The Takedown

Chapter 12

12

What was that?” Gail says over the phone, not an hour later. She’s stern, like a berating parent. “That was wildly aggressive for a children’s game. Not to mention this morning, and last night—dear god, Sydney, last night. That pageant performance.”

I drop my voice to a whispering hiss, so no one but Gail can possibly hear—even though I’m waiting, alone, in the Prius. “Do you have eyes on the Christmas tree farm ?”

“I’m everywhere,” Gail says. “I’m like Moses.”

The stress of the last few days is catching up to me in a big, big way. “What does that even mean ?”

“It means that you might try a touch harder to maintain a positive impression on Nick, and to not provide video clips that threaten to go viral on the internet.” When I don’t immediately offer a counterargument, Gail stills over the phone. I can almost hear her blood stop flowing. “Something’s happened, hasn’t it? Sydney.”

I know what she means. My heart probably should palpitate. I should waver. But it only takes a second to issue Gail a clear, emphatic no . (I haven’t blown my cover. Not exactly?) A worry is also tickling the back of my mind: If CSIS doesn’t trust the FBI, can I trust Gail? Even if she doesn’t trust the people in her department?

Besides, if I did tell her that Nick knows I’m undercover, I’d be on the next flight to DC. Gail would make sure of it. She’d probably be next to me on the plane herself, loudly chewing some pretzels. I skirt the issue. “I can’t talk for long, so... I got your text about the bachelorette party tonight.”

“Panel under the trunk,” Gail says, telling me what I’ve already checked for: a small black box with a wire. For me. For my dress.

I chew my lip. “Have you picked up any actionable intel from the house?” Or anything that implicates my sister? That’s the unspoken question. What have the bugs discovered?

Gail sounds nasally, like she has a bad taste in her mouth. “All that I’ve deduced from the footage is that your... your guest , the fiancé, enjoys push-ups. Every morning, every day at lunch, and in the evenings. He is also fond of doing them in your robe.”

“Oh my god.”

“I would bleach that robe, Sydney.”

“Two times through the washing machine, at least,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “What about the Mid-Coast Maine contact? Gift shop guy, the one Johnny was calling? Did someone check him out?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And he has twenty different flavors of coastal candles. Flavors, Sydney. That’s what he calls them. Like one would choose to eat a candle... Otherwise, the business checks out. Maybe Johnny wanted to buy a wedding gift for Calla there, who knows, you two never did go shopping, but... my hunch is that something doesn’t add up. We have surveillance on them twenty-four seven. There’s a live stream. I’ll send you a link.”

“Gotta go,” I tell Gail as Nick traipses out of the house, down the rock-salted front path, recently snow-shoveled. Turns out, Nick shoveled it for my grandma, again—which was a nice gesture, again. I pop open the trunk, and he chucks his luggage inside before lowering himself into the passenger seat with a slow, controlled movement.

Normally, on my solo road trips, I like the spontaneous snacking and the devil-may-care wandering and the feel of the open road. This is different. “I’m listening to that,” I mumble minutes later, changing the station back to where I had it.

Nick drops his hand from the radio controls and pokes his tongue into his cheek. He’s wrapped his neck in a chunky black scarf, which really underscores his broodier elements. “You realize that this station has just played ‘White Christmas’ twice in a row.”

One hand gripping the wheel, I gesture to the snow falling around us. My windshield wipers flick, flick, flick . “They were cementing their point. And it was two different versions of the song. One classic, one country. I’m not sure that counts as a replay.”

“That counts,” Nick bats back, bordering on flirtatious, his mouth in what I’d call a smirk, and my stomach does a tidy little flip-flop, remembering how his fingertips wove through my hair. At this point, I’m wondering if I should’ve ridden with Calla after all. A disappointed frown creased her forehead when I said I wanted to take the Prius, instead of all of us traveling together; my excuse had the illusion of practicality. If we hit any trouble with the storm, at least we’d have a backup car. Really, it’s so Nick and I can share information in peace.

So peaceful in here. Close quarters. No sexual tension at all.

