Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

REED

The man had no sense of self-preservation. That was the only explanation.

Admittedly, he hadn't killed himself making it down the trellis—a trellis someone should have noticed before approving this safe house, which was going on my long list of complaints to Janissey, along with the doomsday prepper supply of soup (and only soup), the eye-searing paint job, the interior and exterior flocks of birds, and the utter lack of Division-monitored security alarms on the entry points. But the very fact that he'd ventured out on his own and tried to contact someone was enough to have me seeing red.

I forced myself not to stare at his pert little ass swaying in my too-big sweatpants as he slogged dejectedly up the stairs past a faded wallpaper border of ducks marching in bonnets. He didn't seem angry so much as honest-to-God disappointed that his escape to stoner-land next door had been cut short.

Escape , I scoffed to myself, remembering how proud and defiant he'd looked when he said the word, big eyes glinting behind his glasses in the glow of the streetlight. I pushed down an instinctive desire to clarify that if I'd actually been trying to keep him in, the man's ass wouldn't have made it two centimeters out the door, no matter how hard he tried.

Against my will, my eyes slipped to that ass, which was tantalizingly close to my face when he hesitated at the top of the stairs, but I forced myself to blink away. He had me on the knife edge between wanting to hold him down so I could throttle him… and wanting to pin him down for a very different reason.

Not that I was actually going to do either.

I was a freaking professional, I reminded myself as I hitched up my slipping towel.

"To the right again," I prompted once he reached the top.

Chris entered the small bedroom and sat down on the mattress in defeat.

"Look, I'm sorry, Mr. Sunday, but there's been a giant misunderstanding," he began. He stared at his ragged and dirty fingernails, and my eyes jumped to the still-open window and the broken pieces of trellis sticking out from the frame.

I quickly stepped over to shove the window closed and lock it again.

"If you mean you misunderstanding that you were supposed to stay here, then yes, I agree," I snapped. "What the hell were you doing?"

"Well." Chris's chin went suspiciously wobbly, but he tried his best to firm it and glare up at me. "I assumed, as anyone would, that you were trying to kidnap me?—"

"You…" I opened my mouth. I closed it again. " What ? Why? "

"Because you were grumpy, and you took my phone, and you wouldn't take me home, and…" His eyes roamed over my naked chest and the spot where my towel was knotted at my waist. His whole face turned the same vibrant pink as this godforsaken safe house, but he lifted his chin stubbornly. "What else could I conclude but that you had nefarious intentions?"

" Nefarious ?" I repeated, outraged.

"That means bad," he explained politely.

"I know what the fuck it means , Chris," I shot back. "I still don't know why you think?—"

"I don't think it! N-not anymore. That's what I'm trying to explain. From what you said outside now, you were trying to help someone. Protect them. Which is really admirable. Except, um…" He gave me a look that was both apologetic and pitying. "You got the wrong person."

"That's ridiculous. And could you stop being so…" Distracting . His stammering words and pink cheeks were making me think thoughts I had no business thinking, and my thin, damp towel was going to make that clear sooner rather than later. I held up a finger. "Stay here. If you move, I will tie you to that bed."

Within seconds, I'd marched across the hall to grab my discarded jeans and the primary weapon I'd left behind when I ran from the house. I returned to Chris's room before replacing the towel with a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt from the bag on the bed next to him.

The bag I would have known better than to leave with him, damn it, if I hadn't let myself get distracted in the first place. I would not make that mistake again.

As I yanked on my clothes, Chris's eyes got wider and wider until I felt the heat of his gaze on my skin. If this adorably flustered act was one of his ploys to distract me, I'd be damned if I'd let it.

"Explain," I demanded. "And so help me, do not act innocent this time."

His eyes remained wide, like a puppy with a hurt paw, only now the wide eyes were coupled with an even deeper pink stain on his cheeks. I felt my back teeth grind in frustration.

Unprofessional frustration.

"I already explained as much as I know. What it boils down to is… you've taken the wrong Chris." He let out a huge sigh like the entire scenario was a massive disappointment.

I squinted at him as I threaded my belt into the loops on the jeans and attached the holster at my hip. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm going to need you to use more words. The wrong Chris?"

He shrank into his overly large sweater and picked at one of his sweater cuffs. "See, there are two Chrises who work at the Bugle, and people get us confused all the time. Like, all the time. There's Crys, short for Crystal. She's gorgeous and tough and extremely competent. One might even say scary competent. And she knows things. You know?"

