Seriously, she didn’t.

Coffee just made a drunk person more alert, contrary to mythology - it didn’t sober them up. So she didn’t expect good things from combining a moccahino with whatever pills Jody/Kristal was currently on. She sat across the small plastic table from her, so Shan was closest, although out of the direct line of fire in case she projectile vomited.

Jody was loopy and just barely conscious half the time, but this made her far more malleable. She easily agreed to what they wanted her to do, even though they had to tell her several times. It was easy enough - she would show Romano she was interested in a “date” outside work, but she had to clear it with her “manager” first. She’d arrange for Romano to meet with her and her “manager”, which Romano would stupidly agree to because he wanted to fuck Jody so bad. Of course, Jody didn’t have a “manager”, not like that at any rate, but that was where their scheme came in. All Jody had to do was pretend she knew him.

They got Jody a cab to take her home, because she was a fucking mess. (There was no projectile vomiting, but the coffee sure didn’t make her more alert either.) As soon as that was done, they started back towards the hotel, but took a detour into a grocery store, as she needed to pick up some Excedrin - this whole thing had given her a headache - and Shan wanted a Red Bull.

“So who’s the manager?” Shan wondered, perusing the cold case of “energy drinks”. There were more than seemed necessary or sane, in brightly colored, oversized cans that could have been gas canisters with a sense of style. “Is it me?”

“No.” She picked up one can decorated in black, red, silver, and orange, and read the ingredients list, which was surprisingly large. She expected to see cocaine on the list, somewhere between the corn syrup and the caffeine.

That seemed to flummox him. “You?”

“No. Someone on Interpol’s most wanted list. And the FBI’s and the SSIMI’s.” It seemed to be a strange place to be having this conversation, in a florescently lit, spotlessly clean grocery store, where workers in dark red aprons prowled the aisle, and soft music played overhead. For some reason, right now it was the “Chariots of Fire” theme. Did they really think that would sell food, or keep people in the store longer? Hell no. What they needed to do was play something funky, something happy and bouncy that would encourage people to buy overpriced bagels and other useless crap that they didn’t need. If they played George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic, she wouldn’t want to run out of the store screaming. Or, what about a stab at local bands to personalize things? This was Canada, so why not play Skinny Puppy?

Shan stopped his energy drunk perusal to give her a startled rabbit glare. ”So we’re working with criminals now?”

She wanted to point out he already was working with a criminal, but didn’t. “No, just people who look like ‘em.”

He continued to stare at her, aghast and confused and perhaps slightly horrified, when she saw it happen. It was all in the pupil. At first, all she knew was there was something strange in his eyes, and it took her a second to realize it was the sudden dilation of his pupils, black spots suddenly swelling to the size of olives, swallowing the thin fringe of irises.

The can he was holding slipped out of his hand and bounced on the floor before rolling away, but she ignored it as Shan suddenly toppled backwards, and she had to catch him before he hit the ground. He was heavy, dead weight, and had momentum and surprise on his side, so the best she could do was slow his fall, crouching down as she continued to hold his shoulders up, and kept his head from hitting the floor. “You pick your times,” she told him, as his wide eyes stared blindly up at the ceiling.

They were alone in the aisle, so she was sure they were okay, except now around the corner came a young guy, stocky and swarthy, with short, bristly black hair and a wispy thin moustache that could have been pubic hair. He wore a red apron, and she guessed he was a stock boy. “What - is he okay?” he asked, looking like he was afraid to approach in case it was contagious. His fear made her briefly sad she didn’t pocket some red food coloring, so she could squirt it in her eyes and mouth and go screaming after him like she was in 28 Days Later. Did he think he had fucking ebola or something?

“Yeah, he’ll be okay in a minute. He just had a seizure.”

The boy - who, according to his plastic nametag was named “Omar” - mimicked Shan’s confused, befuddled look. “Uh … umm … a seizure? I thought they … umm … were different.”

“You mean flailing and writhing and swallowing their tongue? That’s a different kind of seizure. He basically just freezes for a few seconds.”

“Oh.” That one syllable seemed to convey how much he thought she was full of bullshit. Now she really did want to chase him through the aisles, damn the lack of food coloring. She bet she could knock him out with a well thrown can of Rock Star. She used to have a great proficiency with throwing knives; not that they actually bothered to teach her that, that was just a hobby. She once worked with a guy named Spencer who liked to bet her she couldn’t hit certain things with standard pub darts. She must have made at least fifty quid off him. She wondered if she still had the knack. “Should I … uh … call an ambulance?”

“No, he’ll come out of it in a second.”

Omar continued to give her a dubious look, and glanced over his shoulder, as if appealing to the display stand of Frito-Lay products for help. He may have been looking for a camera - they did these prank shows all over the fucking place now, didn’t they?

