Altered Scene [Proceed, Idea]

  My name is Paula Hunter Becker. On the surface, I’m the manager of the world-famous acting troupe Shakespeare Today. But below the surface, I’m a world-class spy tasked with stopping a terrorist attack on the Semiquincentennial—referred to from now on as the 250th.

  I’m having a shit day. The airline lost my .45, and now I have to break into a mafia office unarmed. My phone keeps blowing up because of one of the world-famous acting troupe, which I’ll be referring to from now on as FAT.

  The mafia is one of the most organized crime syndicates in the world. While I doubt they’re directly involved in any terrorist activity, they like to be in the know about events likely to impact their businesses. So it’s highly likely I’ll get some valuable information. I’d be remiss, on our last day here, if I didn’t break in.

  It went much smoother than I thought. For a group of criminals, I’d have expected more focus on security. Maybe they think they’re so feared in Italy no one would have the balls to break in. I didn’t need the lock picks—just a simple credit card trick. No alarm.

  The hardest part was locating the info I was interested in, as they had so many paper files. That’s why I hate criminals—no concern at all for the environment.

  Eventually, I found reports from multiple sources that New York City is the likely target. But the “who” was all over the place: one report claimed the Iranians, another Pakistan, another Vietnam, the CIA, and finally Rudy Giuliani. Great—now the mafia are conspiracy theorists.

  [Misuse, Failure]

  One of these twits—and I use that word lightly—almost burned down the ancient villa-turned-hotel plugging his American mustache trimmer into a European plug.

  I spoke to the group as a whole, telling them they needed a converter to use American-style electronics in Europe. I emailed each of them the same info, and on the first night of the trip, I put printed copies on each of their pillows.

  When I met them at the hotel, they all blamed me for the problem. They see me and think I’m one of Kaley or Margot’s ditzy blonde characters, while I actually graduated from Oxford with a degree in English.

  I’d wanted to go to school in Oxford since I was eight years old and my dad was reading me The Hobbit. I told him I wanted to meet the author and tell him how much I enjoyed his book.

  He said, “You can’t, honey. I’m afraid he’s dead. But you can visit his college one day and see where he walked and talked and taught.”

  So I said, “That’s what I want to do.”

  A few weeks later, my dad—the dad who changed half of the dwarves to women for me so I could relate better—was dead when the Twin Towers crashed to the ground. I didn’t understand who did it or why, but at eight I knew that I hated them and I was going to stop them.

  [Abandon, Physical]

  Where are those two?

  When the bus came to pick us up at the hotel, I had to herd the actors onto it like cats. Yet I still missed one, and after a quick head count, I was missing two. I had no doubts where they were.

  I asked the bus driver if he had a taser. “If, while I’m gone, anyone crosses this white line, you have orders to taze the person. I’m the one who pays and tips you—who do you think he’ll listen to if you try and charm your way off this bus? If I get back here and one of you is missing, he’ll get paid but no tip. Don’t test him. He’s Italian and very passionate.”

  “OOOOs how passionate was he, Paula?”

  “Grow up, you old pervert.”

  Then I went to the bar for my biggest problems.

  Nathan McCracken was born into privilege, which made him wildly adventurous. He was also a criminal who indulged his every desire. His worst trait? He was chatty and annoyed me at every turn.

  Penelope Fischer surprised me. She was usually the responsible one—first on the bus, always willing to switch a seat or room or bed if someone asked her to. She was a big-name actor and also ran the actors guild.

  “I’m surprised, Penelope. You know what time the bus is scheduled to leave. We’ll wind up missing the plane if you two don’t get moving. And if we miss the plane, we’ll be spending the night at the airport. You don’t want everyone blaming you for that, do you, Nathan? Come on—you’ll be getting drinks on the plane in less than an hour. And if you don’t come, we’ll leave you here.”

  Ten minutes later, the bus was whisking us to the airport.

  [Refuse, Object]

  What’s the worst thing you’ve seen on the bus?

  Two octogenarians having sex in the bathroom, followed closely by the used condom left on the floor when they were done.

  After I’d seen them, I had no plan to go back in that bathroom. But Martha came up to me and whispered, “Henry dropped the condom as he was removing it, and neither of us can bend over enough to pick it up—especially on a moving bus. Would you be a dear and get it?”

  Why did 80-year-olds even need a condom? And why couldn’t they wait to have sex in the hotel room like everyone else?

  Four years at Oxford, and now I’m picking up trash—no, medical waste.

  [Threaten, Normal]

  Is New York really the greatest city in the world?

  More terrorist threats are made against NYC locations than any city in the country. That’s what happens when you become so famous that when people think of the United States, they think New York City.

  It’s also home for the troupe, so I have most of the week off. We only have shows on Friday and Sunday, and while the actors are staying at their own homes, this week they’re someone else’s problem.

  We’ve had viable information that a mosque in Harlem is publishing and distributing terrorist recruitment flyers. I’ll do a day or two of surveillance, then I’ll go in and see what I can find.

  They’re distributing the flyers and they aren’t even being careful about it. I see them in people’s hands when they exit the mosque.

  I’ve always despised organized religion, but any sect that actively wants to harm another group of people is truly the lowest.

  The mosque is empty at night, so as soon as they close, I’m going in. If I can find proof they’re recruiting, we close the mosque and arrest the people in charge. We might keep 10–20 Americans from signing up to hurt and kill other Americans.

  When I go in, not only do I find the flyers, but I find documents stating that on July 4, 2026, all members should plan to remain in the mosque all day as they may be needed. I also found links from this mosque to another in Philadelphia.

  FBI and DHS will hit both mosques tomorrow during morning prayers.

  [Close, Nature]

  What’s the worst thing you’ve seen in Central Park?

  I got a call from New York’s finest about 2 a.m. on Thursday. They said they had arrested two of my cast, and if I wanted them, I’d need to come down with $1,000—$500 each.