I definitely didn't. In fact, the longer I spent with this adorable walking disaster, the less I knew, period.

"And then there's me." He pointed to himself with the stretched-out sweater cuff that had now completely overtaken his slender fingers. "Other Chris. Not tough and competent like Original Crys, b-but an extremely hard worker who rarely—seriously, hardly ever—makes the same mistake twice. Which," he added earnestly, "is more than can be said for a lot of people, if you think about it."

"This is crazy." I rubbed the center of my forehead, where a headache was forming. "You agreed to protective custody earlier this week?—"

"Nope. Crys might have." When he tugged at his cuffs this time, it made his sweater slide down his collarbone. "I didn't."

"But Agent Janissey or one of his people called you?—"

"Mr. Sunday… Reed … I'm telling you, nobody called me. Nobody offered me protection. And why would they? I don't need protecting. Which is why I'm saying for, like, the third time… you've got the wrong person," Chris insisted with utter sincerity.

"And I'm telling you, for the third time? — "

He held up a hand to cut me off. "You said something about an uncle who's ‘testifying' as part of a ‘plea deal,' right? Like he's a criminal? Well, there you go! I have only one living uncle in the whole world, but he's currently on a fishing sabbatical, and he's never done a bad thing in his life, so he has nothing to testify about. After my mom died, he helped my dad raise me, and after Dad died, he helped Nonna raise me, and after she died, Danny raised me himself. He's a prize-winning gardener, and he runs—well, ran —the Cellar, the premiere wine and cheese shop in central New Jersey. Oh, and one time, I cursed in front of my Nonna, and Danny made me scrub the floors at the shop for weeks. See? I still have a callus." He held out one hand, displaying a small red scar on the webbing between his thumb and first finger like it was the smoking gun in a high-stakes courtroom drama.

"So?" I demanded. "What the fuck does that have to do with… literally anything?"

"Soooo…. those are not the things a criminal would do." He shrugged like he'd made his case .

I didn't get his angle here. Why was Chris lying about his uncle's innocence when Dante had already turned himself in and was this close to signing a plea agreement?

But the why didn't matter, just like my strange attraction to Chris didn't matter. I needed him to drop his act and realize that the best way to help his uncle was to stop putting himself in danger.

"That's cute. Really. For future reference, you're protesting a little too much to be believable." I sprawled in the wingback chair, only to realize the chair was way too hard for sprawling, so I sat up. "You can drop the act 'cause I'm not investigating your uncle. In fact, no one's investigating him anymore 'cause he turned himself in, and he's currently negotiating that plea deal I mentioned." I yawned. "What you need to understand now is that you're under my protection?—"

"No."

I raised an eyebrow. "No?"

Chris's face worked, flitting from annoyed to nervous to stubborn and back to nervous. "No. You're wrong about my uncle, so it only makes sense that you're wrong about me, therefore I'm not your protectee. But, um, thank you anyway?"

"Jesus," I muttered.

I'd never had to convince a protectee that he was supposed to be my fucking protectee before. The guy was straight-up lying—had to be, since no one could live with Dante Fromadgio and not know exactly how his uncle made a living—and I really loathed the idea of having to play along like I bought his little act.

But I was a trained Division agent, and there wasn't much I wouldn't do to keep my job. Charming my protectee—my fake-adorkable, mobster-Bambi protectee— and playing along so he wouldn't make another escape attempt was simply another part of the punishment I'd have to endure for deliberately fucking up my last assignment.

Besides, how hard could it be?

I leaned forward and gave Chris a smile I hoped was friendly and disarming. "We got off on the wrong foot, I think. Maybe your uncle didn't tell you that he was taking a plea deal. Maybe that happened after you left town. So maybe you don't get how much danger you're in?—"

Chris blinked and visibly softened before shaking his head as if to clear it and squaring his shoulders. "Of course he didn't tell me about a plea deal. He hasn't done anything wrong. So either you've made a mistake, or… or…" He gasped, literally gasped, and gave me an accusing stare. "Maybe you're framing him for a crime he didn't commit! I saw that once in a John Ruffian episode?—"

Jesus Christ. Framing him? Was he serious with this shit?

"I'm definitely not." I forced a smile. "Let's review the facts, okay?"

Chris looked like he wanted to protest some more, but he shifted back on the bed and shrugged. I took this as agreement.

"Great," I said, still smiling. "Now. First things first, your uncle is Dante Fromadgio?—"

Chris's lips parted in a startled O.

