The Takedown

Chapter 10

10

So just explain everything from the beginning,” the police officer says, handing me an ice pack. I take it obligingly, pressing the coolness to my forehead; it stings. I’m sitting low on a beanbag in one of the third-grade classrooms, my knees almost to my chin. “No need to go fast. At your own pace.”

I nod, playing the part: confused, rattled. I am rattled. Santa was given a lift to jail for the evening. Turns out, he’s crab boy’s father; he’s going through a custody battle and wanted to take his son home for Christmas. That kills me for crab boy—but what’s really churning my stomach, what’s making me sweat in this donkey suit, is the memory of Nick’s face.

When the lights flickered on in the auditorium, Nick was staring at me. He’d hobbled to the stage, determined to thwart my attacker, but... it didn’t go down that way. Confusion flitted across Nick’s eyes, a muscle straining in his cheek, and he was giving me this look , like he’d read me all wrong—and I was a different person entirely.

A bead of sweat trickles down my cheek. I wipe it away with a donkey hoof, laying out the details of the event—not like a CIA officer would. Like a civilian would, with scattered pauses, talking mostly to my knees. If this officer asks any probing questions about my mixed martial arts background, I could be here all night, and I need to get back to my family.

Back to Nick. Explain a few things. Explain them away.

I can still fix this , I think, knot hard in my throat.

“We’re all good here,” the officer finally says. She’s my age, roughly my build. “You really did a brave thing tonight. I don’t think this would’ve ended too badly, but you never know. You protected those kids. Did what you had to do.”

“Thank you,” I say quickly, rising from the beanbag, glad that the interview, at least, is over.

Outside the classroom, there’s no one. Everyone’s been forced into the lobby, I think. Or the parking lot? The armpits of the donkey costume are starting to chafe, and all I want to do is unzip, grab my parka from backstage, and start damage control. Methodically. Engage the protocol for a potentially blown cover—because Johnny and Sal must be suspicious. Nick must be suspicious. If I get Calla to vouch for me, to tell them about our self-defense session in the kitchen...

But I can’t do that.

I can’t do that because Nick has—somehow—managed to send Johnny, Sal, and my family home. When I round the corner, it’s just Nick in the lobby, hanging out by a trio of glittering Christmas trees. Blue light pulses over the shadow of his face. My stomach gutters. He’s standing at an odd angle, favoring his right leg, Johnny’s car keys clutched in his hand. “Are you all right?” he asks, voice raw and scratchy. “You’re not hurt at all, are you?”

He’s saying the right things, but elements of his demeanor feel off . His jaw is too tight. His eyes are too hard. There’s a stiffness in his body unrelated to his injury.

“I’m fine,” I say warily, shuffling up to him, and it is possible that the stiffness is from worry. Maybe he was scared for me; maybe he’s kicking himself for not getting to the stage first.

That is not it, Sydney , a voice inside me says. Instinct pinpricks my arms.

“No bruises,” I add with a slow swallow, pointing to the unblemished skin of my forehead. A sticky coolness lingers from the ice pack. “See? They cleared me to go home, but...” I shift from foot to foot. “You didn’t have to wait for me.”

“?’Course I did,” Nick rasps, hobbling to close the gap between us. His fingertips reach out and dust my forehead, sending a sharp shiver down my spine, and for three seconds I barely breathe. Was that a tender movement? A threatening movement? Distinctly hard to tell. His touch doesn’t match the look on his face, which is... What? What’s he thinking exactly?

How bad is this about to be?

I test the waters further, offering a light brush of his shoulder—and a pun. “Sorry if I made an ass of myself.”

Nick shakes his head, irises darkening, his pupils like tiny lumps of coal. He skips right over the joke. No goofball energy here. No slow, ridiculous Nick grin. “You didn’t,” he says, his full lips pinching together. “We should go.”

Not we should get you home . Just we should go .

The ice in his voice, the hardness...

It shouldn’t shake me. But I’ve never come this close before. Never tiptoed toward a blown cover, much less barreled right through it. I inhale, my ears starting to feel like miniature bonfires. It’s a roll of the dice. I could assume my cover is toast, refuse to go with him—or I can play this out until the end. Keep up with the mission until I’m absolutely sure it’s gone south.

“You coming?” Nick asks, wrenching open the door to the parking lot.

“Yeah.” I nod, bracing myself. Acid roils in my stomach. “Yeah.”

—

Nick hasn’t explained why my family left before us. He hasn’t explained why he’s barely looking at me, why there is such a sudden and impenetrable shift between us. Covertly, with nimble fingers, I switch on the recording function of my cell phone, vowing that—if I have to go down—I’ll go down with intel.

