43. Grenade in a Pigpen
grenade in a pigpen
Mirren
Nate comes through big time. By Tuesday night, I have faked news articles, beautifully generated videos, and social media posts with bot reactions—everything I need to look legit. And lots of them.
Not able to get a flight out and with his parents already having gone to bed, I sit criss-cross applesauce on Strider’s little sister’s bed uploading links and evidence for approval by the Texas Trio and doing what I can to poke the bear to get more info. It works.
And all it took was Janis blowing up a coal-fired plant—at least, digitally—to earn their trust. There’s a reason the NSA exists, even if its founding was overreach and its methods are questionable.
I so wish Brody would be reasonable. When it comes down to it, he needs me and I need him right now. This is a full-blown op, and while I trust my mom, she loves the action so much she can forget the stakes. I’d rather have the resources of the federal government at my fingertips.
If this goes well, it’s career-making. If it goes poorly, it’s not just career-ending, it’s treason…
…if I survive.
Since I’m on my own, I’m cobbling together a team of friends of friends and random colleague recommendations. It’s the professional equivalent of a wing and a prayer.
A Ranger buddy of mine knows a guy named Young who lives not far from Austin and says he’s trustworthy.
Here goes nothing.
“Hello?” If cold had a voice, it would be this one.
“Young? Jorge Johnson gave me your name and number. I’m Mirren Jones. And I… I need some help.”
“Sorry. Wrong guy.” He disconnects.
Jorge told me Fitzgerald Young was calculating and aloof. He wasn’t kidding.
I dial again, and the call is screened and sent to voicemail.
I take one last shot.
Rangers lead the way.
My phone rings.
“Hello?”
“All the way,” he growls. “What can I do for you, Jones?”
I explain what’s gone down, my off-the-books op, admitting plainly that I’m on administrative leave, and how this is critical for national security.
“I need backup. I don’t need a show of force. I need to know that walking in there with only my fake ID and my wits is enough because someone has my six.”
We talk for a handful of minutes. He has a friend, another Army vet whom he trusts, not far from him. He’s a family man with a brilliant mind and has a team in case.
When I land in Austin, we’ll coordinate.
I wonder when the Andersons built this place if they could ever conceive of their son’s girlfriend—though the word is odd in my mind—planning a national security operation with former spec ops guys while sitting on their biochemist daughter’s bed.
I’m going to say no. It’s so far-fetched that even my dad and his author mind wouldn’t daydream this kind of scenario.
Yet here I sit.
One thing has turned in my favor, and for this fact I’m incredibly happy, the terrorist plot to take down the Texas grid has been shoved off by a handful of weeks.
I’ve managed to make it into the inner circle enough to be able to “help” coordinate.
While it’s more time for Janis’s cover to be blown with the Four Corners substation, it means more time to counter plan.
I like a plan. I love a contingency. I’ll never argue with additional time to be smart on an op with dumb people. Options matter, and I’m taking all the ones I can get.
Strider
I can’t stop the smile that pulls across my lips when my phone rings.
“Hey, Freckles. How was your day?”
“Hmmm. Let’s see. Ate a huge breakfast. Went for a walk with your mom. Ate a huge lunch. Worked a bit. Ate dinner and my weight in cookies, two different kinds I might add, and then thwarted a terrorist attack. You?”
“That’s my girl.” I don’t mean to say it, but it rings true.
“Right? Kicking butt, taking names, eating cookies.” There’s a smile in her voice.
“If you ever open a business, that should be your tagline.”
“That’s brilliant. Mom would never join an agency with a cookie reference. I think you’re on to something. What did you do today?”
I fight to withhold a groan. “Charlie, Jamie, Mikey, and I went hunting.” I hope I put the appropriate amount of emphasis on the last word. “Not that we found anything. Not that we saw anything.”
“But the guys took you out in the woods with rifles and went all Jones big-brother protector on you, didn’t they?”
“That was the intent. But mostly Mikey just riled up Jamie the whole time, so there wasn’t much focus on me.”
“Yeah, Charlie is usually the one who keeps the peace and smooths the ruffled feathers. Zipper doesn’t like tension, except on the pitch—especially in the family. Outside the family, he actually doesn’t think twice.”
“And Jamie?”
“Hambone would do anything to protect his family. And wouldn’t need a gun to do it. SEAL, remember?”
“I can’t forget it. His posture, his bearing, the casual way he carried that gun, like it was an extension of his arm, not outside of him. Everything in him on alert at all times… And they all think you’re the helpless baby sister.”
“Well, helpless-ish. I was a Ranger after all. But baby sister? Oh, yeah. I never plan to correct their misguided notion either. For them to think otherwise not only blows my cover but would be the equivalent of a grenade in a pigpen. Shit would fly, and nothing would escape its path.”
“Am I part of your cover then?” It’s a tentative ask, and I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
“Honey, you would blow the cover every moment of every day.”
“Hey. I have skills.” I sound like I’m quoting Liam Neeson when we both know my skills aren’t in any way applicable to these situations.
“Don’t take it like that. I like your skills.
Your skills do it for me. Big time. I’m just saying that you empower me in a way that my brothers won’t be able to overlook.
I’m stronger with you around.” Her voice drops, and she sucks in a deep breath.
“And I get to be more vulnerable when I’m with you.
My take-no-shit crunchy exterior melts like an M&M on a summer day when I’m with you. ”
“I’ve never heard a greater compliment in my whole life.”
“Something in you lets me drop the walls. And that’s more terrifying than insurgents in the Middle East. So you’re going to need to bear with me. I’m not used to not needing to protect myself. Even from myself.”
“Baby”—my voice drops to a growling whisper—“I told you I’ve got you. You don’t need to protect yourself. That’s my job.”
“Terrifying.” The word is so quiet I strain to hear her, but I wouldn’t dare ask her to repeat it.
“You can be scared, Mirren. I’ll still have your back. On this one, I’m going to insist. Do it scared. Until you know down to your toes that you’re not just safe with me. But safe from everything because I’ll make sure of it.”
Her breath hitches, and her voice drops. “I love you, Strider. We’ll find a way.”
That goes without saying. We’ll find a way. We’ll make a way. We’ll be the way. With Mirren by my side, I’m invincible. And nothing will ever harm her.
“Love you, Freckles. I get to see you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow, we get to start figuring out where we’re going together. Not individually, but as a unit.
“Finally,” she breathes.
And I feel it down to my dick.