"—aka Dante the Cheese?—"

At this, he jumped to his feet with a little gasp of outrage. "No. Nuh-uh. I… I'm very confused right now, but I was trying to be respectful and kind. But I'm not going to listen to you insulting my family, okay?"

"Whoa! What did I say?" I held up both hands, genuinely surprised. We hadn't even gotten to the crime part of the "facts." I hadn't expected him to protest yet.

His voice trembled. "I was only seven when my mom died, but I remember her telling me how hard it was growing up with the last name Fromadgio when her family owned a cheese shop. People mocked her all the time. She told me she was so relieved when she got married and got to be Carmelita Winowski she never used her maiden name again. She asked me never to mention it. Can you imagine? My mom was beautiful and kind, but she was ashamed of her own name because of the thoughtless, cruel comments of thoughtless, cruel people." People like you , his tone implied.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again because it turned out Chris was stunning when he was angry… and because I felt like an asshole for even noticing that when he also appeared to be on the edge of tears.

You're falling for it, Sunday. He's giving an Oscar-worthy performance, and you're about to fuck up your redemption assignment.

"Sit," I commanded. But like Chris's nonna's voice was in my head, I added, "Please." And then, even more grudgingly, "I didn't mean to insult you. I won't use that name again. Okay?"

Chris's fingers clenched and released on the cuffs of his sweater, but eventually, he sat, his gaze fixed on the wall over my head. "Fine."

"Fine," I repeated. I took a deep breath. "Your uncle is Dante Fromadgio, yes?"

He glanced at me, then away. Though he looked troubled, he nodded once.

"Right." I relaxed slightly. "As you probably know, Dante Fromadgio has been under investigation for years for various crimes. Tax evasion, money laundering, et cetera. Last March, he turned himself in. He and his lawyers have been negotiating a plea deal, which will probably require him to testify against his former business associates the Evanoviches to avoid jail time. He's currently in protective custody, but he sent you out of state and must've had someone protecting you who alerted him when—why are you shaking your head?"

"Because I don't know anyone called Evankavich or whatever you said, and I know every supplier and business associate the Cellar has… or had . And Danny's fishing. And he didn't send me out of state; he gave me the opportunity to visit his old army buddy because he thought it would be good for me to decide what I wanted to do with my life. And Van—you know Van, right? From the Bugle?"

"Obviously," I huffed. "He coached my hockey team when I was a kid."

"Right. Well, unless he's a secret agent like you, I haven't had ‘protection.' And I think I'd know," Chris added, "since ‘protection' feels an awful lot like being kidnapped."

Was it possible that Van knew Dante Fromadgio, or was that another lie? It was something to look into, but not now. Eyes on the prize, Sunday.

"Can we keep going?" I asked, determined to make this guy admit he knew exactly what was happening here and wasn't the innocent he claimed to be. "This week, the Division was contacted because whoever was keeping an eye on you had credible evidence that you'd been tracked to the Hollow. The Powers that Be decided to put me in charge of picking you up?—"

Chris flinched, and his gaze met mine. I' d swear those shiny brown orbs were fucking weapons. Every time he flashed them at me, I felt like I'd been gut-punched.

I really fucking hated it.

"What?" I demanded. "Something ringing a bell finally?"

"N-no." He wrapped his arms around himself. "Just realizing certain phrases mean different things to different people, that's all. Carry on."

I made myself ignore this nonsensical statement the same way I'd ignored his gut-punch eyes and kept talking. "Someone was supposed to brief you that I was coming. Once I had you with me, we were supposed to stay at this safe house and keep you under the radar until your uncle testified?—"

Chris opened his mouth like he was going to protest again, so I talked louder.

"Ah-ah-ah! Still my turn! I was supposed to keep you here at this safe house," I repeated. I knew I sounded pissed off, but it was impossible to keep up my friendly act when he was looking at me like that. "Unfortunately, that plan's been blown to hell because someone took a fucking swan dive off a trellis and borrowed the neighbor's phone to alert the world where we are, so now I need to find us a new safe house. Which I will, but at this point, it probably won't be until tomorrow." Which was going to make for a hell of a long night. I fixed him with a cool stare. "And you're saying all of this is news to you, huh?"

He regarded me for a long, silent moment, adjusted his glasses, then asked politely, "Sorry, is it my turn to talk now?"

Like that stopped you before . I folded my arms over my chest. "Yes. Talk."