  I asked what the charges were and was told public lewdness, but it may be upgraded to a felony: sex in front of a minor. They’d then go on the sexual offenders register.

  I told the cops I’d be right down.

  I bailed out Henry and Martha, who were shouting “police brutality” and “fascists” at the cops. The desk sergeant told me, “I would have let them go, but the minor had video he uploaded to the internet—with her bent over a bench and him behind her with his pants around his ankles.”

  I don’t know what the ADA will do with the charges, but if he sees the kid and the video, he might upgrade them. Sorry.

  I hustled them into a cab, sending them home with strict orders: no more outdoor sex, no sex on public transportation—just have sex in a house like normal people.

  “You could be in serious trouble. I’ll do what I can, but there could even be jail time. Just promise me you’ve learned your lesson, alright?”

  I called my boss and the district attorney, explaining why the charges shouldn’t be upgraded.

  [Betray, Safety]

  I expect to get betrayed—and possibly hurt or killed—in my night job. But my day job coddling actors? I never really considered it.

  I should have.

  Nathan freaking McCracken has been a pain in my ass since the day I met him—and he fondled said ass. After the slap that had him putting on a ton of foundation on his face before the performance that evening, I thought he’d learned his lesson.

  But in every way McCracken can make my job harder, he does. Whether that means being late to the bus, plane, boat—forcing me to go and find him—or complaints about hotel rooms, theaters, or dressing rooms.

  Well, I’m done with him after this latest stunt: posting pictures to his socials of Henry and Martha coming out of the police station.

  That night before the performance, I went to Henry, the leader of the troupe, and told him I wanted McCracken fired after the show.

  I said, “The understudy, Rafe Ferrari, might not be as good and has a stupid name, but after the damage McCracken did to the troupe and to you personally, he should be fired.”

  Henry replied, “Rafe Ferrari isn’t a stage name. And it’s not his fault his family owns an iconic car company.”

  He went on to say, “While I’m the de facto leader, hiring and firing is a company decision. It’ll have to be brought to the full company at the regular meeting next Tuesday. Until then, we all need to act professional.”

  If only he knew I was a professionally certified—but so far untested—assassin, maybe he wouldn’t be telling me to act “professionally” toward a man who doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

  Altered Scene [NPC Action][The Company of Actors][Easy, Location]

  When the troupe called for an early meeting on Monday, I thought they too felt betrayed and wanted to deal with McCracken early.

  But no—I was blindsided again.

  A large number of the company had been talking about buying an Off-Broadway theater for exclusive use, so they could have a permanent base in New York and stop traveling the world.

  Inwardly, I’m screaming: NO NO NO. That would make the company useless to me.

  But it was McCracken who objected, saying, “We’re a traveling Shakespeare company. If we stay in one place, we’re no longer traveling. And if we do stay, how long before the cast decides to do Ibsen or Henry Miller? Then they’ll strike Shakespeare from the name and become just a sad group of actors in a New York theater.”

  He wasn’t a sad NY actor—he was a Traveling Shakespearean. And if they voted for a permanent home, he was out.

  Henry and Martha spoke next and agreed. Some of the cast grumbled, but it never even came to a vote.

  After all that drama, Henry decided now was not the time to talk about casting out the member who had just so eloquently defended the troupe.

  However, I wasn’t so forgiving.

  I trapped McCracken in his dressing room before he could leave.

  I asked, “How could you defend the troupe like that after what you did to Henry and Martha?”

  “What do you mean? I’d never do anything to Henry.”

  “Then why did you post those pictures of Henry and Martha to your socials?”

  “I never post to the internet. I think the whole thing should be disassembled and sold for scrap. Maybe the public would read a book or come see a play if that god-awful thing was shuttered. My PR girl posts stuff about me online at my manager’s insistence. Here’s her number—call her and tell her to take down whatever god-awful thing she’s posted now. How she graduated college I’ll never know. She hasn’t got a brain in her pretty head. Unlike you—who always knows what she’s doing.”

  [Combine, Group]

  Coceptive is a group of corporations working together as a combine—chiefly in arms sales. And let’s just say they really like a lot of sales. They don’t care which side they sell to. A sale is a sale.

  I broke in tonight to see if they’ve made any illegal sales to either of the mosques we raided, but they have pretty good cybersecurity.

  I’m no hacker, but my agency-issued thumb drive has all the software I need to get into almost any system. What it doesn’t have is protection from a massive power overload—which the server delivered to it when I plugged it in.

  Well, now I’m screwed. While it can get you into almost anything, the only thing I can get into now is my bank account and r/PokemonROMhacks.

  Even if I couldn’t get into the system, I still had a look around. It was hard enough getting in here—I didn’t want to leave empty-handed.

  I was looking through a desk in the server room when I found a thumb drive that looked exactly like my agency issue. Plugged it into the server, and seconds later I was looking through all their files.

  I saw some illegal sales, which I’ll pass along to my boss, but nothing tying them to the 250th.

  But I do like my new hacker kit. I’ll bet they sell the agency the drives but don’t include the protection their own internal thumb drives contain—keeping us out of their systems.

  [Praise, Idea]

  Where I praise a ditz?

  I called McCracken’s PR person, and while I hated to agree with him, she did strike me as an air-headed ditz.

  I told her McCracken wanted her to take the post down. She said she’d need to check with the manager, since that’s the person who paid her—and had told her to stay away from McCracken and not to listen to a thing he said.

  Or I could go talk to the manager directly.

  I told her, “Yes, I like that idea. But before I let you go, I have a question. Where did you get that photo, and why post it? It has little to do with McCracken—they just happen to be members of the same troupe.”

  “Look, I only post stuff that Ms. Garnier approves personally.”

  “Thanks. I’ll head over to her office and have a chat.”

