Never Say Spy
Authors: Diane Henders
Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #Espionage, #Mystery & Detective, #Hard-Boiled, #Women Sleuths, #Suspense & Thrillers
Never Say Spy
Book 1 of the NEVER SAY SPY series
By Diane Henders
Published October 2011 by PEBKAC Publishing
Amazon Kindle Edition v.7
The town of Silverside and all secret technologies are products of my imagination. If I’m abducted by grim-faced men wearing dark glasses, or if I die in an unexplained fiery car crash, you’ll know I accidentally came a little too close to the truth.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are products of my imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Please respect my hard work by complying with copyright laws. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. You may not resell this e-book under any circumstances. If you enjoyed a free copy of this book, I’d really appreciate it if you showed support by buying your own copy or making a donation at
http://www.dianehenders.com/donate
.
Thank you for reading!
Copyright © 2011 Diane Henders
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Books in the NEVER SAY SPY series:
Book 1: Never Say Spy
Book 2: The Spy Is Cast
Book 3: Reach For The Spy
Book 4: Tell Me No Spies
Book 5: How Spy I Am
Book 6: A Spy For A Spy
Book 7: Spy, Spy Away
Book 8: Spy Now, Pay Later
Book 9: Spy High
Book 10: To be released 2015
More books coming! For a current list, please visit
www.dianehenders.com
Or sign up for my New Book Notification list at
For Phill
Thank you for being my technical advisor and the most tolerant husband ever. Much love!
To my beta readers/editors, especially Carol H., Judy B., and Phill B., with gratitude:
Many thanks for all your time and effort in catching my spelling and grammar errors, telling me when I screwed up the plot or the characters’ motivations, and generally keeping me honest.
To everyone else, respectfully:
If you find any typographical errors in this book, please send an email to
[email protected]
. Mistakes drive me nuts, and I’m sorry if any slipped through. Please let me know what the error is, and on which page (or at which position in e-versions). I’ll make sure it gets fixed as soon as possible. Thanks!
Contents
Chapter 1
French-kissing the hot guy in my fantasy seemed like a good idea at the time.
I could have really enjoyed it, too, if my head didn’t hurt so damn much. When I touched the sore spot, my fingertips showed a little smear of blood, but I puzzled over that for less than a second before I returned my attention to the much more interesting subject at hand. Or hands, to be exact.
I ran said hands down his back and over buns of steel. We were making a creditable attempt to lick each other’s tonsils when a furious voice erupted from inches behind me.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I snatched my grip off the beefcake and spun around.
“Ow, sonuva
bitch
!” I clutched my head when the abrupt movement slammed pain through my skull, and tried to focus my watering eyes on the source of the interruption.
Okay, that was weird. I was pretty sure I’d never had a fantasy that included a short, pissed-off paramedic.
The paramedic locked eyes with Beefcake. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he repeated.
Beefcake shrugged. “I’m not doing anything. She jumped me.”
“Can’t you see she’s injured? You could have at least helped her back out of the portal!”
...Huh? It was my fantasy, but I didn’t think I was controlling the action anymore. I gaped at the two men.
The short paramedic dismissed Beefcake with a final glare and turned to me. “Ma’am, please come with me. We need to get you to a hospital.” As he spoke, he took my arm and steered me away.
“Uh...?” I was about to demand an explanation when agony punched through my eye sockets. I jerked into a ball, arms clamped over my head until the pain diminished enough for me to sit up and start swearing. After a few moments of heartfelt profanity, I recovered enough to realize the paramedic was trying to convince me to lie down on the sidewalk again.
Wait a minute.
Sidewalk? Sitting in a puddle?
Red flashing lights. Ambulance. Right, that explained the paramedic.
He had changed his clothes, though. Instead of his uniform, he wore a brown plaid shirt and khaki pants. My aching brain struggled to catch up.
The fantasy faded as awareness returned. Right, March in Silverside, Alberta. A chinook thaw, slippery sidewalks, and now my ass was awash in ice water and my head hurt like hell. I didn’t even remember slipping. You know you’re a desperate case when you get so engrossed in a fantasy you don’t even watch where you’re walking.