No sleep deprivation, either. Looks like he didn’t shave last night. Stubble crests the harsher lines of his face, and I will never admit out loud that this crossed my mind, but Nick might be part of the 0.02 percent of the population who could pull off a mustache. “Everyone knows,” Nick says, still with that flirtatious edge, “that the definitive Christmas radio station is the one with Casey Kasem. Holiday top forty.”

“Casey Kasem? Isn’t he the guy who voiced Shaggy in Scooby-Doo ?”

“Exactly.”

“He’s still alive?”

“No. That’s why it’s the same show every year. It’s recorded. Nostalgic.” Nick messes with the heating controls, clearing more fog from the windshield. It’s 4 p.m. and already dark. Outside, we whip by a farmstand that sells wild blueberries in the summer, and a house with no less than fourteen Christmas gnomes spread out on the lawn, lit up with green and red floodlights.

My hands tighten on the wheel. “Before we get down to business, can I just ask, do you really not know who SpongeBob SquarePants is?”

Nick huffs out a laugh. “I’m bad at Pictionary. I told you that.”

“No one’s that bad at Pictionary,” I grumble.

“Your SpongeBob looked like a slice of cheese, okay?” He tilts his skull back against the headrest. “This is a ridiculous conversation. If anyone was listening to us right now, they’d think we were talking in code.”

I make a left, sloping down to the highway. Piles of dirty snow edge the entrance ramp. “No one’s listening on my end,” I say, bypassing his point. “The Prius isn’t bugged.”

Nick’s eyes carve a hole into the side of my face as he picks apart that statement, wincing. “So... the house is. Did they make you bug your own house?”

His tone isn’t judgmental, just empathetic for me, and somehow that makes it even worse. The fast whip-whip of the windshield wipers matches my heartbeat. “I didn’t. That was done without my consent. By the time my handler looped me in, it was too late.”

“I’m sorry, that must’ve been tough,” Nick says, reaching into the depths of his coat pocket and extracting a small black dot. He plunks the recording device on the dashboard, as if he were setting a whiskey glass onto a bar. “Does explain this, though.”

A tiny shock settles in my stomach. “You actually found one? Where was it?”

“Inside one of the elf figurines.”

“Which you discovered...” I say, once again putting the pieces together, “when you were bugging our house.” No denial comes from Nick. He just unwraps his scarfs from his neck, as if they’re strangling him. “Didn’t find any of yours, either.”

“Wait a second,” Nick says, realization dawning across his face. “Is that what you were doing in my shower? Looking for bugs?”

“Afraid so.”

“Do you know I peek around the shower curtain now? Every time I get in the tub. I swear. When I go home, I’m ripping out my shower curtain and replacing it with glass.”

“I think it’s highly doubtful that another person will be hiding in your shower. That seems like a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.” I chew on my lip. “Have your bugs picked up on anything, at least?”

Nick stills in his seat, the corner of his mouth wavering. “Not yet.”

“What was that?”

“What was what?” he asks, almost nervous, like a kid who’s just been caught opening presents before Christmas.

“ That. ” I motion in his general direction. “You went all stiff, and then you lied to me.”

From the corner of my eye, I catch Nick run a thumb along his mouth. “Fine,” he says. “If you really want to know—”

“I do.”

“You talk in your sleep.”

Good thing I’m trained in defensive driving. Sixteen-year-old Sydney would have skidded off the road just now. Merging into traffic, I take the quickest opportunity to throw a disappointed glare at Nick, who jumps in to say, “I didn’t know you were coming home! I didn’t even know anyone was going to be staying in that room. Then you came into the picture—”

“Literally.”

“It’s audio,” Nick explains hastily. “Not a video. Not that that makes it any better. Look, I’m sorry. I actually am. I’m not even the one who reviews the recordings.”

A prickle of hot sweat descends the back of my neck when my dream from two nights ago flashes to mind. Nick, showering in his christmas sweater , slowly peeling off his clothes... “What did I say?”

“In your sleep? I don’t know.” Nick shrugs unconvincingly. “Nothing important.”

“Tell me.”

He studies me quietly, all eyebrows and cheekbones. “You said, in a very clear voice, ‘That is Taylor Swift.’?”

Mmm. Could be better, could be worse. My finger flicks the blinker, and I switch into the fast lane, snow flying under my tires. “Just fill me in on all the high-level information, then. What else do I need to know about the Joneses before we get to the party?”