"First, that was a very exciting story, Reed." He smiled kindly. "More exciting than the time in season two when John Ruffian had to infiltrate a cookie-smuggling ring to intercept the government secrets being baked into the Macadamia Chip Delights?—"

"Jesus Christ," I muttered.

"—but none of that means I'm the person you're looking for, unfortunately. Or… fortunately, I guess, since if I were that person, this whole situation would be high-key terrifying instead of, you know, bewildering and inconvenient." He pushed up his glasses and leaned toward me confidingly. "I don't know if you can tell, but I'm not an adventurous person in general. Really, aside from one tiny, little Ale-pocalypse—which was blown all out of proportion—I'm the most boring person ever."

He said this with perfect frankness, like he wasn't a metric fuckton of oversized eyes and words and clothing, all wrapped up in one small and distractingly sexy package. Like he hadn't escaped a safe house, climbed down a trellis, and earned the loyalty of the guy next door, all within fifteen minutes of our arrival. Like he was truly as innocent as he was claiming to be.

"Sure," I agreed blandly. "Totally ordinary."

Chris nodded. "So's my uncle. Look, I don't mean to argue with you about this." His eyes pleaded with me for understanding. "I hate arguing, so I never argue, as a rule, but it feels like you're not listening. Uncle Danny is a gardener—you should see his sedum! He can't read the labels on a wine bottle without glasses, but he refuses to wear them. He's been doing amateur theater for years, but he's so self-conscious he's never let me come to one of his shows. He has a heart condition, and he should be following a special diet, but he makes— made —pasta carbonara for me every Sunday because he knows it's my favorite. This person you're talking about, who's in trouble with the law, and confessed to crimes, and has enemies, and went into witness protection without me? That's not the man I know. And I could prove it to you right now if I still had my phone. My cousin Nicky would tell you?—"

"Nicky?" I straightened, my heart beating faster. "You mean Nicky Knives? Please don't tell me that's who you were calling when you were next door. Fuck me, Chris. That guy is straight-up psychotic."

To my surprise—though, really, I wasn't sure how anything about this guy surprised me anymore—Chris laughed. It sounded strained but genuine. "Oh my gosh. Nicky Knives ? My cousin wishes someone would call him that!" He leaned forward again and said in a hushed voice, like someone might overhear, "When we were little, his mom called him Snickerdoodle. He haaaated it. Later, when he moved in with Danny and me, he'd go around demanding, ‘Call me Nicky Steel, Chrissy.' Or ‘Call me Nick Fury.' But Uncle Danny always told him you couldn't force a nickname like that, you had to earn it, and?—"

Chris glanced up at my unamused face, and his shoulders slumped. "If you must know, I called our old neighbor Mrs. Rose, back in New Jersey, only she's hard of hearing, and I don't think she understood what I was saying. I didn't call Nicky. He and I aren't close, and he's currently not speaking to me." Somehow, Chris sounded almost disappointed .

"Thank fuck for that," I said fervently. "The only thing that would make this little situation worse is for Nicky Knives to show up."

Chris's lip trembled. "Please stop saying things like that. You're talking about my family, Reed. The only people I have left. A-and they're not perfect. I know that. But they're mine ."

Before I could clap back with something heartfelt and probably unwise, I heard a noise outside. Motioning Chris to stay where he was—which earned me an eye roll and a sigh—I moved toward the window.

Next door, a rusted sedan pulled into Kenny's driveway, quickly followed by a pickup truck, and six men piled out. Kenny stepped onto his porch and greeted the newcomers with fist bumps and back thumps before ushering them inside. Which would have been totally normal… except I could see from the glow of the streetlight that one of the men had a shoulder rig, and when Kenny hugged another, there was a visible bulge in the middle of his waistband that suggested he was carrying, too.

Great. Six large unknowns—at least two armed—visiting Reefer Heaven next door. I considered going outside to get a better view of their license plate numbers but quickly rejected the idea. I'd have to contact local law enforcement to ask them to run the plates, which begged the question of whether anyone at the Division had even contacted the locals, per protocol, to let them know Chris and I were here. The person who briefed Chris should have done that, but—I darted a quick glance at my protectee, who'd pulled his knees up on the bed and wrapped his arms around them, like maybe if he shrunk into a small enough ball, I wouldn't be able to see him—given the other serious failures of protocol here, I wouldn't bet money on it.