  I got to Garnier’s office and she was in a meeting, so I took the time to do a deep dive into her past. While the recent stuff was all fairly normal for an entertainment businessperson, it was her past from about twenty years ago that interested me.

  She went to a local hospital claiming she was abducted by aliens and that they’d planted probes in her.

  That’s all we have in the files, but I can always get more if I request files from archives—which has tons of information pre-internet.

  Her meeting breaks up and I get escorted into her very swank office.

  She asks, “What can I do for you?”

  I tell her, “You need to call the PR girl and remove the post. It’s hurting the prestige of the company and thereby your client—who already told me he wants it down.”

  She says, “Sorry, can’t do it. It’s in McCracken’s best interest to be rid of that vanity project. Do you know how much money he could be making in Hollywood? Instead, he’s running around the globe with perverts. I won’t let him do it.”

  “Well, isn’t that for him to decide?” I said.

  “No, it’s my business too. My salary is based off his. So no—the post stays up.”

  “Do all of your clients know that their agent is walking around with alien probes used to track her? Get the post down in one hour or I’ll start calling them. I’ll start—no, I’ll just go alphabetical. Let’s see, looks like your first client is Ann Adamms. Never heard of her. Is she any good?”

  “Wendy, get in here! Did you give this woman our client list?”

  “No, Ms. Garnier, I swear! I never left my desk and I never gave her nothing.”

  “Anything,” I said.

  “What?”

  “You said ‘nothing.’ It should be ‘anything.’ Look, it wasn’t her. You have no computer security at all. Wi-Fi is on, no password required. If you need someone to blame, blame the idiot I.T. guy who set you up like that.”

  “That’ll be all, Wendy. Shut the door please on the way out.”

  “Alright. I’ll have the post taken down.”

  “Good. You have 52 minutes before I start with Miss Adamms.”

  “God, you are a bitch. Maybe you can whip McCracken into shape. If you get him to quit that pathetic little company, I’ll give you 10% of his first movie. That’s potentially worth millions.”

  “Jesus. I never thought I’d feel empathy for that sexist douche McCracken, but even he doesn’t deserve you. Maybe you’re the reason he is like he is.”

  Thirty minutes later, the post was down.

  She was such a bitch I forgot to ask where she got the photo.

  Expected Scene [Arrive, Weapon]

  What’s Unite the Right?

  We landed in Richmond for a five-night stay. The Vainglory Men—a domestic terrorist group known to the agency—have committed acts of terror on U.S. soil before, but never against large groups of citizens like we expect for the 250th. Still, they need to be checked out to see if they have the kind of weaponry to pull off such an attack.

  I’m headed to their headquarters tonight to see if they have the capabilities.

  After supper, once I’ve got the actors checked into their rooms, I change into an all-black outfit and head out for surveillance. I photograph those entering and exiting. Finally, some guy comes out and locks the doors.

  I wait another ten minutes, send the photos I’ve taken to the agency, then walk to the alley behind the building and pick the lock.

  With that, I’m inside.

  But something—a sound, a smell—gives me the idea that I’m not alone. And here appears to be a large cache of weapons: mostly AK-47s, a few claymores, grenades, launchers... and shit, they’ve got a few Browning M2 mounted machine guns. Just one of those could kill hundreds of people at a large gathering.

  As I’m taking photos, I hear voices approaching. I pull down my balaclava and duck behind a large crate, pulling out my SOG SEAL Pup—just in case I need to defend myself. Not that that knife would have much luck against a Browning.

  They come into the room.

  One of them says, “Look at that Browning, man. Isn’t it a beauty? We take it out into the woods every couple of months. It can cut down a tree, man. And Nate—he let me shoot once. I swear to God, I wish I could go to Trump’s wall and just mow the dirty immigrants down as they approach.”

  “I hear you, man. Trump says they’re all rapists and killers, so mowing them down before they get in is the way to go.”

  “Hey Rick, this door isn’t locked. You think someone left it open or someone broke in? Hell, they might still be here.”

  I was going to have to fight my way out. I didn’t want to stab either of these doofuses, so I turned the knife and planned to use the pommel against their skulls.

  One of them goes outside to see if anyone’s around. I’m not going to get better odds.

  I pop out from behind the crate and smash the pommel of the knife right into the guy’s nose. He goes down screaming. Shit—it’s like this guy’s never been in a fight before.

  I head for the door, waiting just inside. His buddy must hear the screams. Finally, he comes barreling through the door. I put out my leg, trip him, and he winds up in a heap on top of his buddy, who howls even louder.

  Before I sprint out the door, I say, “Be sure to tell the rest of your douchebag sissy boys—hi from Antifa.”

  With that, I’m out the door and back to the car. As I pull away, all the lights off, I hear gunshots—but nothing hits the car.

  I make it back to Richmond and send in my report. I don’t have anything definitive that they’re going to be involved in the 250th, but with that kind of weaponry... they just might.

  [Imitate, Mundane]

  Why do I have to be a fairy?

  The company often gets local community theater actors to come and play extras, with the main roles always taken by the company. On our second-to-last night in Richmond, one of the extras was violently sick—five minutes before she was due on stage.

  With no one else available and no makeup, just a pair of cardboard wings, green yoga pants, and a rainbow blouse, I made my acting debut—and farewell performance.

  Luckily, it was a non-speaking role. All I had to do was prance around and titter. But it was exhilarating. Not as heart-pounding as the fight the other night, but by the end I was almost enjoying myself.

  It was a different perspective—seeing the play from the actors’ point of view. I can see why they fall in love with the stage: instant feedback from the audience—laughter, sighs, shock.

  It must be hard for movie actors. No feedback. Maybe critique from the director.

  No, I could see why people like Henry and Martha prefer acting over retirement.

  [Waste, Animal]

  “How’d they even get in here?”

  I was summoned to McCracken’s room the last night of our stay. I knocked on the door, and McCracken answered with a rapier in hand—and I was pretty sure there was blood on the unblunted tip.