The worst part was she rather wished it had been a joke. He was getting worse. He used to freeze, but still keep standing. Now he was losing his balance, and starting to be “gone” for longer and longer periods. Maybe alcohol wasn’t responsible for his fit of narcolepsy; maybe it really was just him.

Finally, Omar said, with great hesitancy,” Umm … uh … you can’t loiter in the aisle. Store policy.”

She gave him a look that suggested a truly nasty epithet involving his mother and a horny elephant, and hoped he got it. Mainly he just looked frightened, like he thought she was a maniac, or terrified he just might get sued. Either was probably a fate worse than death for him. “I … uh …”

“What am I doing on the floor?” Shan asked, sitting up and looking around.

Omar actually jumped, brown eyes wide and hands fluttering, as if he’d just seen a corpse come back to life. What part of “seizure” did he not understand?

Shan glanced back at her, and just looked beaten, a broken man. “Not here.” It was a groan, a lament, almost a plea.

All she could do was shrug. “Sorry mate. It’s been a long night. Let’s just get you back to the hotel, yeah?”

He transitioned to his knees before trying to stand, using the lip of the open cooler to pull himself back to his feet. “Yeah,” he grumbled, his embarrassment transmuting into anger. That was typical too, and she couldn’t say she blamed him.

Omar just stared at them like they were a horrible car wreck, and while she was tempted to see if her throwing arm was still that good, she didn’t bother. Better just to get out of here and let Shan sulk in peace.

****

And sulk he did.

He went to his room and she didn’t see him or hear from him for the rest of the night, which was fine with her. As it was, she had to set up the meet with the man Stone would be sending around. They arranged a meet for tomorrow at the hotel, although she made sure he understood he had to arrive incognito. Sunglasses, hat, whole deal - he couldn’t look like himself. That was no problem.

She ordered something criminally overpriced from room service (no matter what they called it, it was still spaghetti, and it was too damn much), and watched some mostly bad television while eating, then glanced in on Romano for a while. He wasn’t back from his night on the town yet, his suite was still dark, and she noticed a man with coffee colored skin looking out the window of his room below, looking down at the streets as if searching for meaning, rubbing the back of his neck. She had decided that he was the Canadian intelligence tail on Romano, that they were probably listening into his suite via bugs, perhaps passive ones using the phone lines in the wall or a directional dish mike. Technically it wouldn’t be admissible in courts, but none of this was going into court. He couldn’t see into her room, but she imagined he knew she was there.

Romano and his bodyguards came back shortly before two in the morning, but she didn’t even seen Romano before Mongo drew the heavy curtains completely shut, blocking out her view. She could have gone to night vision, but she didn’t care that much. He didn’t go anywhere without his bodyguards - he was there.

She slept a bit uneasily, but the hotel bed was actually quite nice. Only the expensive hotels had the really nice beds. The cheap shit ones went with mattresses that made futons seem comfortable by comparison.

The morning was overcast and slightly gloomy, yet still warm, an odd mix for Toronto. Once she was up and in her anonymous clothes - complete with her damn blue sunglasses - she went down to Shan’s room and knocked on his door. She thought he might not be up yet, but he was, and once she told him what was going to be happening today, they went downstairs to have breakfast in the hotel café, which seemed like a normal thing to do. They seemed to have a tacit agreement: he didn’t ask probing questions about what the hell they were doing, and she didn’t mention his little incident at the store. Mainly they shared the newspaper as they ate.

Their appointment showed up seven minutes late. They were both in her room, waiting for him, and Shan was sitting on her bed, partially watching an old Simpsons episode. But he’d been strangely quiet and distant all day, and she knew he was depressed and glum over what happened last night. She had no means to comfort him, so she didn’t. The knock on the door was jarring in the frozen gloom of the room.

She glanced through the “spy hole” before unlocking the door and letting him in. He was wearing a Blue Jay’s baseball cap and cheap, dark sunglasses he probably bought at the same drugstore chain. He wore crisp black pants, extremely worn Addidas tennis shoes that were probably once white, and a slightly rumpled blue button down shirt beneath a brown canvas jacket. “Sorry I’m late,” he said as she shut the door. “I forgot how bad traffic could be. “

“It’s okay, but don’t let it happen again.” She threw the locks, just to stall anyone who wanted to shoot their way inside.

Shan introduced himself using his fake name, and the man, taking off his sunglasses and hat, said, “Pleased to meet you. I’m Anton Blunt. Mr. Frost did give you my credits, yes?”