Embarrassment suffused me when a handful of murmuring bystanders began to gather, and I hauled myself to my feet despite the protests of the paramedic.
“I’m fine,” I mumbled, pulling soggy denim away from my butt as unobtrusively as possible.
“Better get checked at the hospital just in case,” he advised. “You need to get that abrasion on your scalp cleaned up, too.” He guided me firmly into the back of the ambulance while his two uniformed cohorts got in front.
Three paramedics and an ambulance for a bump on the head. Gotta love a small town. If I’d slipped and fallen in Calgary, I’d be lucky to rate a Boy Scout with an aspirin.
My royal treatment continued at the hospital. My khaki-clad saviour waved the other two away and escorted me into a cubicle in the tiny emergency ward. I perched on the bed, and he nodded reassuringly and withdrew, pulling the curtains closed behind him.
Moments later, I overheard his approaching murmur. “... found her in the portal so I brought her into B wing.”
A white-coated doctor strode in. “I’m Dr. Roth. How’s the head?” she asked as she briefly examined my scalp and flashed a small light in each of my eyes.
“Sore, but not worth a trip to emergency.”
“I don’t see any sign of a concussion,” she said. “But I’d like to ask you a few quick questions, just to make sure. Can you tell me your name and age?”
“Aydan Kelly. I’m forty-six years old. I know it’s March. I know I’m in Silverside Hospital. I know it’s Thursday, but I have no idea what the date is, which is normal for me. You’re not going to flunk me for the date, are you?”
As I spoke, the doctor’s eyes had begun to twinkle. She was a striking blonde about my age, and she smiled as she answered, “No, we’ll let you away with that one. I’d normally suggest a quick MRI, but it’s a very minor injury, and I think you’ll be fine.”
I laughed. “There’s no such thing as a quick MRI. And I don’t feel much like driving two hours down to Calgary to get one.”
“No, we’d use ours...” She trailed off at my incredulous expression.
“MRI? In Silverside?” I demanded. “Population what, five thousand? No way.”
“The MRI is privately and anonymously owned,” she replied. “The hospital is allowed to use it for diagnostic procedures when it’s available.”
“Wow, who’s your celebrity hypochondriac?”
She smiled. “I’ll send Linda to clean up that abrasion for you. It should only take a few minutes, if you’d like to call your husband to pick you up.”
I stared at the plain gold band I still wore on my left hand and cranked on a smile. “That could be a little tricky. He’s been dead for two years.”
Dr. Roth looked horrified as she apologized, “I’m so sorry, I saw the ring and just assumed...”
“It’s okay. I guess it’s time I stopped wearing it. Just habit at this point.” I slipped the ring off my finger with only a slight pang. I’d come a long way since Robert died. What a shock that had been.
Given the graphic fantasy I’d just had, it was probably time I got back on the horse. So to speak. Too bad there wasn’t anybody in real life who was built like my fantasy horse... er... guy.
Realizing the silence had stretched a bit, I refocused. “No need to call anyone. I’m fine. I’ll just drive myself home.”
The young nurse arrived shortly afterward, and we chatted like old friends while she cleaned the injury on my scalp. As I got ready to leave, I remembered the odd fragment of conversation I’d heard, and spoke up.
“Hey, Linda, what’s the significance of Wing B?”
She paused, then smiled. “It’s opposite to Wing A. That’s all.”
For a moment, my overactive imagination suggested she was being evasive, but whatever. My head still hurt, and I was in a hurry to get out of there in case the roads iced up in the evening.
Back in my farmhouse, I surveyed the disarray while I assembled a meal of leftovers. Three weeks after my big move, the kitchen was mostly organized. My ancient furniture looked right at home in the graciously-proportioned though shabby living/dining area, but my unpacking was far from complete. I gobbled my supper and went to work on my computer, ignoring the boxes still piled in the corners.
A couple of hours later, I dragged my headache into the small bathroom off the master bedroom. I eyed the dark stain in the floor at the base of the toilet while I brushed my teeth. Leaky seal for sure, and the floor would be rotten underneath. Time to break out the renovation tools.