Nick checks the GPS on his phone, which calculates our arrival at 6:17 p.m. “No way we’re getting through even one percent of that in two hours.”

“Two hours plus stops. Calla also mentioned something about Christmas shopping by the harbor, so add another... hour.”

Nick rubs a hand down his face. “Let’s start with how we’re going to approach tonight.” Despite the warning, he turns off the radio completely. “You share your game plan, I’ll share mine, and we’ll see where we match up.”

My game plan. For the party. The party that keeps getting fancier.

I think that Calla wanted a quaint harbor cruise with comfort food hors d’oeuvres—tiny cheese blintzes and macaroni bites—but Johnny has since steamrolled that idea. The party’s still on a midsize windjammer boat, rocking turbulently in a pre-storm sea, but I have a feeling that the vibe is now more Casino Royale than Town and Country . Johnny added a full waitstaff and an ice sculpture. Eavesdropping this morning, I heard the words “champagne tower.”

“At least one of us should wear a wire,” I say simply. “Wait until everyone from Johnny’s side gets drunk. See if they’re chatty when pressed, especially Vinny.”

“Don’t wear a wire,” Nick says, almost defensively. I spy the tiniest twitch of his lip, right below his face freckle. “They might check.”

“I’m careful.”

“It should be me,” he says, firmer this time.

I’m just as firm, right back at him. “You don’t need to protect me, Nick. I appreciate it, but I really am good at my job. Just... go over your impressions about who Johnny’s invited. I know everyone’s files but extra details help.”

Nick looks like he still wants to fight me on the wire issue, but his jaw clamps shut. After a moment, he says, “Marco will be there. Johnny’s primary bodyguard. Noticeable guy—head tattoo of a scorpion. A man of very, very few words. Don’t expect to get much out of him. He’s even less talkative than Sal, who loves his cocktail shrimp. He’ll be chewing all night. There’s Andre, Johnny’s cousin on his mother’s side.”

“Right. The professional boxer.”

“Semiprofessional,” Nick corrects me. “He has an anger problem that might be described as ‘clinical,’ and at some point in the night, he’ll try to punch something. Like a wall. Or the champagne tower.”

“Sounds like a really fun guy.”

“The most fun.” Nick lets out a breath, and I think about what he must’ve gone through, all these years. Undercover life takes a serious toll. What has it cost him? “Last is Vinny.”

“Ah, Vinny.” Our main target for the evening. “And what do I need to know about Vinny?”

“Vinny will tell you everything you need to know about Vinny, and more. He’s a talker. Just focus on him, and he’ll be your best bet.” Nick readjusts himself in his seat, eyes fully on me. “And Calla’s side?”

I’m maybe a little too defensive. “What about them?”

“The dynamics. What’re we about to walk into?”

I puff out my lips. “Let’s see, Diana is one of Calla’s oldest friends. She knits sweaters for teddy bears and sells them on Etsy. Rachel is a youth librarian, and her girlfriend, Kirsten, works at a charity that finds homes for special-needs cats.”

Nick is quiet. “Shit.”

“Yeah, so the two groups will mesh really well.” Deftly, with one hand, I unzip my snack bag of white chocolate caramel corn and move a handful to my mouth, chewing. A few popcorn flecks lodge in the back of my throat, and I a-hem to free them, my voice turning husky. “What are you wearing?”

A playful huff comes out of Nick. “You’re not trying to seduce me again, are you, Sydney?”

I roll my eyes. “I meant tonight. The dress code keeps changing.” We come to a stop on the highway, holiday traffic backing up before a patch of ice. Red taillights flash in front of us. “If we’re going to go there, though, you didn’t seem like you’d be that difficult to seduce.”

Nick shakes his head, smiling, like I’m being silly. As if everything from his end was just acting. He was seducing me, too, remember?

A laugh cracks out of my throat. “You’re saying that nothing I did turned you on? You weren’t attracted to me at all?”

Again, Nick is maddeningly silent.

At a standstill in the car, I tilt my head at him, teasing. “So if we were back at the inn that first night, and I pulled you aside and whispered into your ear, ‘Nick, I don’t have any panties on, and I want you between my thighs,’ that would’ve had zero effect?”