Shan looked at her curiously, and mouthed “Mr. Frost?” as Anton looked around the room. “I’m not sure my agent added the fact that I played Othello at the Toronto Shakespeare festival last month …”

“We really don’t need your c.v., Mr. Blunt,” she told him, sure that couldn’t possibly be his actual name. She sat down in the room’s armchair, while Anton remained standing, nervous but trying not to show it. He was a reasonably tall man at six foot two, on the thin side, with skin the color of caramels and curly black hair he kept shorn close to his scalp. He was also reasonably attractive, with a round face that didn’t look soft, and intense black eyes that smoldered like embers. In spite of his name, he was clearly of Semitic heritage; he was probably pulled aside for “special searches” at every airport he’d ever ventured into. “What did Mr. Frost tell you about our production?”

“Well, that I’d be playing a manager for a stripper, arranging a date between her and some high powered businessman.” He wringed his hands together nervously. He had nice hands, long and slender, and she noted a wedding ring. He’d have to lose that for the “scene”. “I’ve never heard of HBO doing a reality series … well, beyond those “Real Sex” and “Taxicab Confessions” ones. This isn’t like that, is it? I mean, I’m not a snob, I’m not, but … you know. I don’t feel too good playing a prank on a complete stranger.”

“You won’t be the one playing the actual prank, if it makes you feel any better. Jody - known to us as Kristal - will actually be doing it.”

He nodded, his lingering anxiety showing in his body, in the slump of his shoulders and the twisting of his hands. “Uh, okay. It’s not … it’s not too humiliating, is it?”

“No, not at all. Actually, we got the blessing of his wife to do it.”

He nodded again, clearly trying to convince himself he should do this “role”, the smooth pimp, and play to hidden cameras, and a victim who didn’t know he was being set up for a joke on cable television. He was probably a decent actor, but he needed the money - what actor didn’t need the money? And Frost was probably dangling a goodly sum in front of him.

What this poor man didn’t know was the joke was actually on him. It actually surprised her that Frost didn’t have to leave Toronto to find a dead ringer - if you added a close cropped beard - for Ahmed Talil Al-Warabi, wanted by the Italians for an abortive airport bombing in 2001; wanted by the Americans for his connection to an embassy bombing in Africa; wanted by the British for immigration violations and as a suspect in a murder; wanted by the French for his connection to an opium smuggling ring; and even wanted by the Yemenis for the same opium problem. Al-Warabi was just a big taboo, a political hot potato that would burn anyone who touched him, and Romano was going to have a friendly chat with a man who looked just like him, even though he didn’t know it.

Shan looked around, but carefully, trying not to seem too suspicious. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“There’s a guy in here who can’t see me. He’ll recognize me and blow the whole deal.”

He looked around again, but let his eyes settle on the jailbait twirling around the pole. “Who? Somebody from Vancouver?”

“Something like that. I’m sick, and you have to help me outta here.”

“Huh?”

She glared up at him through her reading glasses, which distorted his face ever so slightly. “My cover story, why you have to get me out of the club now. Comprende?”

“Oh! Yeah, okay,” he agreed, getting up. She had him come over to the left side of the table, blocking the view of her from Worden’s side, and as she got up, she leaned against Shan, resting her head against his chest. It seemed to startle him. “Uh, are you listening for a pulse?”

“I can’t be seen on the left. Try and keep your face away from that side as well, but not too obviously. You’re helping your sick friend out. Got it?”

“Got it.”

She draped her left arm limply over his shoulders, and leaned heavily against him as they started staggering towards the exit. Shan kept himself turned ever so slightly towards the right, so no one from the other side of the room could get a good look at them. But she still kept her other hand close to her gun until they were outside, in the blessedly cool night air. Even the exhaust and cigarette smoke was better than the smell in there.

“What now?” Shan wondered, as she pulled away from him and they started walking down the street.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him into an alley that reeked of piss, but led out to the back of Spank, to an unmarked door that she was sure where the strippers slipped out after the show. The back of Spank was actually a small parking lot, although she couldn’t tell to what building, since it was closed and dark and had no obvious signs on this part of it. “I want you to wait here, and surreptitiously follow that stripper if she comes out.”

“Which stripper?”

“The one who was on stage as we left.”

He nodded knowingly. “Ah, Kristal. Is it me, or did she look a little like Avril Lavigne with a boob job?”

She stared at him, wanting to ask how he knew what Avril Lavigne looked like, but afraid to. “I have no idea. Look, I need you to keep an eye on her; if she leaves before I come back, you need to track her movements. Keep me updated by cell, okay?”

Maybe she was talking too fast; he looked deeply confused. “Come back? Where are you going?”

“Nowhere important. I just have to make a call, in private, and maybe see if I can find an internet café around here. I’ll be gone ten minutes, tops.”

Shan now had the wide eyed look of a man just informed that he was secretly married ten years ago during a drunken blackout, and now owed a half million dollars in back spousal support. “So why aren’t I going with you? Why don’t you make the call here?”