I let the curtain fall, then compulsively pulled out my Glock, removed the magazine to check that it was loaded, and slid it back into place. From the corner of my eye, I saw Chris tracking my movements before quickly averting his eyes .

This gave me an idea of how to prove he was a liar, once and for all. The guy was supposed to be a weapons expert, right?

"Hey, what'd you do with my, uh… my Colt?" I demanded, gesturing toward the duffel bag on the bed.

"P-pardon?"

"My gun. My backup weapon. The Colt .45 that was in my bag. When I came in here to check on you after my shower, I saw it was gone?—"

"Oh, that . It's under the mattress." He cocked his head. "But is it a Colt? I thought it was a Hellcat subcompact nine millimeter."

I snorted. He knew a Hellcat subcompact on sight but wanted me to believe his family was a bunch of innocent cheesemongers? Sure . I couldn't believe I'd actually started falling for his act.

"My bad," I lied easily, retrieving my weapon from the area where he'd pointed. "I get those two confused."

Chris frowned, as well he might, since a Colt .45 and a Hellcat had about as much in common as Shrek and Tinker Bell. He opened his mouth to say something—probably another rambling story about how his crime lord uncle actually ran a sanctuary for displaced honeybees and donated kidneys to orphans in his spare time—and I immediately held up a hand to cut him off.

I couldn't listen to that bullshit. Not now.

As it was, I knew I'd be spending the night keeping watch in the wingback chair. Not only was the situation next door giving me a bad feeling—the kind I'd learned not to ignore—but I hadn't managed to make my protectee drop his act and admit he needed protection. The second I left the room, Chris would probably start tying his bedsheets together and making another break for it.

"Go to sleep," I told him. I took my seat right next to the bed and set my jaw so he'd know I meant business.

"Now? Here?" He bit his lip. "Okay, but I'd really like?—"

"I don't care. I'm done talking for tonight, and neither one of us is going anywhere, so stop fucking arguing and sleep ."

He blinked at me from behind his glasses. "I'm not arguing," he said softly. "I don't argue. I was going to ask if I could use the bathroom and brush my teeth."

Fucking Christ. How did he always make me feel like I was the asshole?

Maybe because you're being an asshole? a voice in my head that sounded suspiciously like my brother Knox suggested.

I ignored it.

"Yeah. Fine. Use the bathroom."

But because, asshole or not, I was also determined not to fuck up this assignment. I stood in the hall outside while he used the bathroom, brushed his teeth with a spare brush, and drank several glasses of water.

Finally, he climbed back onto the bed, and I retook my chair, which hadn't gotten any more comfortable. In an effort to ignore him, I took out my Hellcat and ran through my usual checks. The familiar clicks reassured me everything was in order, so I placed the gun back in the bag and dragged it closer to my chair.

Chris tried a stare-off with me for about three seconds before inhaling a shaky breath and scooting up the bed to slide under the covers. He removed his glasses and set them under his pillow. Then he finally, finally closed those pretty eyes—I mean, duplicitous eyes—pulled the covers up to his chin, and let out a forlorn little sigh that made my chest clench.

The quilt was a mishmash of garish purple cow-print patches and pastel fabric imprinted with faded peaches. The pattern hurt to look at but was also strangely hard to look away from—or at least that's what I told myself as the minutes passed by and I continued to stare at my protectee.

There was certainly no other reason why I watched his chest rise and fall beneath the blanket. No other reason why I noticed the hank of brown hair falling over his pale forehead and had to clench my fingers against the need to smooth it back. No other reason why my chest felt hot and an unfamiliar, heavy discomfort in my gut made me turn away and glare at the window while imagining him throwing his leg over so he could scramble down the damn trellis.

Thank fuck he hadn't gotten seriously hurt.

"Reed?" he whispered after a minute. "Are you going to bed also? Because if you are, you should probably?—"

"Sleep, Chris," I barked. Though his eyes remained closed, I felt like I'd been caught out somehow, and it made me sound more pissed off than I'd intended.

" Sleep, Chris ," he muttered. " Sit, Chris. Stay, Chris. You know nothing, Chris. " He turned on his side toward me and pounded his pillow. " I don't believe you, Chris. " He paused before tightening his lips and inhaling through his nose. "You're… you're not very nice, you know."

"Neither are you," I snapped back while trying to get comfortable in the chair. It was going to be a long night, but I wasn't about to leave him alone again.

He froze. "I am so." Then, he added more uncertainly, "Sometimes people tell me I'm too nice."

