Page 42 of Four Calling Birds

“If it isn’t my second favorite agent!” he answered.

“Who’s the first?” I asked.

“Rose.”

“She’s your daughter. That doesn’t count.”

“Sure, it does,” he chuckled. I could hear the vague sound of chattering and laughter in the background. “What can I do you for?” Then he added, with a somber note of concern. “Is it over? Are you safe?”

“I need clean up at the farm.”

Recovery is always the worst part of any mission. You’re exhausted, and your energy is drained, and the list of things you have to accomplish is never ending.

When we got to the house, we had to clean the weapons before we stored them back into Mack’s massive gun safe. We’d need to clean the vehicles, and our clothes of any traces ofother people’s DNA. Then we’d have to double check that the blood in the river wouldn’t cause any kind of long-term ecological damage. Griff also had to go to the hospital.

Thankfully, I just needed my warm husband, to help me recover, so that was a small mercy.

But Griff? He did not fare as well. Thankfully, we all assumed that Taz would be the one to care for him. We didn’t even have to discuss it. He had no one else to help take care of him while he was hobbling around, so he’d move into the cabin with Taz to take care of him.

“Nope.” Griff said, when the plan was made. “Just shoot me in the head. It’ll be a lot quicker than making me live with that rabid psycho.”

“Fine!” She said, throwing her hands in the air. “Let me just get your ass into the guest house, so I can board up the windows and doors, and you can just quietly die out there, by yourself.”

“It’ll be better than shacking up with you.”

“You’ll feel better after we get you some happy, happy drugs.” Taz carried him, fireman style over her shoulder, occasionally bouncing him on her shoulder a little too hard with that shit-eating grin of hers. She took him to that overpriced Cadillac CT5-V, andfoldedhim into the passenger seat before rounding to the driver’s side, twirling the keys in her hand.

I bet hehatedletting her drive. He loved his cars, and other symbols of wealth and success. He was a bit arrogant that way. He loved his cars, his suits, his watches…

Brett’s people did come, walking about us dressed all in black, not acknowledging us in the house. They loaded bodies into a bread truck with calloused efficiency. The whole time, they didn’t speak, as far as I could see.

I recognized Brett from his gait. It was a sort of, strange, shoulders-back, unnaturally even kind of walk. Like he was on a runway, but without the power sashay that models throw in before a camera flash. It was a bizarre kind of robotic, as if he went as far as to control his steps as he moved.

I rushed out to speak to him, grabbing one of Mack’s oversized, thick, winter coats from the hook by the door, and putting on a pair of his fuzzy indoor slippers as I went to the porch.

Brett saw me, his black turtleneck, cargo pants and boots, and black beanie made him look like a dock worker. Or a jewelry thief. Either one.

“You know better than to come out during cleanup,” Brett said with a raised brow.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Oh?” He crossed his arms, and approached the porch, putting one foot up on the bottom step. “If I come up any further, is Mack gonna pop out and deck me on the nose?”

“Probably.”

“Then I’ll stay down here,” he put a black gloved hand on the banister. “My wife won’t be a fan of me coming home with another bruised mug.”

He smiled as he mentioned this elusive wife. I had never met her. But I knew the moment they met. It was in the air around him. The way things didn’t weigh so heavy on his shoulders, and how he rushed home whenever he could, instead of lingering in the office to get ahead on work. It was a small shift. But it was a significant one.

“I’d like to meet her someday,” I finally said.

“Maybe in a different life,” Brett shrugged. People with double lives, even when one of those lives was clearly a cover, still had to keep the impenetrable wall between the two, even blurred it a little for people like me. “Are you going to tell me that you quit? Or that you’re just going to be changing your home of record?”

“Why would I quit?” I asked, surprised by that.

Brett looked at the door behind me. I followed his gaze, looking over my shoulder, to see an angry Mack glaring at him through the window, his massive fists balled at his side.

“Can’t imagine why,” Brett said, his sarcasm oozing off of every word.

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