“I need you to keep an eye out for our stripper, and I need an internet café. I ain’t abandonin’ ya, kiddo; I’ll be right back.” She patted him on the shoulder, but he still looked slightly bewildered as she left the alley, leaving him behind. She pulled off her cap and glasses and shoved them in her pocket, because they wouldn’t do her any good anymore.

There was a type of mini-mart at the end of the block, its bright fluorescents bleeding through its huge windows, illuminating the small pay phone kiosk outside its doors. Thankfully the thing still worked and hadn’t been vandalized to death yet, and she punched up the number Frost gave her. Yes, she had a cell phone, but a land line was usually more secure as long as you knew the line wasn’t tapped; anybody who knew what they were doing could intercept a standard cell phone conversation. Still, even though it was highly unlikely that someone had tapped a pay phone, she was still careful, speaking as tersely as possible. She gave him the number on the phone, and then went into the quickie mart to buy a pack of gum and a newspaper (she had to buy something), then went back outside and sat on the edge of the front walk, close to the pay phone. She chewed a stick of gum and scanned the paper while she waited. The Canadian government was a bit more open than most, but still reading of various developments, she found herself trying to read between the lines, trying to figure out what wasn’t being said. It was too bloody easy. Maybe she was just too cynical. The downside of working behind the scenes in an intelligence agency was that you began to see everything as a façade, everything as a bloody lie. At least it was a safe bet nowadays - no matter where they worked, or for who, people were generally full of shit. Or she just needed to get that shotgun shack in the Alberta woods and start writing misspelled letters to the papers about the grand conspiracy involving the Illuminati and Hitler’s ghost bugging her fillings.

She was reading through the fluffy items in the lifestyle section by the time the phone rang. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t had much information to give him; Frost had enviable connections, who could draw lines between the thinnest facts. She wished she had those connections, but she would have had to have been officially on the grid to utilize them. She still had something of a friend at Interpol, but did he know she was still alive? If anyone would, it would be Nasir. He wouldn’t grass on her either. He might be pissed off that she took the “easy way” out, though. Oh hell, he was a naturalized Frenchman; it wasn’t just typical he’d be contrary, but expected. After all, she wasn’t even a Pommy bastard, she was an Ozzie - they didn’t even register on anyone’s radar. Being from the ass end of the globe was as much a boon as a hindrance.

Once she got the information she needed, she mentioned, “He was meeting his contact. Worden. Did you forget to tell me, Frost?”

There was a long, surprised pause that might have been genuine. “Worden, as in ..? No, my dear, I had no idea. In fact, wasn’t he indicted?”

“I have no idea, I wasn’t in country at the time.”

“Oh, yes. Japan’s lovely that time of year.”

“If I found out you set this up on purpose , I’m takin’ the gear and catching the next flight to Vancouver. Do you understand? You were a decent boss, but I don’t get fucked by anyone.”

There was a long pause, and she couldn’t tell if it was offended or just generally appalled. “I’m a lot of things, Zero, but I’m not a betrayer. I thought you knew better than that.”

“I don’t know anything anymore. It’s better that way.” She then realized that if her plan was going to work, she needed one more ingredient. “Before I forget, I need you to set me up with something.”

“What do you need?”

She told him. He chuckled dryly, and after a moment of decorum, he replied, “A thorough investigation will reveal the ruse.”

“Do you think the States or Italy will bother to do a thorough investigation before pulling him?”

He waited a beat, and she watched the cars driving by, their headlines leaving temporary scars of illumination in their wake. She felt like she existed outside of the world of normal people. She thought that feeling would leave her once she left the game, but it never did. What a pisser to discover what you blamed on the job was in fact you all along. She just wasn‘t cut out for the normal world, for a normal life; her entire existence was powerful testimony to that. “In the current climate? Not at all.”

“Set it up. Email the contact info, and I’ll arrange the place and time.”

“It has to be good,” he warned.

“You know me, Frost. It will be.” She hung up the receiver then, as saying goodbye was for normal people having a normal conversation.

She walked back to the alley beside Spank, and almost didn’t see Shan at first - for a big guy, he could skulk in the shadows with the best of them. “Where have you been?” he whispered angrily. “I didn’t want to stalk a woman alone. I mean, that’s creepy.”

“So she hasn’t come out?”

He glared at her for a moment, but he knew how useless that was and rolled his eyes. “No. An Asian chick came out, though, with some guy. I didn’t recognize her, so we must have missed her show.”

“What a pity.”

Shan had found a good patch of shadow to lurk in, and she joined him. “Find an internet café?”

“Not around here, no.” That bit had been a lie. There was no way to say she didn’t want him overhearing her phone call that he wouldn’t take offense at. “Doesn’t matter, I’ve got things set up.”

Even in the dark, she could feel his eyes on her. “What things?”