  Great. If he’d killed someone, I wasn’t bailing him out.

  “Did you kill someone? I’m not helping you hide the body. If you did, it’s back to prison for you.”

  “Two someones I killed. Husband and wife. Or wife and wife. I’m not assigning pronouns.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Over there, behind the bed. On the floor.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know who they are. They were having sex, so I skewered them. Where they lay.”

  I went around the bed to see.

  He said, “I can’t sleep here tonight. After this, I have to stay in your room, my Titania.”

  Like hell you will. But you’re right—you can’t sleep in here.

  I used the phone and told the manager to get up to the room right away. “We have a serious problem.”

  “How’d they even get in here? Did you leave the patio door open?”

  “No. I haven’t opened the door the whole time we’ve been here. It’s too hot—I’ve had the AC on since we arrived.”

  Speaking of arrived—just then the manager did. I pointed out the bodies.

  “How the hell do you expect us to ever stay in your hotel again when you allow rats the size of small dogs to invade guests’ rooms? First, I expect you to upgrade Mr. McCracken to a suite for tonight. Then I expect you to comp all our rooms. And if you don’t, Mr. McCracken will—next time he’s on Late Night with Stephen Colbert—not only recount the disgusting rats at the worst hotel in Richmond, he will, with a flourish, demonstrate how he had to slay them.”

  “Yes, Miss Becker. Nothing like this has ever happened in the hotel before. I’m so sorry. Every room will be comped. I’ll have a bellboy here in five minutes to move Mr. McCracken to the Presidential Suite and a bottle of our finest champagne. Is there anything else I can do? Anything at all. Of course, room service is included for you both.”

  Then the bellboy arrived and started to move McCracken to the suite.

  “Sure you don’t want to join me for a glass of champagne, darling?”

  “Just get out. And don’t ever ‘darling’ me again.”

  “Yes, pet. Whatever you want, love.”

  “Out. And cut the bullshit.”

  “Whatever you say, Miss Becker.”

  [Distrust, Building]

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Why was McCracken flirting with me?

  I know his type—and I’m not it. Thirty years old is about ten years too old for our star. The serious twenty-somethings who have a deep love for Shakespeare and the theatre turn into BTS-style fangirls when McCracken appears at the stage door.

  So why was he flirting? And why the Basil Rathbone display with the rapier?

  My god—did he release those rats himself?

  What’s he want from me?

  I know all about his past—the manslaughter charge, his time in prison. I don’t see his angle, but I know he’s got one.

  And I’m going to find out what it is—and stop him.

  .

  Altered Scene [Close a thread] [Delay, Chaos]

  What are the chances?

  By the time I hit the lobby for checkout, the chaos had begun. The entire troupe—including McCracken—was on time and checking out. I’d already checked out through the room TV, so I went out to make sure our bus was here. There it was, ready for boarding.

  As I was stowing my luggage, my purse slipped off my shoulder, dropped to the ground, popped open, and strewn belongings across the courtyard—just as the bellboy pushed out the large luggage carriers loaded with the cast’s bags.

  Then I saw it—my thumb drive.

  “Stop!” I yelled.

  But the bellboy, oblivious to my cry, rolled over the thumb drive, sending plastic flying everywhere. I managed to get to it and stop the cart before he rolled over it again, ensuring its destruction.

  The case was destroyed, but the circuit board looked intact. I wouldn’t be able to tell until I plugged it into my laptop.

  I got on the bus, took my seat in the front, and pulled out my laptop. I couldn’t get the drive to plug in. When I looked at the connector, I saw it was slightly bent.

  I carry a small needle-nose pliers in my purse—perfect for fixing necklace chains and weighing next to nothing. A good tool to have. But trying to bend the USB socket was beyond its capabilities.

  “Please let me help.”

  I was so focused on the drive, I hadn’t noticed anyone getting on the bus. For the first time ever, the first person on the bus was McCracken. He was holding some kind of multitool knife.

  “I got this,” I said.

  “Clearly not. That tiny needle-nose will bend before the USB drive does. I can fix it for you. I used to work in a shop.”

  I almost blurted out yeah, in prison, but I’m not supposed to know that—so good save by me.

  “This drive is precious to me. It has some one-of-a-kind family photos I haven’t had a chance to back up yet.”

  “I understand. I’ll treat it with kid gloves. I won’t damage it—any more than it is, I promise.”

  So I handed it to him. He put it in the vise grips on the knife, then asked to borrow the needle-nose. A second later, he handed it back.

  “It may need a little more, but I want to go slow and not ruin it. So give it a try.”

  Is that a metaphor?

  What am I thinking? It slipped in a little but wouldn’t go all the way in.

  Why am I thinking of sex right now?

  “It needs a little bit more.”

  Back into the vise grip. The bus was filling up now. A little twist of his wrist with the needle-nose.

  “Try it now,” he said.

  It fit perfectly. The LED on the drive flashed, and the hacker tools popped up on the screen.

  “Those are some serious hacking tools you got there.”

  I slammed the laptop closed.

  “Those are my brother’s. I just use the drive to store photos. Thank you for helping me.”

  “That didn’t hurt now, did it?”

  “What?”

  “Being nice to me—it didn’t hurt, did it, Paula?”

  “Nope. Didn’t hurt at all. Thank you again. Like I said, those photos mean the world to me.”

  Then I stood up and did a quick head count—which, amazingly, was correct. Then we headed to the train station.

  [Move, Fame]

  Is fame more a burden than a blessing?

  The train station was incredibly crowded. While it was normal for me to travel with a group of famous actors, they were hardly ever recognized in the U.S.

  So I was surprised when a group of young women started to make their way through the crowd toward us—like they were parting the Red Sea.

  Of course, they were headed toward McCracken. He was gracious, taking selfies, chatting them up. But I could see he was acting. He looked a little tired.

  That’s when I decided to save him.

