okay, love you, bye.

You didn’t even call her back , I think, a lump threatening to rise in my throat. There was the Oslo trip, then Stockholm, and my alias changed twice—but shit , that’s no excuse. Three years in the CIA, and I thought I’d be better at this by now. Balancing this job and my family. Keeping in touch with Calla, with Grandma Ruby. When I disappeared into my work, I never meant to slip away from them .

The corners of my eyes sting before I blink away the pain. It’s the middle of the night in Boston, where Calla lives, so I dash off a text ( Sorry I missed your call, promise I’ll talk to you when you’re awake ), thrust the phone into my suitcase, and take out two pieces of lingonberry gum, chewing them with more than a touch of violence. I should probably try harder to mold myself into the picture of holiday cheer, but every time I think: Rudolph! Snowflakes! Hot cider in a manger! I also think: Your little sister is marrying a crime lord, and you were too busy to answer the goddamn phone.

—

The first year after I joined the CIA, I was still taking care of Calla. Not in big ways. Just little things: chipping in for classroom supplies, reminding her to put extra air in her tires before a cold snap hit. For all her organization skills, Calla sometimes forgets about herself —and I’d help her remember. I’d ship her vitamin C tablets and a bottle of zinc during flu season. I’d have bags of rock salt delivered to her condo in Boston, because one year she didn’t order them, slipped on the sidewalk ice, and broke her tailbone.

When did I stop watching out for her in all the ways that mattered?

Why’d I let that happen?

Calla and I grew up in Cape Hathaway, Maine, which is exactly as picturesque as it sounds. We rode to elementary school on our bicycles, picked wild blueberries like kids in an L.L. Bean catalog, and trick-or-treated under the northern lights. Every year in Cape Hathaway, the weather changes aggressively after Halloween, heralding the end of late tourist season and the official beginning of winter. I know that some Mainers like to complain about snow (it’s too cold, too wet), but I can’t get enough of the stuff. Calla did this to me. For the first snowfall, she’d always wake me up in the dead of night, dragging me to the driveway and ordering me to hold out my hands: “You have to eat the first snowflake you catch. It’s lucky.”

“You made that up,” I’d say.

“Maybe.” She’d shrug. “Maybe not.”

And we’d stand there, boot to boot on the concrete, not knowing that years later—when Calla was fourteen, when I was sixteen—we’d watch Dad leave. We’d watch his pickup truck plow lines in the snowy driveway, and we’d wave, mittens in the air. He was just going on a camping trip, wasn’t he? He was just leaving us for a little while...

My breath hitches as the plane lands and I see all the snow out the window. A four-foot-high blanket coats Portland. It’s 4:36 p.m. and already past sunset, but with the city lights, I can still glimpse tendrils of steam rising from the buildings. A gentle mist rains down on the city. The late-afternoon air is thick and freezing. Good thing I packed my thermal gloves.

And my Taser.

At the airport’s rental car center, I select a car that says, I am not a threat to you, Johnny Jones, and I am definitely not a spy , and then proceed to counter-steer as the Prius ice-skids toward my hometown. Unfortunately, right now, I couldn’t look more like a CIA case officer if I’d written secret spy on my forehead. In Maine, my wardrobe was all gold hoops and colorful, paint-speckled sweatshirts; this morning, I’m wearing a black turtleneck, black snow boots, and black jeans that hug the curves of my muscles. I’ve also had two triple espressos to stay sharp. Caffeine is running through my veins like miniature greyhounds, and every time I blink, I see Johnny’s face. Last night, Gail sent me headshots, along with two gigabytes of files to peruse, and yes—I could sort of understand why Calla fell for him. Physically, that is. Soft curls, surfer-blond hair. Shoulders like a linebacker. His eyes are piercing.

Because he would literally stab you, Sydney , I think, gripping the steering wheel. Hidden in those two gigabytes was Gail’s personal research, plus all available surveillance images of the past three heists. Black-masked men wielding pistols, taking potshots at civilians before slinking away with millions.

Johnny’s men. Johnny’s guns.

Gail believes so, anyway. She’s tracked networks of his associates across the country, tying them back to within a mile of each heist. Johnny’s never physically there at the scene (his alibis are locked down tight; he gets other people to do his dirty work), but his metaphorical fingerprints are all over the plans. What’s missing is ironclad evidence to link him to the crimes—and to stop the worst attack yet.

I take a sharp, confident breath, knowing I’ll fix everything before New Year’s Eve, and jack up the temperature on the heated seats. Outside, it’s negative seventeen degrees. At least I’m not freezing in my wool socks and Swedish-bought parka. I even find that I’m humming along to carols on the radio, pressing my foot a little harder on the gas pedal; I’m okay. I can handle this, like I always handle my cases. Nothing has to change.