I owe the mission that much.

Back in the Escalade, Nick’s at the wheel, and I’m box-breathing silently in the passenger seat. Praying. I never pray. The heaters have just roared to life. Hot air puffs against my face as snowflakes splat the windshield in vicious chunks.

There’s an exercise on The Farm that really dug underneath my skin.

You’re alone in a junky sedan. You’re sitting there, nice and still. And all of a sudden—five, six minutes later—people swarm you. People in black masks with baseball bats. Your windows are rolled up, and you have to stay there, motionless, breathing, as they bash the glass. As spiderweb cracks form on the windshield, and they’re yelling, shouting so loud, and you’re wondering how long until everything caves in. Until you’re covered in glass and scratches and—

It took all my emotional reserves, even though there was no real danger. No one really wanted to hurt me. It was all pretend.

This isn’t.

This is when I should’ve called an Uber.

“Maybe I should’ve called an Uber,” I actually say, pointedly underlining Nick’s silence. My voice is unfaltering even as my rib cage hollows out. “Much chattier drivers.”

I’m switching strategies on the fly.

My plan now? Agitate him. Annoy the crap out of him like he’s been annoying me. Get him to talk however I can. If Nick’s planning on confronting me, then it needs to happen soon . Before he has the opportunity to strategize with Johnny. Before he has the chance to take me somewhere way off the grid or—God forbid—back to my house, where Calla and Grandma Ruby would be in jeopardy.

“An Uber?” Nick rubs a hand down his face, almost laughing. He throws the car into reverse, backing out of our parking lot space and lurching toward the road. My gut lurches with it. “Honestly? I’d be scared for the Uber driver. Make sure he has good life insurance.”

Playing innocent, trying to unsettle him further, I drop my mouth open. “Well, that’s unfair.”

Nick’s voice is full of awe and confusion. “Sydney, you headbutted a guy.”

“Who rushed at some kids!”

“I know! I know. I’m not talking about why you did it,” Nick says, changing gears. “I’m talking about how.” We speed out of the near-empty lot, the hush of snow beneath the tires. Dark woods flit by—plenty of hidden places to stop and force me out of the vehicle, onto my knees. Every flick of Nick’s eyes toward the passenger seat feels like a preemptive strike, digging little holes in me. “I don’t mean to profile you, but most people’s go-to move isn’t the headbutt. You aren’t an English footballer in a pub. Did you ever even play soccer?”

Good. Don’t have to lie. “I did.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Blood pulsates in my neck, the space in the car’s cabin feeling smaller and smaller. “Shouldn’t I be driving? Aren’t you hurt?”

At the first stoplight, Nick turns and gazes at me fully, head cocked, as if I were a jigsaw puzzle that someone’s assembled a little bit off. Pieces askew. It chills me to my toes. When he speaks again, his throat is hoarse, and his fingers are gripped tightly against the wheel. “Something you want to tell me here, Sydney?”

The metallic taste of fear creeps onto my tongue. I speak through it, swallow, fight to keep my pulse down. “Like what?”

Nick’s voice has dipped dangerously low. Here is the man that people are afraid of. Always knew he was lurking beneath the surface. “Like why one second you were a donkey, and the next you were James fucking Bond.”

The word catastrophic comes to mind, but I hold on. Grip with everything I have. “I never thought I’d use that stuff,” I say quickly. “Didn’t you hear me in the kitchen with Calla? I took a workshop—”

“Where you learned an expert level of mixed martial arts in an afternoon?” Nick cuts me off, scowling. “Come on, Sydney. Someone charges you in a setting like that, and you blink. You didn’t even blink. It was like you just became this completely different person. That move you did after the headbutt? Your technique? Textbook military. And you weren’t in the military...” He says the last part almost to himself, musingly, and that’s when I really know. I know with a sharp spike inside my lungs: Nick Fraser has looked me up. Much more than a casual Google. “I knew something was up with you, but I never —”

“Nick,” I rasp, repositioning my cell phone in my pocket, angling the microphone toward the air.

He comes out with it, wiping a hand once more down his face. “Who are you?”

My throat burns. My skin can’t seem to decide if it’s freezing or boiling, the hot puffs of air drying out my eyes. The curve of Nick’s bicep tenses as he turns the steering wheel, and—

This is still fixable.

What evidence does he have, really?

“I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” I say, shaking my head. I’ve borrowed Calla’s earrings. They swing as I deny, deny, deny. “I’m not—”

“Can’t be the CIA,” Nick muses again. His voice has taken on a gravelly quality, like he isn’t just surprised but also somehow sad, and... he’s said it. He’s actually said it. CIA . “They don’t work domestically. Not police, either. The Joneses have the police in their pockets. So that leaves... Interpol? The FBI?” Nick pauses with a chest hitch, the car windows foggy and closing in on me. His breath grows heavy and thick. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re with the FBI.”