  I moved toward him and said, “Mr. McCracken, I’m sorry to interrupt, but we have to get you checked in now. I’m sorry, ladies. I’m sure you understand.”

  They did not look like they understood. A couple of them looked like they wanted to do him right there in the station. And the few that were looking at me—well, if looks could kill, a couple of undergrads would have taken me out, when seasoned government operatives had failed in the past.

  He squeezed my arm and whispered, “Thank you.”

  He sighed. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. Finally, I just got up and went for a run.”

  “Well, we’re in Business Class on the train, so I don’t think the undergrads will be able to bother you. Though I am surprised—I thought you enjoyed the undergrad crowd. They seem to be at the stage door for you every night.”

  “Enjoy? God, no. I enjoy having fans, and I’m grateful that I do. No fans equals no job for an actor.”

  “I never thought of it that way. I guess I noticed the perks but ignored the inconveniences.”

  I got McCracken seated, then went back for the others and got them all situated. By then, the train was ready to depart.

  I opened my laptop and started to work on the schedule, but a couple of late nights of surveillance—and one breaking and entering—had left me sleep-deprived.

  Next thing I know, a gentle bell dinging. The conductor saying, “Next stop, Washington. Five minutes.”

  I realized I’d fallen asleep.

  I’d fallen asleep on McCracken’s shoulder.

  I’d fallen asleep on McCracken’s shoulder and drooled all over his tweed sport coat.

  “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay to have it cleaned. You should have woken me—I didn’t mean to be a bother.”

  “You weren’t a bother. And I quite liked you sleeping on my shoulder. I wish you’d do more of it.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. It was inappropriate of me.”

  I quickly packed up the laptop—which he had kindly closed, saving me the battery.

  Kindly.

  What the hell am I thinking?

  I think he played me with those rats, and I don’t know what his game is.

  I’ll need to be more careful around him.

  "Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition?" There is a Christian cult on the edges of D.C. and the agency has heard chatter about them making more of a splash to attract more followers. So that night, a rest night for the actors, I head to a little church in the country. I have my night surveillance out back on and can only hope that this goes better than Richmond did. But just as I'm thinking that, I notice the same pair of headlights behind me as when I left the hotel. I'm being followed. I'm on a country road with nowhere to turn around so I decide if I want to see who's following me, my best bet is to let them. I search GPS for another church, or any public building that's closed this time of night. I luck out. There’s a town hall a few miles away on another road. If they turn when I turn, I'll be 100% sure. Right now I'm only 95% sure.

  Sure enough, they turn. I speed into the town hall's parking lot and turn off the lights, take the dome light bulb out, and ease out of the darkened car. A taxi pulls into a parking space on the street and just sits there. Then it kills its lights, too. I stay out of the pockets of light thrown by the few streetlights this town can afford and approach the taxi from behind. When I'm almost at the taxi, the back door opens and out steps McCracken. Why is he following me? What should I do? Confront him here and now, or just wait him out? I slip the PUP back into its sheath. I'm not going to confront him here. When he sees that I'm not in the car, maybe he'll just leave. Anyway, I just went and sat by a tree. After about 15 minutes, the driver gets out and yells to McCracken that he has to get back to the city. McCracken comes back and gives him some money. An hour later, we're all still sitting here when the driver gets out again, shouting to McCracken who's still standing by my car. He starts back to the cab. I make a dash in the dark for my car, dive in and drive away, lights off and speeding. The taxi finally pulls away from the curb but still needs to turn around when I hit the crossroads. I hang a right at the crossroads, lights still off, doing about 75 mph down this country road. No sign of the taxi. They must have assumed I was heading back to the hotel. I approach the darkened door of the church and start to pull out the picks, but the door isn't locked. After half an hour looking around, the only thing I learned is God hates homosexuals, abortionists, and faithful that don't pay their tithe.

  Why'd he follow me? I’m tired, pissed off, and a little worried that McCracken wasn't just a criminal. Is there a chance that he’s involved in the terror plot? Well, I’ll worry about that tomorrow as I head down the hall to my room. I see McCracken sitting on the floor, his back against my door, and he doesn’t see me. I decide this will be the perfect time to search his room and find out what he’s up to. Fifteen minutes later, nothing. He has a nice expensive wardrobe and shoes, along with casual wear. But nothing incriminating at all. I didn't even find a porn mag in his room—he probably keeps it all on his phone. The bathroom is clean as well, nothing out of the ordinary except for that nice cologne he wears. I really don't want him to see me in spy clothes, and since I'm only on the second floor, I should be able to easily get in my balcony door. It wasn't too bad climbing up the wall. Luckily, it was in shadows and I was in black. The lock was a joke; my niece probably could have picked it.

  I noiselessly changed into my pajamas, grabbed the ice bucket from the bathroom, and opened the room door. McCracken fell into my room. I feigned surprise. "What the hell are you doing at my door this time of night, McCracken?"

  "How? How? How did you get in there?"

  "Umm, my key." I held it up.

  "But how did you get past me?"

  "I didn't. You weren't there when I went in my room. After I got everybody checked in, I came up here, took a sleeping pill, and went to bed."

  "But I saw you drive to Maryland."

  "Have you been drinking, McCracken?"

  "No, of course not. I've been following you, but you lost me at the town hall. Were you trying to buy drugs?"

  "Look, McCracken, it's late. I want to go back to sleep. I don't know who you were following, but it wasn't me. But now that I think about it, why would you follow me anyway? That's creepy."

  "I’ve been worried about you. You’ve been distracted lately. You disappear for hours at a time. Look, I want to help, whatever it is. If you need money, I have money. Just tell me how much."

  "McCracken, that's sweet but still creepy. I'm telling you, you weren't following me."

  "Well, she looked just like you. Same hair, same body."

  "Okay, buddy, before we have to call HR, I think I should walk you to your room while I get my ice. Come on, let's go."