She reached into her coat pocket, and felt around until she found what she wanted. They were in auxiliary case, and when she saw them, she figured Frost was being a little paranoid. Still she brought them with her, because she was paranoid too, and now they might be the perfect in with Kristal. “Here, take this,” she said, putting one of the leather rectangles blindly in his hand. “Just follow my lead.”

“I usually do,” he replied, then brought up the item she handed him for a closer look. It seemed to take him a moment. “Holy fuck, are these badges?”

“In a sense. They indicate we work for Canadian Intelligence.”

“What?” There were times she felt bad for him. He was so out of his depth here, and he would never know just how much. But an accident had rendered him unfit for a normal life, so he was in the same boat as her by simple forfeit. He was a lot stronger than he thought, a lot better, but he would never know it. “Umm, isn’t it illegal to impersonate a … what the hell are we impersonating exactly? Spies?”

“Not exactly. And the badges are real, even if we’re not, so as long as we don’t admit we’re fakes, we’ll slide through. Remember - believing your own bullshit is ninety percent of everything.”

“I thought it was ninety nine percent.”

“Not anymore. People are too easy to fool nowadays.”

He took off his cap and scratched his head as avidly as a dog scratching a flea, mussing up his hair in a spectacular way. “Damn, this thing was hot. I see why they wear them on ski poles.”

Probably a malapropism, but who knew? Maybe he knew something she didn’t.

The door opened, letting out a faint wash of bad ‘90’s pop, and the woman of the hour.

Off stage, the woman who called herself “Kristal” looked to be on the short side of average, and her hair was that dry straw blonde, far too brassy to be remotely attractive or real. She wore rather drab clothes, perhaps as a way of hiding her stage persona; the black vinyl rain slicker she wore over everything was borderline hooker wear or practical, pretty much depending on the circumstances and season. As soon as the door shut, and Kristal started walking away, Z stepped out of the shadows, badge first. “Pardon me, ma’am, may we have a word with you?”

She stopped short and fast, tensing visibly as she turned towards them. This wasn’t the best place for an exit, was it? A nice dark alley. It made her wonder if there had been trouble here before. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice surprisingly high pitched and raspy, like she’d been a pack a day smoker since she was seven. Up close, her face had a pinched look, and her make up was too heavy. She looked like Courtney Love’s slightly less trashy younger sister.

“We work for Canadian Intelligence, ma’am. I’m Agent Foster, and this is Agent Castlemaine,” she replied, keeping things deadpan. If t.v. and movies taught anyone anything, it was that federal agents were virtually robotic.

Shan, who had done his best to smooth down his hair, held up his badge and nodded a terse greeting. She gave him the longest, strangest look, perhaps because he wasn’t wearing a suit.

“Uh … yeah, right. Are you friends of Kimber’s?” Although she was less freaked out than before, she still took a step back, cinching the belt of her coat tightly around her waist.

A woman in an exploitative business like “Kristal” would be naturally suspicious of anyone who showed up flashing a badge at her, which is why she called in Frost to find out who she really was. Hard data always gave anyone an air of credibility. “No, I assure you we’re on the level. You are Jody Burdett, yes?”

Her pale hazel eyes widened in shock. That was her real name - Jody Wynne Burdett, originally from Moosejaw. She had a very minor arrest record, which was Z had figured, and made her easy to find. According to Frost, her arrests were all penny ante stuff: vagrancy, vandalism, shoplifting, public disturbance, nothing above a misdemeanor. Most likely, she was a runaway from a bad home, where there might have been some sexual abuse. It was a stereotype, but sometimes stereotypes existed for a good reason. The whole “stripping my way through college” was a bald faced myth, probably cooked up by vaguely guilty men, or ones who just liked the idea of a naked co-ed. “H-how do you know my name?” she asked nervously, taking another step back.

That question was just too stupid to answer. Instead, she pulled out a folded photo of the Wolf, and held it up to her. “Did you see this man tonight? He was near the front. He comes every Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, just to watch you work. Have you ever seen him outside of this place?”

She was hitting her with a lot of information, a lot of it implied, but she wanted her off balance. She looked slightly stunned, suspicion warring with fear, and after a moment, she stared intently at the photo. Z noticed her pupil were large, and wondered what she was on. Something mild, without an obvious odor, maybe prescription drugs. “Uh … I’m not sure, I’m not good with faces. Are you sayin’ he’s stalkin’ me?”

“Not to our knowledge - not yet, anyways. But he does seem to have an obsession with you, and considering his line of work, that’s not in your best interest.” It should have bothered her how easy it was for her to lie, to spin yarns that could manipulate people into doing what she wanted, but ever since she left that godforsaken Australian backwater town known as Cooper Flats, she had been doing little else. She was so good at it, she landed herself a government job.