He could’ve slugged me straight in the nose, and it would’ve been less of a blow. Every part of me tenses, my hands gripping my thighs, and I want to scream . I’ve never failed before. Never failed at my job. Not in Sweden, not in Lithuania, and now, in my hometown, on the most important mission of my life, fucking this ? This happens?

“I’m not sure how you’re coming up with these ideas,” I say quickly, hanging on. “But I promise you, I’m not even close to being—”

“ Please don’t bullshit me, Sydney,” Nick says, exasperated, tired. “I know, okay? I know. You left to tail Johnny when he made a phone call at the pageant. This afternoon? When I fell on the ice? You have a lot more medical training than you were letting on. You also put a tracker on this vehicle, which I took off, by the way. You’re subtle, and you’re clearly good at your job—but I know what to look for.” Nick huffs as I silently unclick my seat belt, petrified. “And the suitcase. You rooted through his suitcase.”

That’s it.

That’s what gets me. How the hell does he know that?

It strips me back, strips me bare. Terrifies me. Nick knows. He actually knows. My core starts shaking, adrenaline pumping, and this... Gail can never find out about this. She’ll pull me off the case. No question. And if I’m off the case, then the Joneses might actually go through with their worst attack yet, and—

Fuck.

Never mind working undercover again. Will I even make it back to my house?

“How much do you know about me, Sydney?” Nick pushes as that vein in my forehead starts throbbing. “Name of my first dog? Password for my computer? What’s my blood type? Sydney .”

“Fine!” I burst out, formulating a second new plan. A much wobblier plan. “It’s A positive, okay?”

Nick stares openly at me, jaw slack.

But I don’t stop. I’m not sure what other choice I have. “My handler knows exactly where I am.” Lie. “If you try anything, you’ll be swarmed in three minutes or less.” Lie. “If you’re willing to negotiate, though, I think we can talk. This is what I do. I give people exactly what they want in exchange for information. So all you have to do is tell me what you want.” Then, with one swift jab, I punch open the glove compartment. It’s empty.

“What did you expect to find in there?” Nick mutters, sounding incredibly deflated.

I’m honest, my stomach still guttering. “Pepper spray, at least.”

“You were going to pepper spray me?” Nick squawks.

“I was actually going to keep you from pepper spraying me .”

“You really think I’d hurt you?” Nick asks, deep strain in his voice. Shadows race across the windshield. “You really think that little of me?”

Absolutely. Totally. One hundred percent.

When I glance over again, there’s a flash of pain in his eyes.

“No,” I lie, keeping my voice small. Box-breathing again. “No, I don’t think you’re going to hurt me.”

“Good,” he deadpans, clearing his throat. “Because I think it might be the opposite. At this point, I’m just a boy, driving adjacent to a girl, asking her to not break his nose.”

I laugh dryly. “Says the guy who breaks noses for a living.”

“Again, is that what you think of me?”

You and Johnny. Johnny, one phone call away. One text. One Sydney is not who she says . “Let’s not pretend that you’re completely innocent,” I say, deliberately unsettling again. The last thing I should let Nick think is I’m in control here. “I may know things about you, but you’ve done your homework, too.”

Nick snorts, picking up speed. The snowy road curves in front of us. “Looking you up on Instagram is hardly the same thing. I know you like possums. I don’t know your social security number.”

“It’s not like I memorized yours,” I mutter under my breath, loud enough for him to hear it. The undercurrent of fear is still there, pulsing. “It’s just available if I need it.”

“And what’s up with your Instagram, anyway? Any of that really you?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you follow six accounts and one of them is a mayonnaise company.”

Once again, no chuckle or boyish Nick smile. In the space of an hour, all that’s disappeared. Now, we burst out of the woods and onto Main Street, which is flooded with Christmas lights and those giant candy canes that Grandma Ruby lined up along the curb. Golden wreaths wrap around the lampposts. Everything is so disgustingly cheery compared to what’s happening in here. “When’re you going to tell Johnny?” I ask, throat tight.

Nick doesn’t waste a second of breath. “What makes you think I’m going to tell Johnny?”

—

We don’t go back to the house. Nick makes a hard left after the Long Sands convenience store, headed in the opposite direction of Cook Lane. My tone is steady as dark water flits past the window. The rough sound of the sea. “Where are you taking us?”

At the next stop sign, Nick whips out his phone, checking for a message or a missed call. Apparently, he’s waiting for someone to contact him. Johnny . Must be Johnny. “We’re going on a date, remember?”