  Fifteen minutes later, I was back in my room. What the hell is up with McCracken?

  Why a hike? We didn't have a performance until tonight, so I decided that since there was no other likely terror suspects located in D.C. for me to investigate, I’d go for a nice long walk in Rock Creek Park. I always think best when I’m moving under my own power, and I needed a long hard think about McCracken. That and the creek will be beautiful this time of year. The Uber dropped me right at the trailhead, and I began my walk. I had a nagging feeling, so I took out my phone, turned on the mirror app, and posed like I was taking a selfie. It took about five seconds to spot him. So now he's going to spy on me twenty-four-seven? I think not. But I still didn't want to confront him, so I went down to the creek, got out my sketch book, and got to work. New plan: I’ll bore him into not following me.

  About an hour passed and down he walks. "Wow," he says, "Fancy meeting you here."

  He’s a good actor, but I'm starting to see his tells now.

  "You might be a good actor, but you really are a bad liar."

  "You think I'm a good actor?"

  "That's what you got from that exchange? You actors really are egotistical."

  "Yes, awfully true, I'm afraid. Most of us would pay to be an actor. Luckily for us, they pay us instead. Were you planning on meeting anyone?"

  "Nope. I don't know anyone in D.C." A lie, but he doesn't need to know that.

  "How about I apologize for following you again? We call a truce and spend the day walking around the park together. What do you say?"

  "I'll tell you what, that sounds nice. This way I can prove to you that I'm not out here buying drugs or meeting my loan shark to make my vig. But you also have to promise me that you're not going to follow me without my knowledge. What if that woman you were following last night called the police? Hmm?"

  "Okay, I promise. But you promise not to go disappearing, and if you need help, promise that you'll ask me to help, okay?"

  "Come on, let's get a hot dog. I'm starving."

  "What happened to the government of the people, by the people, for the people?" After we land in Portland, I call the number the agency supplied and make contact with X. We agree to meet in Peninsula Park about 10–12 miles from the airport. I have cash and documents for him, and I can put him on a plane within the hour. This is the biggest break yet: we have an insider in a terrorist cell in Portland, ready and willing to give us insider knowledge. With this, we may be able to stop whatever the terrorist group is planning. I told X on the phone what I looked like and what I'm wearing. We plan to meet at the fountain in the rose garden. This will make surveillance and recording of our conversation near impossible. As I walk the red brickway towards the fountain, I can see a person in a black hoodie walking circles around said fountain. I can’t see their face, but I feel pretty sure this is my man. I continue to the fountain as if admiring it, and wait for my man to complete the circle and approach me. My "man" turns out to be a young girl, 18 or 19 years old, frightened.

  "Are you Paula?" she asks.

  "Yes, X. Let's walk as you were. You can give me some details and then I can get you to the airport and somewhere safe."

  "Paula," she says, "we did some research on you. We know about your dad and why you joined the agency. Our group has former agents from your agency. We’re not planning an attack on the 250th. We’re planning a gigantic coast-to-coast protest, highlighting the danger our country faces. Federal troops now control key democratic cities, law enforcement firmly under their control. We believe this is just the beginning. According to our sources, the latest president, Trump, intends to be the last president. When his term expires, his plan is to declare martial law on the pretext that the country is at war with immigrant invaders united with drug cartels, and that the Democratic Party is complicit with them. Democratic leaders will be rounded up, there will be some kangaroo courts, the Democratic Party will be outlawed, and leading members executed. That’s part of the reason Trump reinstated the federal death penalty. We know your next stop is Chicago. In BMO Harris Bank, there is a safety deposit box in your name. The key to the box has already been mailed to your hotel in Chicago. Your phone has been compromised by the agency. They can hear your conversations, and they have been tracking all your movements. I have a cell jammer, so they haven't heard this. Just take the evidence and review it and then get it to a country likely to publish. Don’t bring it to domestic media; they are riddled with undercover agents. We were hoping maybe the BBC would publish, but we’ll leave it up to you. We chose you because we know you'll do the right thing. But because I told them I’d only deal with you, you now have a target on your back. You must convince your bosses that you are still loyal and I was just some worthless conspiracy nut."

  I honestly don’t know what to say. I was hoping that she was some conspiracy nut. The last thing I wanted was to be an accomplice to the overthrow of democracy.

  "So I take it you don't want my free ticket to an agency safe house?" I ask.

  "No, I’ve told you everything I can. We’re depending on you. I’m going to push you into the fountain in just a minute, then run away. It'll be a great opportunity to ditch your phone. When they issue a new one, don't put it in a Faraday cage. That will make them suspicious. Just leave it in your hotel room and remember, the thing is always recording, even without a cell signal. As soon as the signal is restored, it starts to send the recording back to your agency. Now, when we get back around by the walkway you came in on, stop and face me. Yell, 'You're crazy and I’m taking you in,' then I’ll push you in the fountain. That’ll slow you down. I’ll run away, and it’ll all be on video for your bosses. I’m sorry we’re putting this all on your shoulders. Okay, now start yelling, then try and grab my arm. Yep, bye, Paula."

  "Do you think this outfit will shrink?" The water is cold and dank, but I decide to at least entertain the story that X has spun. I didn’t vote for Trump, and I’m against pretty much all his policies, but I wouldn’t have guessed he was an evil mastermind. He seems too egotistical for that. But I dump my phone in the fountain as I slowly get up and start in pursuit. I want to appear to be trying to catch her, but I don't want to catch her. That is, until I hear two gunshots north of the fountain. Now I want to catch her. Did I just let a terrorist go? I see a fairly large group of people standing in a circle by the basketball courts when I see her lying on the ground. What I can only hope is a doctor appears to be putting direct pressure on the wounds in her chest and gut.