Jody shook her head, clearly not understanding much of this, but still being sucked in. The frightening was often easier to believe than anything else, as it just confirmed your own private suspicions. “What is he, a pimp? I’ve had ‘em bug me before -”

“No, Ms. Burdett, not a pimp. He’s a trafficker in children and pre-teens mostly, procured for the purpose of creating child pornography. You’re older than he goes for, but you look like you could pass for fifteen or so, which makes you ideal for his purposes.”

She scoffed faintly, shaking her head. “I don’t do porn.”

“He won’t ask you to do it.”

That briefly confused her. “Then why tell me -”

“Do you seriously think the children are in it voluntarily?”

Finally the penny dropped. Perhaps the drugs were making her synapses fire sluggishly, because the realization seemed to unfold across her face for several seconds. “You think he’s gonna kidnap me?”

“It’s a possibility we can’t discount.” Oh, you had to love doublespeak. It was an answer that was neither yes or no, and yet most people would accept it coming from someone in an authority position. “That’s why we’d like to discuss an operation with you. We’d like to nab him before he does something egregious on Canadian soil, but right now we haven’t been able to tie him to anything. With your assistance, we believe we can.”

“Me?” She squeaked. “But I - why would I - he’s dangerous, right? What d’ya want me to do, get kidnapped?”

“Absolutely not. I can guarantee you would be in no danger. There’s a coffee shop around the corner, perhaps we’d best discuss it there.”

She hesitated, continuing to look angry, scared, and confused by turns, but Z knew the next words out of her mouth would confirm whether she was going to have to press a little harder, or if she had Burdett. It took much longer than she guessed, but finally she said, “Yeah, okay, I guess. I still don’t understand what you want with me.”

Bingo - she had her. Now that she had the bait, all she had to do was set the rest of the trap.

“What the fuck are we going to do?” he whispered back, starting to look slightly panicked.

“We are going to finish our drinks with due haste, and move on to Spank. He’ll probably be here a while, soaking up the atmosphere.” That last bit was sarcastic, and she wasn’t sure if he got it or not, because he was resolutely looking down into his drink, and pretending - badly - not to be nervous.

Suddenly he looked at her, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “In due haste? Who in the hell ever says that?”

Oh great. He could forget to panic only when he was being a smart ass. “Would you just shut up and drink your toilet cleanser?”

Sanchez came up to the bar and ordered for their table, two club sodas, one with lemon (obviously for him and Montoya), and a fuzzy navel, which made her rub her eyes to keep from smirking. The Wolf was a fuzzy navel man? For some reason, that made lots and lots of sense, and yet she was still afraid she’d start laughing if she didn’t keep digging her fingers into her closed eyes.

Once he’d gone away, joining the Wolf and Montoya at a small table in the back, she glanced at her watch. She couldn’t see the floater, which meant he was probably outside, waiting with the car. She took care of her soda in four swallows, while Shan continued to nurse his hideous excuse for a drink. After Mr. Clean got the Wolf’s party their drinks, she asked, “Just wanna go?”

He nodded. “I feel like a sitting duck here.”

“You’re not, you’re with me.”

“Oh, right.” They got up and left, never once looking at the Wolf, and she left a meager tip, because it probably wasn’t trendy to tip. (Okay, she was just being pointless bitchy because she didn’t like the place. Still, she was allowed to be that way sometimes.)

Once they were out on the street - and yes, there was the floater, sitting in a silver Porsche by the curb - Shan asked her quietly, “Doesn’t anything freak you out? I mean, you’re not bothered by a gun aimed at you, or suitcases full of cash …”

“Do you really expect me to answer that honestly?”

The streets of Toronto had a pretty good pedestrian flow at this time of night, people coming and going, usually in pairs or groups, and no one ever gave them a second glance. That was good, as that meant she was successful in looking anonymous, like absolutely nothing special and no one remarkable. Shan was a pretty big guy and pretty good looking for one, but he looked like he belonged here. He looked like an out of work hockey player, which wasn’t especially accurate - he did have a job, after all - but otherwise it was a reasonable assessment. Even Shan would have agreed with it.

He shrugged. “Well, you could …”

“Everybody’s freaked out by something. But the key is never to show it.”

“Or admit it?”

“That too. Would it make you feel better if I told you what freaked me out?”

He had to think about it a moment, head down as the wind came up briefly, and he got a troubling far away look in his eye, like a seizure was coming on. But either she was wrong, or he rode it out somehow, because he never zoned out. “No, not technically, but I’m kinda curious …”

“Well, you’ll have to live with your curiosity, ‘cause I’m not saying.”

“Now that’s just mean.”

Probably, but generally she kind of was. What could she do? Being nicer was completely off the table.