Houses whip by. Multicolored twinkle lights glint under the frosty sky. The farther I travel away from Portland, the more elaborate the displays. Someone’s handcrafted sleigh, complete with twelve blowup reindeer. In another yard, a menorah grows so tall, it tangles with the tree limbs. When I hit Cape Hathaway, the holiday cheer explodes.

My hometown takes the festive season seriously. Arguably too seriously. We are in an unofficial competition with the lobster-fishing town next door, and every year must conspire to outdo them in the Joyfulness Department. The stakes are life or death... at least, they are if you ask my Grandma Ruby. She’s in charge of half the window displays on Main Street, and it is glitter city down here. Glitter and tinsel and sparkly wreaths. Hip-height light-up candy canes line the sidewalks. And every house is dressed to the nines, with candles in the windows and ribbons on the doors. Giant animatronic Santas wave at you with snow-swept beards.

Swerving a left down Cook Lane, I drum my fingers against the wheel and recap the plan. It reads precisely: Swipe Johnny’s phone and implant a tracking virus that Gail provided, trail him, determine his New Year’s target, and thwart the heist. Merry, merry Christmas, yay. Stop the bastard from marrying my sister by any means necessary. Calla will marry a crime lord over my dead body.

Hopefully not literally.

I mean, that would really be un-jolly.

Just as I’m pulling into my old neighborhood, my burner phone rings. “Hello?” I answer.

It’s Gail. “Good, you’ve arrived. Calla and Johnny’s flight has been delayed. In around forty-five minutes, they’ll pull up to the house with Marco, one of Johnny’s bodyguards. Sixteen minutes ago, your grandmother Ruth—”

“Ruby,” I correct her. “Grandma Ruby.”

“Ruth, Ruby. Potayto, potahto. Anyway, she left for the local supermarket, so I just wanted to let you know that the seeds have been planted. A technician was in and out earlier. No need to plant anything yourself.”

“Wait...” I shake my head. The FBI bugged my house? I shouldn’t be surprised, and yet—the presumptiveness is a slap in the face. “That wasn’t part of the plan. You never discussed that with me.”

“Oh.” Gail pauses. “I thought that was assumed.”

My grip tightens on the phone, and my bluntness takes over. “They’re private citizens, Gail. My family. We don’t have any warrants. Why would I assume we’d place my Grandma Ruby under audio surveillance?”

“So I see we’re not talking in code anymore.”

I run my tongue along my teeth. “You called it ‘planting the seeds.’ Who’s going to think we’re talking about gardening?”

“We are talking about gardening. I grow tomatoes in the summer. Very relaxing hobby.” Gail clears her throat. “I know it might be tempting, but please remember what we discussed. You cannot, under any circumstances, tell your sister about this mission.”

“We didn’t actually discuss that, either.”

“It was implied.”

And she’s right, it was. Doesn’t mean I haven’t been wrestling with the choice. In fact, that’s why I was bleary-eyed the whole night. Could I let Calla in on the details of the assignment? Could I tell her about Johnny? The sun was rising over the Stockholm rooftops when reality bulldozed me: No, Sydney, you can’t. I’m absolutely sure that Calla isn’t a part of Johnny’s organization, but... fifty pounds of explosives, on New Year’s Eve? I couldn’t risk that kind of threat to human life.

“We need enough evidence to take down Johnny before you blow your cover,” Gail continues, “and I have zero confidence that Calla will keep up the facade if she’s read into the situation.”

There’s that, too. Loading so much sensitive information on Calla, in a rushed and high-pressure way, would only place her in a more compromising position. “Well,” I hedge, still debating myself, “she might play along if—”

“Sydney? No . Now, just make the fiancé trust you, understand? Good luck.” Then she hangs up.

I stare at the phone, understanding why—as Gail claims—the CIA and FBI fight like parakeets. Also, if they’ve planted bugs, it means that the FBI is watching me, too. They don’t entirely trust me. Why would they? My sister is set to marry into the Jones family. Which means I could be a part of that family...

The Prius jolts as I curve into the driveway, snow sifting under my tires. My grandma’s house— my house—looks exactly the same: It’s nearly a hundred years old, all big, bold windows and yellow-chipped wood, so it stands out like a ray of summer sunshine in the dark, wintry setting. Icicle lights dangle from the downstairs porch, and fir garlands wind their way around the columns. There’s my old bedroom, by the juniper tree, still studded with Dad’s old bird boxes. Calla and I spent so many hours in that tree, peering out with binoculars to keep an eye on the neighbors’ cats. What were they called again?