  I ask one of the looky-loos on the perimeter of the crowd what happened. He tells me two men in dark suits appear to have been chasing her, but when she was hemmed in by the fence surrounding the tennis courts, they just shot her and walked away. I walk back towards the fountain. I was going to have to retrieve the agency phone, call in from an unsecure phone, report the phone ruined so they send another, all while acting like I didn’t just participate in killing a young girl that was trying to defend democracy. There was only one way I could do that. I called up that cold fury that I could call on command. When I thought about the senseless death of my father and 2,976 others, it was the only way I could think tactically, and if I didn't start thinking tactically, I'd be dead. It calmed me and made me ready to face anything because my life was dedicated to not letting them die in vain.

  Before, I had an entire agency of the United States government in my corner, supplying me with materials and information. Now, I had a part to play: the diligent agent. The story to my boss will be mostly the truth. I spoke with her briefly and told her I’d get her to the airport and a safe house, and she’d agreed finally, but something spooked her and she shoved me into the fountain and ran off. The witness I spoke to claimed two men shot her execution style. I can only assume her terrorist organization discovered she was about to turn on them and had her killed to prevent that. I was still hoping that the basketball court doctor could save her, but for now, I assumed she was dead.

  I got back to Ainsworth St, got in the car, and headed to the hotel. I felt like my world had been shattered. No, it had been shattered. I’ve worked five years for this agency; I thought I was doing good. Now it appears I’ve been working with people willing to kill United States citizens to cover up their own misdeeds. There’s a package waiting for me at reception. I take my new phone and call my boss, giving him the story I cooked up on my way back to the hotel. A new wrinkle: we were supposed to head to Chicago tomorrow, but now we’re being delayed. The agency is sending in their military recruits—SWAT, snipers, and the assassins are already here. The bosses want me to coordinate with them. They’re hoping to “take into custody” the rest of the terrorist cell. I don’t know anything, so I don’t have to worry about being any help, or looking like I'm lying. I tell the cast there’s been a delay and to please enjoy a free day tomorrow in Portland while I make arrangements. We were supposed to have three days in Chicago; instead, we’ll now have two. I made a few calls and arranged for four nights in London. I called the bosses and told them I received a letter from a contact in MI5 that they had a credible terrorist threat and they wanted me to meet in person with them a week from Friday. The bosses okayed the plan. Fortunately, the next day, the military chased their own tail all day around Portland and could find no links between the poor girl who’d died. The papers called it a drug deal gone bad.

  I needed an accomplice, and the only person I could think of was McCracken. But I’d never really investigated why he went to prison. I just knew the navy gave him a dishonorable discharge and five years in the Navy Consolidated Brig (Charleston, SC). I go to the hotel business center. If my bosses are all over my phone, I’m sure they are all over my laptop as well. I pulled out my Coceptive thumb drive and got to work. A ten-year sentence, and at the court-martial, he pled guilty to killing a superior officer. Why such a short term? And he should have been sent to Leavenworth for any offense sentenced to more than five years. Something was being covered up, and the navy looked like they needed a fall guy. Is that why they released him so early? It was late. If I knocked on his door and he had a co-ed in there, we were both going to be embarrassed.

  He was in boxers when he invited me into his empty room. I was relieved. I have to stop thinking like that. I said, "I have two questions to ask you, okay?"

  "Shoot." Bad choice of words.

  "Did you mean it when you said you’d help me, even if it might be dangerous or get you thrown in prison or killed?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Thank you. Okay, why did you let the navy frame you for something and spend five years in Charleston?"

  "I’m not supposed to talk about that, and how could you possibly know any of that?"

  "You show me yours, and I'll show you mine."

  "Why do I have a feeling you’re not talking about playing doctor?"

  "I'm not. Put on some pants and let's take a walk and leave your phone here."

  "Okay, just tell me why the setup and why did you agree?"

  "I was on a spy ship off the coast of Iran, and the Lieutenant Commander, who was an asshole, decided it’d be fun to shell a coastal town. I was a Lieutenant, a security officer. I tried to get him to stop. When I pushed him away from fire control, he smashed his head on a steel console. I got him to sick bay as fast as I could, but he died. The navy had to cover up what happened, or it might mean war with Iran. A lot of Americans would be killed. I decided the right thing to do was to say I pushed him and he fell on fire control, mistakenly discharging the weapon. The navy was happy but wanted to keep me close, so they sent me to Charleston instead of Kansas, for which I’m grateful. I sent more than a few men to Leavenworth when I was the security officer."

  "If you had told me that story a week ago, I wouldn’t have believed you."

  "What changed?"

  "Well, for one, I’ve gotten to know you a little better, and while I might believe you'd pinch a female admiral's ass, I wouldn’t believe you’d murder someone."

  "You’re never gonna let that go, are you? I apologized."

  "Never."

  "Well, in my defense, it is a very fine ass."

  "Let’s forget about my ass."

  "Never."

  "McCracken, will you get serious? A woman, a girl really, has been killed, and it’s my fault. I have to get something in Chicago and bring it to London, and if I die en route, I need you to deliver it to the BBC."

  "You’re serious."

  "As a heart attack." Then I filled him in on the plot, Trump, the 250th, all the spying I’ve been doing while working as manager—that it was me in Maryland.

  "I knew you were lying and that it was you, but I figured it must have been important so I let it go. I’d be honored to help you, but no way in hell am I letting you die. I’d regret it for the rest of my life knowing I’d never get to squeeze that ass again."

  We were forced by bad weather to remain in Portland for another day, shaving another day off our trip to Chicago. I swear I was ready to climb the walls. Finally, the next day, we were in the air to Chicago. After I had everyone settled in the hotel, McCracken and I headed out. He went to the theater with my phone, just in case anyone was tracking me. I told McCracken to play music on the phone and speak softly if he had to speak at all, while I headed to BMO Harris Bank. The key had been held for me at the hotel, just as X had said. It went smoothly at the bank. The package was smaller than expected, but as long as the info was in there, the smaller the better. We both arrived back in the lobby at the same time.