“Oh, right,” I say, a laugh burbling from a painful place in my chest. “Cool. Of course we are. Does this date involve duct-taping me to a chair?”

“Only if you want it to,” Nick deadpans, pulling into a snow-plowed lot on the other edge of town. “Truth is, I’m waiting for confirmation of something.”

“Mysterious,” I mumble.

“Mysterious is more your forte, isn’t it?” He catches my eye and mimics me, batting his long dark lashes. “ Will you tell me a secret? ”

My face burns, emotion crashing over me like waves. Horror, anger. So Nick knows I was trying to seduce him—and he’s throwing it back in my face. Understandable. If I were in his position, I’d do the same thing. But the frostiness still wriggles its way under my skin. Right now, he’s in the position of power. I angle myself toward him in the cabin, prepared to fight fire with fire—or rather, frost with frost. “Are you critiquing my seduction methods?” I ask, taunting him a little. “Was there a better way I could’ve gone about it? Does something really niche turn you on?”

Nick grunts. “Don’t even go there.”

“Because if I should’ve dressed up in a penguin costume or something, please tell me now.”

His lips crack into the barest grin before he obviously remembers: Smiling around Sydney is a no from now on. He puts the vehicle in park, killing the engine. And I look up. A neon orange sign flashes moose lodge in retro lettering. I smirk. Oh, boy’s got jokes. Or boy is planning on disposing of me at the Moose Lodge.

Nick gives me a tight-lipped smile. “Shall we?”

Ice ricochets off the car door as I slam it closed.

Nine minutes later, we have our drinks. I triple-check the exits, then bite the maraschino cherry off its stem, chewing aggressively. “So how’s your ass?”

Nick glares at me across the table. “Still bruised. Thank you so much for asking.” Taking a sip of his bottled beer, he taps his phone. No messages. “Now that I think about it, maybe you were trying to kill me.”

I scoff, leaning back in my chair, arms crossed. “If I was trying to kill you, you’d be dead.”

Luckily, and also unluckily, no one is overhearing this conversation because no one is in this bar. The Moose Lodge is only busy on bingo nights. Busy with humans, anyway. With taxidermy? Always a party. All around the wood-paneled bar, taxidermied animals stare down at us. A moose with a pipe winks from above the jukebox. Two raccoons advertise the menu. A miniature herd of deer look like they’ve having a conversation, open-mouthed; someone’s strung silver tinsel between their antlers.

“What are you waiting for?” I ask Nick, gesturing to his phone. “Run Rudolph Run” blasts in the background. That is legitimately what they’re playing. God, I hope they don’t catch him.

Nick doesn’t answer me.

Grumpily, I slip out of my parka, a rush of warm air greeting my back. Adrenaline is still racing through every vein in my body, but I’m hoping that my loose cannon demeanor will keep Nick on his toes. Level the playing field somehow. I tell him genuinely what’s on my mind, alongside Don’t you dare try to kill me . “You ever wonder what would happen if all the taxidermy in the world suddenly sprang back to life?”

He doesn’t even look up from his phone. “No.”

“Me neither,” I say, sucking on my teeth. I hook my parka onto the stool beside me. “So far, is this the worst date you’ve ever been on?”

This gets Nick to gaze up. Something flickers across his dark eyes, like he’s trying to determine how much to give away. “Surprisingly not.”

“Any more information you want to volunteer?”

“Surprisingly not!” he says again, full of sarcasm. “Although I’m not saying this is a good one. At this point, Sydney, you and I probably go together about as well as peanut butter and hepatitis.”

I spurt out a bitter laugh. “Am I the peanut butter or the hepatitis in this situation?”

“Neither,” Nick says.

Finally, his phone dings. He yanks it off the table and holds it away from my gaze, reading through what seems to be quite a long and detailed message. If Johnny is telling Nick how to dispatch me, he is very thorough. Many bullet points. (Pun.)

Nick’s eyebrows bunch together. His lips move ever so slightly as he reads.

“What is it?” I pry.

He says nothing. He’s obviously thinking. A muscle in his jaw feathers.

“You know that guy who couldn’t stand silence?” I pry further, stomach starting to churn again. “Can I have that guy back, please?”

Nick snags my eyes, thwacking down his phone. “There’s no visible record of you working for the FBI. No fieldwork. No desk work. Nothing.”

A beat follows as my mind wraps around those sentences. This mission is off the books, and I’m not really an FBI officer. That’s why. But also... “How do you know that information?”

Nick stares at me for a good, long moment before he flips everything—this whole holiday—on its head. “I work for the government, too.”