Milton and Cat Benetar , I remember, still on edge from the phone call. On edge from being home, too—all the memories clawing their way back. You can see my pulse thumping in my neck. I’ve just checked in the rearview mirror.

I take a breath, hold it, release it.

Okay.

Parking, I yank my suitcase from the trunk and fish out my spare house key, hoping my grandma hasn’t changed the locks. Sure, I could wait for her in the driveway. I know my Grandma Ruby. She doesn’t peruse the aisles; she decisively selects. Groceries will be chucked into the cart with fruit-smashing speed. She’ll be back in fifteen. But the driveway is my least favorite part of this whole house—I can almost see Dad’s truck tire tracks—and it’s freezing out here, snow beginning to fall in chunks...

Luckily, the key fits. The lock turns.

And the love of my life is waiting for me, just behind the door.

Her name is Sweetie Pie. Her fur’s dappled black and white, like an Appaloosa horse, and her eyes are that warm, milk-chocolate brown that makes you go weak at the knees. There’s a saying about soul mates. Everyone gets one in their life—and chances are, it’ll be a dog. Looking at this good girl, jowls pink and blubbery, her tail wagging at the mere, unexpected sight of me, I think: True. Oh god, it’s so true.

She rushes at my ankles.

It’s like the slow-motion reunion at the end of a movie, like we should be in a field instead of a foyer. Dropping to my knees, I give her the most sugary-sweet voice that I reserve only for dogs. “Sweetie Pie! Who is my sweetest Sweetie Pie? It’s you!”

Hindquarters wiggling, she gives me two long kisses, dog slobber coating my face in a thick sheen. Her tiny whimpers beg the question: Where have you been?

Guilt drop-kicks me. My stomach pangs. “Good question,” I whisper back.

If one of my colleagues ever asked why I’d joined the CIA, I’d give them a perfunctory answer: the challenge, a sense of duty. That’s not true.

The truth is, my CIA cover has its benefits. No one can hurt you if they barely know who you are.

Now, dogs? Dogs are different. I can be my whole, complete self with them, no hiding. Dogs will never trick you; they’ll never be anything but honest.

“I would lay down my life for you,” I tell Sweetie Pie, cupping the sides of her face.

That’s nice , her eyes say. She gives a satisfactory snort, panting out laughter.

When we were in middle school, Calla and I weren’t allowed to have a dog. Dogs made too many muddy footprints. Dogs coated couches with layers of ruffled hair. That, in turn, found its way into your kitchen, and suddenly, you were eating dog fur with your eggs. All of this, of course, was explained by our Grandma Ruby. Who ended up being Sweetie Pie’s number one fan. The woman has imprinted this home with Sweetie Pie’s likeness. There are Sweetie Pie oven mitts. Sweetie Pie coasters. A Sweetie-Pie-shaped mailbox that’s still the talk of the neighborhood. There’s a new oil painting of her over the living room mantel, surrounded by tinsel. She is, of course, both blissfully unaware of her ascension to sainthood and completely accepting of the attention.

“You want a cookie?” I ask her, opening the treat container by the stairs. “You want it?”

Yes! Yes! She does! Her paws happy-stomp the hardwood. Such a familiar sound. The house smell is familiar, too: ground-up clove and fresh ginger, with a hint of pine. Since college, I’ve set foot in the foyer on only a few occasions, and every time, it’s a barrage of conflicting emotions. Happiness for the memories, anger that things can never go back to the way they were. Nostalgia. Feeling like a stranger here and feeling like I never left. I decided to join the CIA right after graduate school, in a moment like this: I came home for one week in the summer, slept on the same bedsheets, ate the same cookies. Immersing myself back into family life was... too much. A part of me wanted to feel like my family memories, the bad ones, belonged to someone else entirely.

Now, the rickety banister is wrapped in ribbon, imitating a long, tubular present, and when I touch it, my fingers come away glittery. Another memory. Christmas morning. Green plaid pajamas. Me and Calla, hands aglitter, and—

Someone was just in here. In this house. Planting bugs to spy on my family . Not just on Johnny. On Grandma Ruby and Calla, too. The oddness of this hits me in an even bigger way. A stomach-acid-churning way. Calla’s innocent. She’s not involved in hostage-shooting heists or any crime. Ninety-nine percent of me believes that. But isn’t there the teeniest, tiniest chance that Calla knows the real Johnny? She sees the good in people, the potential in people, and she might’ve gotten wrapped up in something that... just spun out of control. What if the bugs capture something that implicates her ?

That little warning bell clangs between my ears again. What if, after three years of my hardly seeing Calla, some part of her character has changed—and I’ve missed it?

I’m the officer on this case.

What if I personally send my little sister to federal prison?