  Unfortunately, so did a colleague of mine. I walked up to McCracken, kissed him deeply, slipped the package in his pocket, and grabbed my phone. McCracken, the consummate actor that he is, kissed me right back, hugging me close, and as he put it later, just to sell the kiss, squeezed my ass.

  "I’ll see you later, darling," I said.

  "Bye, sweetheart," he replied.

  I went into the bar and asked Tom what he was doing in Chicago. He said the bosses were in an uproar over Portland, upset that their informant had been killed and we weren’t any closer to finding what the terrorists have planned. Tom said he was in Chicago looking for a college professor with ties to ISIS. I told him that sounded promising, but I had to gather the actors and get them to the theater. I wasn’t sure if I believed Tom’s story; it sounded a little too neat.

  We had to flee. There were agents swarming the hotel when we got back. I called McCracken and told him to gather the actors and meet me at the airport. I called an Uber and offered the driver an extra $50 cash for a favor. I pushed the agency phone under the seat, on silent. My bosses had been blowing it up—somehow they knew. I'd tried to disguise myself when I went to the bank, but there are so many cameras now in the city, plus the AI facial recognition software the agency has, maybe they caught me, or somebody from X's group was caught and talked. After the Uber dropped me off and I picked up a few supplies, I hailed a cab to the airport. There was an agent following the actors, so I called McCracken and told him to get the actors to Toronto.

  I walked up to the charter desk and pulled out my ace in the hole, a credit card given to me fifteen years ago by Madd Maggie, the woman who'd given me my first job. When I left for college, she handed me this credit card and said, "It'll only work once, no matter how much you charge, so I advise you to hold onto it until you are ready to buy the biggest thing you are ever going to need in your life. Do you understand?"

  "Yes," I had replied, "don't use it until I have to."

  I saw the actors boarding and I could now see three agents watching for me, so I went into the bathroom. I said a silent thank you to that Uber driver and lit all of the smoke bombs. I then hustled over to the charter desk and said, "I'm ready to go."

  "You have your passport?" she asked.

  "Yes, I'm all set. My luggage is on another flight."

  Maggie was true to her word. I hired a private jet to Toronto for one, and first class from Toronto to London for the cast and myself. I just hoped that they wouldn't send an agent with the actors, but they probably thought I'd just ditch the actors as I didn't technically need them anymore.

  I was so elated that we’d gotten away, then, just like that, it all came crashing down. I saw Henry have a heart attack on the flight to London. He’d just come out of the bathroom and just dropped to the floor. McCracken called for the Automated External Defibrillators (AEDs), connected it, called "clear," and Henry's whole body spasmed. McCracken put his ear to his chest. "I have a heart beat," he said. McCracken turned to the stewardess and asked about a gurney. A steward brought one, and we gently laid Henry on it and wheeled it back to the galley.

  I asked McCracken, "Why don't we ask the captain to see if there is a doctor on board?"

  He said, "Well, we wouldn't want that. He'd know right away that Henry is faking." I looked at Henry, and he winked.

  "What are you lunatics playing at?" I asked.

  "Well, your coworkers were so eager to send you off, we were thinking, maybe they'll show at Heathrow. So when we’re almost there, you switch with Henry and take a little side trip to Hillingdon Hospital, and call your friend in MI5."

  "Thank you both, but poor Martha—she looked like she might have a heart attack on the spot."

  "That’s because she's a great actress. She knew what Henry was doing."

  When I arrived at the hospital, Dan Watson was standing there waiting for me. McCracken had called him and explained I was en route to Hillingdon Hospital. Dan said that warrants had been issued for me from the U.S. Justice Department. I was charged with treason, sedition, terrorism, obstruction of justice, and a whole bunch of lesser charges. It was said that Trump was having a meltdown, firing agency employees left and right. But that was Trump on any normal day, so I didn’t really feel special.

  I got to meet the Prime Minister at a special cabinet meeting. I showed my evidence, which was pretty damning. The Prime Minister wanted to talk to German Chancellor Friedrich Merz and French Prime Minister Fran?ois Bayrou; he wanted all three nations to broadcast simultaneously. He expected Trump to react badly. He did. He really did. He decided tariffs in the E.U. and Britain would be set at 1,000% and would go up 100% each week that I was not extradited back to the U.S.

  But Trump had his own problems. Democratic senators, congressmen, and congresswomen didn’t care for the idea of being rounded up and shot. Some National Guard members began to speak out, saying they signed up to defend the country, not suppress the citizens—their mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers. Trump's dream of sweeping the 2026 election and keeping the house was ground to dust, as Republican congressmen and congresswomen hurried home to assure their constituents they knew nothing about any plan to suspend democracy. But part of the evidence was a group chat Pete Hegseth started between a bunch of congressmen, but he'd made a mistake: he pushed "group chat" and had two reporters in the chat where the plan was outlined. Trump would declare martial law city by city and the support needed from the congressmen as they took over more cities before the inevitable suspension of democracy. Those congressmen didn't go home as they worried what their constituents would do to them.

  "Shakespeare Today" was particularly popular on the talk show circuit, especially when Henry or McCracken were on and could recount the dramatic heart attack scene on the plane. This was especially so after Henry was indicted for Obstruction and Aiding and Abetting. They left McCracken alone, perhaps the navy convinced them that McCracken also had damning evidence against the U.S. So the troupe has become famous. We’re limited to the U.K. and E.U. for travel because they don’t want Henry or me vanished. But with all the publicity, houses are packed with each performance. The undergrads still gather nightly at the stage door, but when McCracken emerges, it’s with me on his arm. If he’s been really good that day, I’ll occasionally let him squeeze that ass, just to keep him happy. He has a crazy idea. He thinks he and I should open a detective agency. He says it’ll be fun. I do miss the thrill of the spy game, and if we do it together, it might be fun.