I thought back to how quickly he'd agreed to get in a stranger's car earlier today. Maybe he was too nice. "Hey, if no one contacted you to let you know I was coming?—"

"They didn't." Chris sighed. "I swear they didn't."

"Then why the hell did you get in my car?"

"Because I thought…" Chris's cheeks went from annoyed pink to mortified red. He swallowed. "Er. Never mind. I-I think you're right. I should go to sleep now."

I frowned. What the hell did that mean?

I opened my mouth to insist that he reply but clamped my teeth together at the last second. It didn't matter what he said when I wasn't sure I could believe him. And, if I was brutally honest with myself, it didn't even matter if I believed him because either way, my job was to protect him.

When his breathing finally evened out in sleep, I grabbed my phone and typed out an update for Janissey because somebody around here needed to follow protocol, though I had no idea when he'd receive it. Were there support people still in the office? Was anyone monitoring the Evanoviches? Would I be getting regular updates? In the morning, I'd have to demand some answers… from somebody.

I flipped off the light, settled back into the chair, and used a breathing technique I'd learned during training to finally fall into an uneasy sleep. But it was only an hour or so later that I woke again, this time to the sound of men's voices below the window.

Probably Kenny and his buddies , but I pushed out of my chair and peeked out the curtain again to be sure.

On the lawn below, at least half a dozen men in ski masks spread out between Kenny's house and ours. They moved with the grace of lumbering elephants, heedless of the streetlights, like they didn't expect to be seen or care if they were. And every one of them was heavily, visibly armed.

What the fuck?

Had we been followed? No one could have gotten here this quickly, even if Chris had called someone… could they?

I shook myself quickly. There'd be time for speculation once we were safe.

Scrambling to my bag, I retrieved my backup weapon, even as I bounced the mattress.

"Wake up," I hissed at the quilt-covered body on the bed. When Chris didn't move, I shook him firmly, trying to ignore the warmth from his body and the way he'd curled into a tiny ball during the night like a pill bug. "Chris. We have a situation."

He suddenly lurched up, the whites of his eyes visible in the dark room. "Wha?—?"

I leaned down to grab his shoes and shove them on his feet. I'd prefer not to leave the safe house, but if we had to run, he'd never be able to make it without shoes. "Stay low and quiet. Follow me and do exactly as I say."

Half-asleep, he nodded and reached for my shoulder to keep from being pulled off the bed when I yanked his laces tight. I slung my duffel over my shoulder, grabbed his hand, and moved toward the door.

"Wait!" he cried. He fumbled back toward the pillow, found his glasses, and shoved them on his face.

"Take this." I shoved the Hellcat into his hand. "Eleven shots plus one. Slide rack."

He fumbled the damned thing like it was a hissing cobra.

I reached out to steady his hand on the grip. "Deep breath. In and out. You got this. "

"Sure. Yeah." But under his breath, he added, "Oh, man, I do not got this," almost too softly for me to hear.

For once, Chris didn't argue or attempt to talk my ear off. He did exactly as I said and stayed close to me as we crept out of the bedroom and down the hall. I'd familiarized myself with the layout when we arrived, so I knew there was a secondary staircase off the last bedroom. We made our way there on silent feet.

Halfway down, a loud pop of gunfire split the night, and Chris huddled against me with a muffled scream. I wrapped my arm around him to keep him close.

"We know you're in there, Chris!" a man's voice shouted, showing the operators had given up any attempt at a stealthy entrance. "Come on out."

More gunshots followed.

Fuck. Since when did the Evanoviches open fire on a residential neighborhood? I had no idea what or who we were dealing with, which made escape a more tempting option… assuming it actually was an option.

I half carried Chris the rest of the way downstairs. At the bottom of the staircase, I peered around the corner and saw a clear path to the back door. More pops came from the side yard, but there was no movement at the front or back porch. No one was trying to breach the doors, and as far as I could tell, none of the shots had actually hit the house; they were just making a hell of a lot of noise.

"Should we call the police?" Chris whispered.

"I bet someone already has," I said grimly. This wasn't necessarily a good thing. If I had to explain our identities and the circumstances surrounding the incident, that would only bring up more questions, especially if Chris talked about being "kidnapped." They might separate us until they could sort it out, which could take hours if no one at the Division bothered answering their phone. Hours when Chris would be unprotected.

Chris's hand clutched the back of my T-shirt as we moved across the tacky vinyl floor. Rabid ducks followed our progress from every angle, making an already tense situation that much more creepy.