In my mind, seven-year-old Calla sticks her tongue out at me once more—and the foyer spins. I feel sick. By my feet, Sweetie Pie cocks her head, ears aloft.

“You should be judging me right now,” I tell her.

Her head cocks even farther.

“I know, you would never.”

And then, decisively, I’m stalking up the stairs. Most bugs are virtually unfindable if you don’t know what you’re looking for. But I do. I can check on a few spots, see where the microphones might be hidden. That way, when I talk to Calla—really, really talk to her—we won’t be recorded. If I find any, I might even... rearrange some of the bugs. Move them to different areas of the house. Places where Johnny might be, but Calla won’t.

That makes no sense. I realize that as I prowl into the guest room, mastiff-terrier mix at my heels. Sweetie Pie thinks this is a game. The most fun game! I zip around like a bouncy ball, and she follows me with her gaze, tail zipping as fast as a bumblebee.

Where would the technician hide the bugs? Where would I hide them if it were me?

My gaze scours the shelves. Like the rest of the house, the guest room is decorated for a cozy Christmas. A garland of paper snowflakes hangs across a row of picture frames. An Elf on the Shelf stares back at me from between two hardback books. He looks judgmental.

“I know, I know,” I mumble at him, pulse ticking up despite myself. What would Grandma Ruby say if she knew that I was spying on her? Yanking books from her shelves, sneaking around her home? She’ll never find out , I think, but the idea has slipped under my skin. It settles there. Makes me itchy.

I’m never like this on missions. I’m impenetrable. I check my emotions at the door. Then again, Sweetie Pie is never behind any of those doors, and here, I’m not undercover. I’m the seven-year-old girl who skinned her chin tripping on this rug; I’m the twelve-year-old kid who made forts with fresh-washed sheets pulled from this linen closet. I open the door quickly before thinking, No, no—the shower. They’ve probably bugged the shower.

Something I never understand in movies: Criminals always whisper their biggest secrets in the shower. They turn on the water so “no one can hear.” Bullshit . You think the CIA doesn’t have waterproof technology? You think the technical team can’t filter out the sound of a little water? There’s got to be a microphone somewhere in the bathroom.

At this point, Sweetie Pie decides to reinvestigate the biscuit tin downstairs, perhaps to see if she’s left any crumbs behind. Good. It’s stupid, but I don’t want Sweetie Pie to see me like this, double-checking the bottom of the toothbrush holder, riffling through the medicine cabinet, and finally, climbing past the shower curtain to search above the tub.

I remember taking baths in here as a kid. I remember this shower curtain. My grandma’s been buying the same one since 1997. It has ducks on it. There’s nice-smelling soap in here, too. Very woodsy cabin meets the seashore. The corners of my eyes squint, and I look carefully for a small black dot. My hands rove the tiled ridge above the shower. No, no... Not feeling anything... No. But I do notice something else.

Something way, way worse.

The sound of footsteps. Footsteps headed toward the guest bathroom.

A pang settles in my stomach as I realize it’s too late. Too late to climb out the bathroom window. Too late to leap from the tub. The door flies all the way open, the guest robe fluttering on the hanger, and I see the blurry outline of a man through the ducks. He totters across the bath mat and removes a pair of headphones from his ears, setting them carefully on the sink.

Well, fantastic.

Who the hell is he ?

He’s definitely not a burglar. It’s obvious by the casual way he’s entered the bathroom. This man is a guest in my grandma’s home. A guest who has no idea that a CIA-briefly-turned-FBI officer is hiding in the shower. Is he part of the Jones family? What’s the danger level here?

I calm myself by taking silent, steady breaths—and hoping that all he’s planning to do is brush his teeth. Maybe he won’t even turn around. Or maybe he’ll see my outline and think, What a strange shower curtain. It looks like ducks and a twenty-six-year-old woman, hunching with a razor in her hands. (Just in case, I’ve reached over and grabbed the razor by the soap. His soap, I’m guessing? His razor?)

Quick. A cover story. I prepare a cover story, why I could possibly be waiting fully clothed in the bathtub, as his hand reaches out, around the curtain—and turns on the water.

I do not shriek. I am a statue. An increasingly wet statue. Cold water plummets from the showerhead, drenching my turtleneck, and I think, This is about to happen . All my training, and I’ve really screwed up this badly. He is really taking off his clothes, and I’m in the bathtub, waiting for—

“I’m not looking!” I shout as the curtain swishes open. Which is obviously a lie. My eyes are comically wide. Simultaneously, the man shrieks, “Jesus Christ!” Like the Son of God is hiding in his bathtub.

“Not looking!” I repeat as I wince at him through my fingers, trying to work out which file I know him from.

He’s... tall. Very toned.

Unfortunately, he is also very naked.