Spank was only a few blocks away, but in a part of town where things took a decidedly seedier turn. She dragged him across the street, into a small drugstore, which was brightly lit and nearly as cluttered as a thrift shop. “Do you think we need tetracycline before we get in there?” Shan asked, baffled. Although he had no idea what she was doing, the good thing about him was he went along with it anyways - he wasn’t the type to stop everything until he got an explanation.

“No, but that’s a good idea. We need to modify our appearance a bit, in case they recognize us.” She found two rather generic wool caps, and a pair of “reading glasses” that could pass for just plain old glasses, and bought them. She had to buy some life savers as well, because Shan threw them in the pile, and started eating them on their way out of the store.

“What is it with you and sugar tonight?” she wondered, ripping the tags off the caps.

“I dunno. I eat when I’m nervous.”

She stopped him on the sidewalk, and pulled the green wool cap over his head. “You must be in touch with your feminine side. There. Now you look like a Canadian.”

He frowned at her. “Is that a good thing?”

“In today’s political climate? Hell yeah.” She pulled the gray wool cap over her head, almost all the way down to her eyebrows, and put on the reading glasses, perching them on the end of her nose. “So how do I look?”

He noisily crunched a raspberry life saver, adjusting the cap on his head. “Like Harry Potter’s distant cousin.”

Well, she’d looked worse. She stole a blackberry life saver from his roll, and they continued on to Spank. “Can you see in those things?” he wondered, nodding his head towards her glasses.

“Not well. That’s why I’m looking over the tops of them.”

“Ah, you’re always thinking.”

“I have nothing better to do.”

Shan hadn’t been kidding about her resemblance to Harry Potter, because she was actually carded - how long had it been since that happened? Weird. But if that wasn’t bad enough, the guy doing the carding stared at her i.d. in disbelief. “Female? Oh wow, sorry, s - ma’am.”

Since she was going for androgynous, she didn’t care, but Shan snorted, and made a rather comical face as he tried not to laugh. As soon as they were inside, assailed with smells she didn’t want to think about and bad ‘80’s music, she said, “Go ahead before you pop something.”

He barely let her finish her sentence before he broke out in a huge, teeth rattling laugh, one that made him double over and slap his hands on his knees. She waited for him to get it out of his system, crossing her arms over her chest and looking around, taking in the general ambiance.

Actually, calling it “ambiance” was too pretentious, as well as making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. It was a strip club; all strip clubs looked pretty much as they sounded, depressing and as sexy as a sucking chest wound. It was poorly lit, with all the bright lights focused on the stage, with only the barest illumination to allow men to weave their way between tables and seats. Actually, there was two stages, but one was dark and unlit - a girl call in sick? Either way, the one lit up like a Vegas review was currently showcasing a brunette with artificially inflated breasts wearing nothing more than a red g-string and cowboy boots writhing around the large metal pole that dominated the center of the stage. She didn’t recognize the song she was dancing badly to, but it sounded a bit like Duran Duran, which was enough to make her start shooting. The men watching from their tables seemed utterly rapt, though, as if they’d never seen tits in person before. And by the look of most of them, that actually was a pretty good bet.

The bar on their left was a curved bit of plastic, but it had a simulated wood thing going on, which was rather baffling. In general, she found wood grain baffling - who found that attractive? But then again, she would say the same thing of the woman dry humping the pole.

Shan had finally finished laughing, and straightened up, wiping tears from his eyes. He looked around, and his eyes didn’t stick on the brunette as long as she thought they would. “Well, this is .. Uh … huh. Where’s the spanking?”

“I think you’re supposed to do it later on, in the privacy of your own bathroom.”

He scowled in disappointment. “What a fucking cheat.”

“Life is unfair.”

A little searching of the club revealed an extremely poor table in the back on the left hand side, partially obstructed by the bar and poor lighting. It would give them a partially blocked view of the front of the club, but while it was far from perfect, it would keep them out of normal view. Someone would have to look for them to know they were there.

As soon as she pointed out the table and they took their seats, he pouted and shifted his chair around. “This is shitty. You can’t see the dancer unless she comes around to this side.”

“We’re not here for the tits, we’re here for the losers.”

“We can’t be here for both?”

A hard faced waitress, who looked like she’d had her butt grabbed so many times she was on the verge of homicide, asked what they wanted to drink. She figured there was probably a two drink minimum, so she ordered them a round of virgin strawberry daiquiris (well, she was a woman - it was assumed she’d order a frou frou drink), and waited until she walked away before asking Shan, “So what’s this about you drinking again?”

Shan rolled his eyes, and looked uncomfortable, like his jock itch cream just wasn’t cutting it. “I’m not. I’ve just … had a beer after a long night on the job, that’s all. They help me sleep.”