Outside, glass broke, and more shots were fired. In the distance, sirens wailed. We were almost out of time.

I cracked open the front door and crouched down. My car appeared untouched, and all the activity still seemed to be on the side of the house where—I darted a quick glance out the door—Kenny and an elderly woman in a housecoat stood on the front porch, each clutching a weapon.

"Whoa. Is that Kenny's grandma?" Chris squeaked, peeking around me. "I'm super glad I didn't disturb her TV program."

"Come on." I tugged him back to the kitchen door.

The sirens were approaching, and waiting inside was no longer an option. I had to hope that there were no assailants waiting in the bushes for us to be flushed out and that everyone had been too busy with the firefight to disable my car.

Once again, Chris nudged up next to me and peered out. "What if you shot at that, uh… that thing with the water in it? You know, like a distraction? One time in season three of John Ruffian —" He broke off with a muffled yelp as another barrage of gunfire rent the night.

It took me a minute to recognize that he'd been pointing at a plastic rain barrel positioned at the back corner of Kenny's house to collect runoff from the gutters. There was no telling whether it had water in it, but from the number of plants in the backyard, it seemed likely.

I pulled Chris to my other side so I could aim. Before taking the shots, I leaned to whisper, "As soon as I say, run like hell to the passenger side, and get on the floor. Understand?"

He nodded jerkily. "But can you please t-take this back?" He held the gun with two careful fingers, like the cobra might bite.

"Don't you wanna keep it for protection?"

"Good gosh no," he said firmly. "No way."

I had no time to consider why a Fromadgio was so uncomfortable with a weapon. I tucked the gun in my waistband and squeezed his hand before letting go and aiming at the rain barrel.

My first shot didn't give me quite the result I'd wanted, but water did begin hissing as it spit upward from the hole in the lower portion of the barrel. One guy turned toward the sound just as my second shot hit its mark higher up the barrel and sent a hissing stream arcing toward the side of the house. Thankfully, this one managed to hit the metal of a nearby gutter, making a loud, metallic sound.

I gave Chris a shove, and he started running for the car a split second before I did. His door was still halfway open as I threw my bag over the seat, slammed the car into reverse, and sped backward.

"Chris!" someone yelled. "Don't go with him! Jump, for fuck's sake!"

From the corner of my eye, I saw Chris freeze, shock and indecision on his face.

As my car fishtailed out onto the street, I shifted into drive and stomped on the gas pedal, swerving a little to try and help the door close. "Don't even think about jumping," I shouted, reaching for Chris's wrist to hold on to him. "They'll kill you."

"I won't." His voice was small and scared. "Was that Kenny yelling? Do you think he believed me when I told him I'd been kidnapped? Was he trying to save me?"

"No," I said. "A bunch of guys with guns got out of a Toyota not long before the shooting started. Kenny's guys with guns took positions in the windows and returned fire."

"Kenny has guys with guns?" Chris cried. "No way! He…"

"Please," I said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Tell me how you're positive he's a good person."

I took several turns on our way out of town in case any of the men had been able to get in a vehicle quickly enough to follow us. Thankfully, I didn't see anyone behind us as we finally turned onto I-90, heading west.

At some point, I realized I was still holding Chris's hand. What had started off as my making sure he didn't bail had become… what, exactly? Comfort? Low-tech handcuffs?

I quickly let go and stretched my fingers before curling them around the steering wheel. "You, uh… you okay down there?"

"What? Oh. Yes. Totally. Fine." He seemed to realize he was still crouched on the floor and belatedly hoisted himself into his seat. "You know, the more I think about it, I think it had to be Kenny trying to help me back there. That's why no one was actually shooting directly at us. It was really sweet of him even if, you know, violence is never the answer."

I glanced sideways at him. Was he for real?

"Oh, dang!" He froze in the act of buckling his seat belt. "Reed, if the police come, do you think they'll look closely at Kenny's grandmother's garden? He mentioned they have more plants back there than they're supposed to."

"Why am I not surprised?" I snorted. "Yeah, Chris. I think that's the least of what they'll be looking at Kenny for, but definitely that, too."

He sighed. "This is what's wrong with the world, you know. Why put limits on how many plants a person can grow? Like, what if you wanted zucchini and peppers and tomatoes, enough for the whole neighborhood? What if you wanted to make sure there were some pretty flowers to attract your pollinators to make sure your vegetables flourish? It doesn't seem fair, does it?"

