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been one big cover.
    But he couldn’t know that. He couldn’t.
    The agency had spent years crafting her cover story. As part of the Joint Special Collection Service, the CIA occasionally used clandestine personnel and techniques to assist the NSA. Both agencies had known Staci’s occupation and CIA cover might come in handy.
    Intelligence confirmed that the real Staci Grant had died in a prison uprising in Afghanistan around two months ago, as a prisoner, her cover intact.
    I had to ask. Had to. Why would he even think Staci Grant was a cover? It had taken years to construct.
    I kept my tone casual. “What makes you say that?”
    “I can spot a manufactured background file.”
    It was more imperative than ever that I keep in character. This entire mission was already a goat fuck, but if something in the file gave me away, I needed to know.
    I wouldn’t let him see my insides were churning. I leaned back against the driver’s seat. I’d known he wasn’t just a private investigator, but how could he figure out a manufactured cover? “Huh. How?”
    “I was in the business.”
    “Was?” Anything to keep him talking while I assessed this information. I realized I hadn’t taken him seriously. I was still underestimating him. And that was dangerous. Who was this guy?
    “I got out.” His voice was tight and low.
    I couldn’t imagine getting out. The NSA, my job, my calling, my obsession almost, was my life.
    “Question number one.” Lucas reclined in the seat as if the answer wasn’t of importance. “What is your real name?”
    My real name? The name of the moment. Staci Grant. Whose street profession was terrorist recruitment.
    Through her we’d arrested, detained, or followed hundreds of potential individual threats to the country.
    Suddenly I put it together. Lucas had been looking into Staci Grant because of his...missing person.
    I smiled. “Staci Grant.”
    Lucas sighed. “Fine. I’m going to keep my five questions in reserve.”
    “Four.”
    “Five. You didn’t answer the first one.”

SIX
     
    As we cruised across the San Francisco Bay, the nighttime lights on the bridge dipped and curved upward, sparkling in the early evening sky, competing with the stars in the clear fall night.
    We seemed to have lost our tail from the diner. However I wasn’t counting on them staying lost. We’d switched off driving and Lucas was at the wheel again. I’d learned what I could from him. As soon as we crossed the bridge, I was gone.
    I cleared my throat.
    “We’re almost there,” Lucas answered my unspoken question.
    Great.
    The itchy twitchy feeling in my gut intensified. I couldn’t wait to get to a phone and call Carson. Then I needed an internet connection to dig into the coded information I’d uploaded to my online filebox. And a lab to analyze the contents of the syringe.
    Lucas exited to the left and sped around the curve. “My place isn’t too far.”
    I flexed my hands, then wiggled my fingers. The syringe rested against my spine, loosely trapped between the elastic waistband of his boxers and my back.
    I glanced at the street. The buildings were mostly industrial interspersed with apartment buildings and several small takeout restaurants in a row. Storefront lights bathed the street with soft white glow. Small lighted signs in basic black and white advertised in English and Spanish, Cantonese or Vietnamese depending on the food.
    Almost time.
    I inhaled slowly, centering, waiting for the perfect moment. We were in the right lane next to cars parked along the curb. He looked at me again and I directed him back to the traffic. “The light’s about to turn green.”
    As the light changed, I shoved open the car door. Lucas grabbed at the boxers but I escaped and slammed the door shut then sprinted for the alley around the corner. I thought for sure I would hear cursing or shouting, but only a few irritated honks followed me.
    No Lucas.
    I eased along the dumpsters, ignoring the cool sensation of