Nick presses his lips together, a harsh intake of breath making his chest rise and fall. “But you didn’t say that, did you?”

I’m not even sure what game we’re playing here when I add, “I could’ve.”

“Is that what you like?” Nick asks, eyes mischievous now, holding on to my gaze. “Dirty talk?”

The sudden intensity of what’s happening between us is making me sweat. Literally sweat. Moisture is pooling under my parka, but I refuse to peel back a single layer—emotionally or physically. I trust him more than when I thought he was a criminal... but not that much. So I backtrack. Sort of. “Most men don’t know how to dirty talk well. It always seems so violent, like—” I put on my truck stop voice. “?‘I wanna fuck you so hard your eyeballs fall out.’ No one wants that.”

Someone behind us beeps.

Traffic’s moving again.

I clear my throat and break his gaze, wondering why the hell I just said any of that.

One hour in, we make a pit stop off the highway. There are two businesses available. One of them is a gas station. The other is a Morning Kick, their coffee bean logo lit up under the blackened winter sky.

“Absolutely not,” I say, making a hard left into the Citgo station. I fill up the Prius and grab a canned cold brew while Nick buys a hot dog with mustard. He does not seem like the type of person who’d be willing to risk his life on a gas station hot dog—especially after the plane shrimp accusation—but it’s another reminder that I don’t actually know him. That people can be unknowable. Maybe his germaphobia is another hoax.

“To answer your question,” Nick says between bites, “I’m wearing a tux.” He gestures with his free thumb to the trunk. “Packed in my suitcase.”

I think about my own outfit—the red dress from the Swedish Christmas ball, crumpled into the secret compartment of my bag. So strange to be wearing it again. Like things have come full circle in the absolute worst way. “Plane shrimp would be safer than that,” I say, gesturing to the hot dog.

“It’s probably been there for two days,” Nick says with another bite. “Two full days of cooking under an ultrahot heater. Nothing could withstand those conditions...”

Now that I’ve said it, though, he looks skeptical.

He doesn’t eat another bite, and rolls down the window a crack, wind ruffling his dark hair. “Let me ask you something,” he says after a moment. “Do you like your job? This thing we do?”

I shrug, taking a glug of my cold brew. I’m using it to stall a little. No one has ever asked me if I like my job—especially not someone in the same profession. It’s an unwritten rule. You grit your teeth when things get tough. You endure. “Do you?”

Nick tuts. “Nuh-uh, see, I asked you first.”

“I think you wouldn’t be asking me if you did like your job.”

I can feel him studying the side of my face before he sniffs out a laugh. “Touché, Sydney. Touché.”

—

When we arrive at the dock, I’m immediately questioning if I should’ve put my foot down about the boat. Snow is falling sideways on the cold gray rocks, and the windjammer is making a thwap-thwap noise against the shore. It’s smaller than the pictures. Older.

Calla gazes up at the boat, suitcase in hand. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” She sounds unsurely optimistic.

It is , I think. Like the Titanic .

We aren’t staying on board overnight, thank goodness—we’ve all booked rooms at the Ocean Harbor Inn across the road—but a porter comes to help with our suitcases anyway. “Thanks, I’ve got it,” I say, holding my bag tight. Another man arrives at the foot of a long, rickety staircase to greet us formally. He looks nail-bitingly nervous, as if he’s been warned what might happen if the evening goes off with a hitch.

Frigid air nibbles at our faces as we climb aboard.

Inside, it is surprisingly swanky. There is, as promised, a tower of champagne glasses, which feels risky on a slow-rocking boat. Art deco chandeliers swing overhead, and plush green carpets race down the halls, back toward a clanking kitchen, where a staff is rigorously preparing canapés. All the glimmer borders on gaudy. It doesn’t feel like seacoast Maine. It doesn’t feel like Calla.

And she looks... expensive.