I opened my mouth, then shut it again. "You're… Is that… Are you joking?" I demanded. "Please tell me you realize that Kenny was talking about marijuana plants. As in, he's probably selling whatever he's not smoking? Blink twice if you are an actual inhabitant of this planet."

"Marijuana," Chris breathed, blinking significantly more than twice. His glasses slid down his nose, and he shoved them up impatiently. "Are you sure?"

Despite everything… maybe because of everything… I found myself fighting the urge to laugh. "Positive. Maybe you need to rethink your idea of what a criminal looks like, hmm?"

"So, then…" He wrinkled his nose in thought. "Was it the police shooting at him? You know, for the drugs ?"

I resisted the urge to punch myself in the face. "No, because the police don't wear masks or drive rusted-out Toyota Corollas. Also, they generally don't open fire on private residences in the middle of the night, no matter how much zucchini a person might be growing." I glanced at him again. "They called your name, Chris. Twice. I'm guessing they were looking for you, but Kenny somehow intercepted them. Maybe he assumed that if gunmen showed up in his neighborhood, they were looking for him. Maybe he didn't have time to think at all and just started shooting back. "

He swallowed hard. "Or. Or . They were calling for someone else. A Christina or a Christopher or a… a Chrysanthemum. You have no idea how many Chrises there are in the world, Reed. Billions, probably. Common as dirt."

Any lingering amusement I might have evaporated in the flash-fire heat of the anger that washed over me. Was fear causing his denial? Was he simply so committed to his act that he refused to give it up? Was he truly the sweetest human in the world and incapable of seeing the danger he was in? It didn't fucking matter. Because unless he recognized the danger he was in, he wouldn't let me protect him.

"Haven't you fired a gun before?" I asked suddenly, needing to know how the man could both recognize a nine mil and have no clue how to hold one.

"Yes," he admitted.

"Then why'd you act like you didn't know what to do when I handed you one?"

"Because I've never actually shot at a person. I couldn't. I-I don't even want to hold one."

"You're an ax thrower. You do martial arts. You're a weapons expert?—"

"Oh, for heaven's sake. No. I'm not ." Chris thunked his head back against the headrest. "Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to be told who and what you are by someone who thinks they know better than you, Reed? Because I've been dealing with that my whole life, from people who know me a whole lot better than you do, and I'm kind of over it. Okay?" He scraped his lip with his teeth before adding, "Sorry."

I could feel the weight of his eyes on me, but I didn't know how to respond, so I didn't.

A moment later, he spoke again. "I really, really want to go home. Can we please ? — ?"

"No. It's not safe."

His sigh came from the depths of his soul and made my heart turn over in my chest. Without consciously choosing to, I reached out and pushed a stray curl out of his eyes. "I'm sorry, too," I said softly.

He squeezed his eyes closed and turned his face away, and I clenched my jaw to keep from murmuring more reassurances.

Once he was slumped in a little ball in the passenger seat, snoring softly, I pulled out my phone and called the Division. A sleepy-voiced Margot from Accounts finally got on, sounding about as confused as I felt. She promised she'd pass on my "concerns" and very helpfully suggested that I "hang in there, buddy, and, like, improvise or whatever" until she could get back to me in the morning. She disconnected without saying goodbye.

Fuck.

I clutched my phone until the edge of the case dented my palm. From the first day of training, the Division had taught us to live their motto, "Security Through Trust." In order to succeed in a mission, protectees needed to trust us… and we needed to trust our bosses and fellow agents because we were always stronger as part of a team. I used to scoff at the rah-rah bullshit… but a month ago, when I'd almost gotten myself fired, I'd started to realize how much I had come to rely on it. If I wasn't a Division agent, if I wasn't part of that team, who the fuck was I?

I hadn't wanted to find out. I still didn't.

But now here I was, twisting in the wind with no support, effectively on my own, and?—

" John ." Chris's voice was so clear I turned my head, sure he was awake, but I quickly realized he must be dreaming about that TV character he kept mentioning.

I snorted. Chris Winowski was a fucking terror. An adorable, utterly confusing menace. John Ruffian could have him with my best wishes.

But then Chris frowned in his sleep and sighed, "Reed," and my stomach clenched.

Okay, so I wasn't entirely alone. I had one distractingly adorable, horrifically misinformed, ridiculously talkative protectee with me.

And I'm going to protect him , I vowed. Whether he likes it or not.

It turned out he didn't like it one bit.