Shan liked to go along with his reputation as “kind of slow”, but he honestly wasn’t. What he had was a problem communicating; his brain injury had left a slight disconnect between what he wanted to say and what he could say. People usually thought his problem was comprehension, and while sometimes you needed to give him a minute to fully understand complicated things, that wasn’t it; his problem was somewhere between the sparking of the neurons, and the bridging of the synapses. It was a cruelly subtle sort of aphasia, and the only saving grace was that it was generally intermittent. But he always understood, whether he could say it or not, and that’s why she was so angry at him she considered smacking him in the face. “Uh huh, I’m sure. Combined with those meds you take, you’re lookin’ to put yourself into a coma again.”

He groaned and sunk down in his chair, in a way that suggested he had been expecting this. “Don’t do this, don’t -”

“I think we’ve just figured out your little narcolepsy episode.”

“I did not drink when I had those …” he struggled to find the words, and she was angry enough to let him rather than supply it. Finally, he spit out, “I didn’t drink that day, all right?”

“What about the night before? You work nights, Shan, do I really need to remind you of that? So you’re off at two, you come home, have a beer at what, maybe three in the morning? Then you get up at what, ten, eleven, and try your new meds? The booze is still in your system, mate. Those pills your take are powerful, you know that. This isn’t just a Tylenol codeine, for fuck’s sake, this shit is more in line with thorazine.”

“I know that!” he exclaimed angrily. “I’m an adult, all right? I know what I can and can’t do, a shitload more than you do. I’m the one living with this, not you, so don’t tell me …” He looked away, and she assumed he got tangled in his own words again. When he was upset, he did that more often.

The music died, but only momentarily, as the dancer had finished, and then men hooted and hollered appreciatively as she stalked off, wearing only her boots, or at least that’s what it looked like from this angle. There was a door not far from where they were sitting, with a hand printed paper sign on it, reading “Employees Only - All Customers Beyond This Point Will Be Shot!!!!”, and across the dim club, she could see the glowing sign of a fire exit. The door with the warning probably led to the backstage area where the girls’ changed, but that would also lead to its own outside exit, as the girls wouldn’t come in or leave through the front. Already she saw more egress points than Orbit, and she hadn’t even scoped out the bathrooms yet.

Another dancer with fake boobs and a tattoo in the small of her back, a skimpy lingerie based costume, another poxy song that should be banned (this time it was Britney Spears - she wasn’t sure Frost had paid her enough to listen to this) came on, and again the men were generally rapt. But when the waitress drifted over with their violently red, slushy drinks, she noticed the front door opening, and leaned over to have a better look at the newcomers. Yep, it was the Wolf and his bodyguards, only this time they had the floater with them. So he skipped the pretentious bar, but had to come into the titty bar? At least he had priorities.

They got a table near the front, almost completely obscured from view by the dancer (occasionally), but it pretty much guaranteed that the group would never notice them. Shan sipped his drink, and followed her eyes. After a moment, he noted, “Aren’t they early?” For the moment, they had a détente. But if he thought she was going to let this go, he didn’t know her very well.

“They’re early everywhere tonight. Something’s going on.”

He looked around furtively. “What?”

“I don’t know. But people don’t break their routines for no reason.”

He leaned across the table, and whispered, “Do you think he knows about us?”

She shook her head, pretty sure they would have avoided any confrontation, and stick to the Wolf’s general type of kill: sniper, probably while they were on the street. The news would probably attribute it to a mugging gone wrong. The floater would probably do it.

It was an agonizing twenty minutes of waiting. At least she had learned that you needed no sense of rhythm to be a pole dancer, and that strawberry daiquiris needed alcohol for a rasion d’etre. And it was a funny thing, but it was invariably true: when things did happen on a stakeout, they all happened generally at once.

In this case, it was two specific things. First, just as she thought the music couldn’t get worse, Motley Crue started blasting from the club’s tinny sound system, and a new dancer came out, a very young girl with extremely fake boobs, wearing a “sexy nurse” costume. She had long bleach blonde hair, and while she was probably eighteen, her face put her at fifteen, while her body was at least twenty one. An odd, uncomfortable mix. And Wolf, who had been on his cell phone half the time he’d been here, hung up and stared at her. Just stared, in a slightly predatory way, like he might start drooling any second. Oh yes, she fit his profile, didn’t she? Big breasted jailbait.

And then she realized she had her perfect bait. Here was his desire; here was his weakness, the thing that would lead him willingly to doom. All she had to figure out was how she would use the girl.

She was so busy studying Wolf’s reaction, she almost didn’t notice that a man had joined their table. She could only see his profile, and only when the light and the dancer was in the right spot, but instantly alarm bells went off in her mind, and she let her hand fall casually towards her concealed gun as habit. What was wrong about him? He was rather well dressed for being in a strip club, but …

Holy shit. It was Worden - C.I.A. Agent Charles Worden, Brewer’s partner. The Wolf was hooking up with his contact here.