When the porter gathers her coat, she reveals a gold necklace I don’t recognize, and a sweeping green dress with straps crisscrossing at the back. Johnny, for his part, is wearing a smart black tuxedo—and I think I better get changed before the other guests arrive. “Where should I...?” I ask one of the waitstaff vaguely, and she leads me to a small, tidy bathroom with real cloth towels, where I squidge into the red dress, hide the wire underneath my boobs, and double-check my reflection. Smooth hair, minimal cleavage, fabric running over the silk of my curves. Just as long as no recording devices are sticking out, I’m happy. Sort of happy. Good enough.

I charge out of the bathroom door just as Nick exits a galley room, nearly banging straight into me. He’s changed as well. An off-white dinner jacket and a starched white shirt mold to the leanness of his body; a black tie pops around his neck. He’s as polished as I’ve ever seen him, including the pictures in his file. My eyes sweep up and down his sleek lines, landing on the expression he’s giving me. It’s a raw one. I’m not sure he’s entirely aware of what his face is doing. It seems reflexive, that heated double-take, the way his gaze skirts over my dress. Over my exposed thigh. Then he catches himself, just as I catch myself.

“Nick,” I say, as neutrally as possible, hard knot rising in my throat.

“Sydney,” he replies.

We part as the guests trickle in one by one.

Diana is doing well. She’s still making those teddy bear sweaters. Apparently, she is very big in Japan. And Kirsten arrives early with Rachel, who says that Johnny once sat on the library floor with her kindergarten students, reading them If You Give a Moose a Muffin. I want to tell her that he was probably gathering material for his own story, If You Give a Crime Lord an Alibi (didn’t someone come from the newspaper to take pictures of Johnny’s “philanthropy”?), but Nick cuts in and introduces himself, shaking hands.

“You have a very strong grip,” says Diana.

“So do you,” Nick observes.

“It’s the sewing.” A little later, Diana makes an offhand comment about the Johnny-Calla pairing, how odd she finds it—and I’m thinking, Yes. Yes, Diana . It’s obvious she has a few reservations, too.

We’re still waiting on Johnny’s gang; I excuse myself, making my way to the nearest server, who’s holding out some sort of seafood pastry on a silver tray. The messed-up thing is, I recognize her. I definitely recognize her, especially after my second discreet double-take of the night, my eyes tracing the distinctive hawkishness of her face.

“Crab puff?” Gail asks nonchalantly, holding out her tray. She’s wearing a tremendously convincing wig that doesn’t look as convincing on her. It’s strawberry blond and permed, à la Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman . Nothing about it says “Gail,” which I suppose is the point.

“Thank you,” I say through gritted teeth, giving her a pretty clear what the fuck glance as Johnny mills around in the background. My fingers daintily select the largest puff before I stuff the whole thing in my mouth, chewing hard.

“Napkin?” she asks, once again nonchalant, as if we were perfectly unacquainted, and Oh, we will be discussing this later. Don’t know how the FBI does things, but in the CIA, it is not standard procedure for the handler to drop by unannounced on covert operations. Unless something major has happened. Or changed. Has something major changed?

One of my eyes squints at her.

She gives no indication of a response.

Well, cool. Cool, cool, cool . Maybe, after our conversation this morning, Gail just doesn’t trust me. She’s dropped by to keep tabs. “Thank you,” I say again, snatching a miniature napkin and dabbing without smearing my lipstick. Not that it matters. I could look completely wild tonight and not be the focus of attention. Vinny, Andre, and Marco have strutted aboard, alongside Sal.

Together, they look like a remake of The Godfather . Dark suits, serious faces, dubious energy.

Marco can’t stop power-posing; every time he stands still, he clasps both hands over his belt buckle and punches his shoulders out. Andre is like one of those kids in a fourth-grade classroom who keeps hopping up from his desk and screaming about sharks. He’s everywhere. And Vinny, true to Nick’s word, is already chatting away.

“Sydney? Is it Sydney? Come here, Sydney. That’s a nice dress you’ve got there. My ex-wife? You don’t know my ex-wife. Her name’s Victoria. Unless you do know my ex-wife, and in that case, I’m sorry for your trouble. But she had a dress a lot like yours. She moved out to California with the kids, got herself a new guy now, but we’re happy we’re getting some new members of the family ourselves! Look at you. You and Calla. Johnny boy! How’s my favorite cousin?”

Tonight, I’m sticking by Vinny like Gorilla Glue.