Sliding into bed, I touched the handle of the crowbar under the other pillow for reassurance. I was probably perfectly safe in my new country home, but city instincts die hard.
I live alone. If somebody breaks into my house in the middle of the night, what am I going to do? Hit them with a pillow?
I don’t think so.
A day spent tearing out crusty plumbing and rotten, smelly flooring left me looking forward to my trip on Saturday. I bounced out of bed at six thirty, keeping my fingers crossed for an offer on my Calgary house by the end of the day.
Hoping to make a good impression on the prospective buyer, I overcame my normal slobbish tendencies and put on my best-fitting girly jeans and a stretchy T-shirt that clung enough to make my boobs look good without revealing too much of the muffin-top that overflowed my waistband. I brushed out my long hair and examined it in the light from the bedroom window. Still more red than grey. So far, so good.
I hit the road in high spirits, belting out the songs on the radio with far more enthusiasm than talent and happily anticipating my regular Saturday afternoon lunch date with the group of ex-basketball friends that was the closest thing I had to family. Two hours later, I strolled into Kelly’s Bar and Grill in Calgary, letting the familiar shabby ambiance wrap around me with the same welcoming warmth as my friends’ greetings.
We lolled on the broken-down couches at the back of the bar, enjoying the excellent food and bantering with the waitress who’d served us for so many years she was almost part of the gang herself. I soaked up the wisecracks and off-colour jokes until we finally dispersed a couple of hours later, lingering and laughing on the sidewalk outside the bar.
When I pulled into my driveway a few minutes before our meeting time, I swallowed a bubble of hope at the sight of my real estate agent’s cheery wave. Just a meeting with a potential buyer. No guarantees.
“Hi, Aydan, great to see you!” Cheryl’s usual upbeat greeting made me smile, and we wandered into the house to lean against the wall in the empty living room, chatting. After fifteen minutes, she called the buyer’s cell phone number, but it went directly to voicemail. We made desultory conversation for the next quarter of an hour, when Cheryl tried again.
She snapped her phone shut with a scowl. “Well, I guess he’s not going to show. What a waste of time this was.”
“No kidding. Especially after he insisted I come down.” I blew out a sigh. “At least I got to have lunch with my friends. And I’ve got a bed here so I don’t have to go back today.”
We said our goodbyes in the driveway, and I attempted an attitude adjustment while I cruised down the gentle hill toward the nearby strip mall. Maybe Cheryl could set up something for later in the evening. And I’d get to pick up the low-flow toilet I’d ordered, and maybe a few other…
A flash of movement jerked my attention up to the rearview mirror. Shock jolted through me at the sight of the dark-haired man pushing through the collapsible back seat from the trunk.
I whipped around to stare at Beefcake from my fantasy. Disbelief paralyzed me for an instant before I recognized the black object in his hand.
Gun.
Shit!
I stomped both feet on the brake. The car jerked to a stop with a tortured squeal of tires, hurling Beefcake’s body between the front seats to crash headfirst into the dash. His gun discharged with a deafening bang. In mindless panic, I punched the seat belt release, snatched the door open, and flung myself out of the car.
The vehicle was picking up speed again on the downhill slope and the ground flew out from under my feet. I crashed to the pavement, rolling frantically to avoid the rear tires as they crunched by. My feet scrabbled for purchase on the gravel-strewn asphalt as I scrambled up, my hysterical panting whistling in my throat. After a couple of eternal seconds, I gained traction and fled up the hill like a demented rabbit.
A rusted-out Chevy Suburban skidded and rocked to a stop crosswise in the street with the driver’s side facing me. The driver’s door started to open, and I used the little breath I still had available to scream, “Gun!
Gun
!”
I dashed for the Suburban, its bulk looming only a few yards away like a bastion of safety.
A gunshot exploded from behind me. A tall, broad-shouldered man swung out of the Suburban. In a single fluid motion, he drew a gun as his feet hit the pavement.
He aimed directly at me and fired.