When the boat sets off with a jerky pull, Vinny holds my arms for support—and we start talking. He starts talking. Vinny, I find out, has two Chihuahuas and a vacation home in Sarasota, Florida. He likes WWE wrestling and pizza on Thursday nights (pineapple, ham, extra cheese). His Mercedes sports car has a six-cylinder engine, which he is inordinately proud of. His legal name is Vinny, not Vincent or Vincenzo, as one might infer. When he sneezes, he does not cover his nose. Champagne flows into him like a reverse fountain. Less than twenty minutes in, Vinny has given me his life story—from his boyhood in South Boston to his all-too-recent divorce—and he is on his fourth or fifth glass of alcohol. So far, though, nothing he’s said has raised any major red flags. (About the heists, I mean. Vinny himself is like a walking red banner.)

“So you work with Johnny?” I press, clutching my champagne glass to my chest. After I mine Vinny for intel, I’ll take my drink with me to the bathroom and pour it down the drain, giving the helpful illusion that I’m knocking them back, same as everyone else. “That must be really rewarding, working with family.”

Vinny nods appreciatively; he seems grateful for someone to talk to. “You could say that. Although we do get in our little arguments here and there, like all families. But blood is blood, you know? And look at that face .” He tilts his head toward Johnny, who’s lingering scarily close to Gail. His fingers reach out for a second crab puff. “Who could be mad at that face? Johnny’s done a lot for this family. Really taken the reins the last few years, now that his grandpa’s retired and his old man’s winding down. When you’re looking at Johnny, you’re staring at the future, right in the eyes.” Fingers in a peace sign, Vinny fakes a jab at his own eyes, then at mine.

Whoa there, okay.

I take a slow, measured sip, so that the champagne barely coats my tongue—and try to ignore Gail’s gaze at my back. It feels like she’s critiquing every sentence that comes out of my mouth. “What’s Johnny doing that’s different?” I ask in a way that connotes low-level curiosity.

“Oh, this and that,” Vinny says helpfully, rooting around in his jacket pocket. “Keeps the business running smooth; we used to have all these supply issues until Johnny came around. And there’s perks! Spray tan Tuesdays, family trips...” With a victorious smile, he plucks an unwrapped maple sugar candy from his coat, pops it in his mouth, and chews. He offers me one. I politely decline. “Suit yourself. As I was saying, Spray tan Tuesdays, and he’s really evolving the business, keeping it fresh—”

His gaze snaps toward someone in the distance.

Sal, at the shrimp cocktail table.

“Will you excuse me, angel?” Vinny says.

Angel? Bleh.

He totters off after Sal, who’s handing him a packet of cigarettes. They’re about to go onto the deck for a smoke. But I have a hunch that it’s more than that, the way they’re whispering to each other. Across the room, Nick catches my eye—and I know we’re both thinking the same: Trail them. Nick and I, we approach each other, setting down our glasses of champagne on a nearby table, and he asks, loud enough for others to hear, “Want to get some air?”

He’s said it in a husky voice, lightly grabbing my wrist, right where my pulse is beating. The look on his face is openly carnal, a dark spark in his eyes—and I get it. We’re back to pretending. That’s the only way we can convincingly follow. Make it look like we’re desperate to be alone.

Quickly, keeping Vinny and Sal in sight, I rise onto my tiptoes and press a kiss right by Nick’s ear, letting my lips linger. “Sure,” I mouth, in view of everyone, slipping a hand around Nick’s lower back, and he does the same with me, leaning closer, wrapping me up in him. I have tunnel vision; I’m in mission mode. But at the same time, the intimacy, the nearness, the way this feels so natural...

My heart rate spikes.

We follow at a distance, outside onto the long, narrow deck, where wind whips over the black water—and Nick cradles my shoulders, keeping me warm. If I can dunk myself in the ocean and avoid hypothermia, I sure as hell can stand a little wind, but I like it. I like it too much. I don’t want him to stop.

“Around the corner,” he whispers into my neck, and there they are, Vinny and Sal, oblivious, on the bow, smoking. Cigarette plumes disappear into the night air.

Their sound carries.

And I hear something distinctly.

I hear Vinny talking about his contact at the FBI.