Sarina Bowen's Blog, page 19

Thoughts from the Writing Cave

I realized something today! It’s just your run-of-the-mill deadline week epiphany. It’s this:

I have never written a book without thinking all of the following things:

Jesus Christ this is hard. Who thought this was a good idea?

If I were writing [insert completely different idea] this would be so much easier.

Well, fuck, it's just not going to work this time, is it? This is going to be the one that never comes together, and I have to throw it away and apologize. "Sorry, that book didn't want to be a book, go read another author."

Times +/- 35 books.

Whoops. I might be whining right now. Sorry. I have a deadline in six days.

There are ways to combat this insanity. For example, I scrawl TRUST THE PROCESS across my monthly calendar every other month or so. And once in a while I read those words and find the ability to trust the damn process!

But not every day.

Here’s hoping the sun comes out tomorrow.

See you on the flip side!

First Chapter: Roommate

Surprise! You can either read or listen to this first chapter on audio!

Listen on this web page. Or scroll down to read Chapter One!

Chapter One: Roderick

Sometimes adulting just sucks. 

These are my thoughts as I drive my rickety Volkswagen Bug up my parents’ gravel driveway. I haven’t been here for most of a decade, and I’m bracing myself in every possible way. Anything could have happened during the intervening years. They could have moved away. (Although that’s unlikely.) They could have gotten divorced. (Also hard to picture.) 

Conceivably, one or both could be dead.

I don’t even know how I’ll feel if that last thing has happened. My parents and I didn’t part on good terms, to put it lightly. But people can change their ways.

Not all of them do, though.

At first glance, my parents’ property looks exactly the same. The little one-story house is still clad in cheap vinyl siding, and its shade of ochre-yellow is just how I remember it. 

The tall pines have been carefully pruned of their dead lower branches, which argues for the continued existence of my father, who always enjoyed firing up his chainsaw to tidy things up. Also, Dad’s old ride-on mower is visible inside the garage.

He’s still around, then. I feel a little hit of relief, which makes no sense. The man will probably shut the door in my face when he sees who’s come to visit. This is going to end badly. I’m already ninety-nine percent sure.

Still, I need to ask for their help. After paying for the gas to drive up from Nashville, I have less than four hundred dollars to my name. And no job. If they turn me away, I’m sleeping in my car again tonight. 

It won’t kill me, but it’s not ideal.

Parking in front of the garage, I get out and almost bleep the locks. I’m so used to parking in Nashville. I haven’t lived under these tall pines for eight years.

Back then, I couldn’t wait to leave this place. I had my reasons, and some of them were solid. And I used to hate the trees and the winding country roads as much as I hated my parents’ attitude. 

I still hate the things my parents said to my teenage self. But Vermont looks better to me than it ever did before. I’m ready to live somewhere without smog and traffic. I miss the smell of woodsmoke in the nighttime air, and the sight of the sun setting over the Green Mountains.

Maybe it’s weird to feel nostalgia for a place that wasn’t good to me. But I’m in the mood to give Vermont a second chance. I’m hoping it gives me a second chance, too. And I’m about to find out if driving eleven hundred miles was a good idea or just plain stupid.

As I approach the house, the front door is already opening. My dad stands on the other side of the screen door, TV remote in his hand, staring at me like he’s seen a ghost.

“Hi,” I say carefully.

“Roddy,” he whispers. He makes no move to open the screen door, but then, neither do I. Maybe we both need a minute to get over our mutual shock.

He looks older. It startles me to catalog all the gray in his hair and the new wrinkles around his eyes.

I’m pretty sure that I don’t look like the skinny eighteen-year-old I used to be, either. So he’s staring back at me trying to get over that, too.

“You’re back?” he asks, still befuddled.

“Well…” I let out a nervous chuckle. “I’ve been living in Nashville. And yesterday I just got in my car and drove up here without a plan. It took me two days.”

I won’t tell him why I left Nashville. He won’t want to hear about the awful way my relationship ended. Hell, he won’t want to hear about my relationship at all.

“So,” I continue. “I’m happy to be back in Vermont. But I’m kind of starting over. And I was wondering if…”

“Ralph?” my mother’s voice calls from deeper inside the small house.

I have very little time to prepare before she appears behind him. She’s drying her hands on a dish towel, her hair in a messy bun.

My heart gives a little squeeze of familiarity before I can steel myself.

“Roderick,” she whispers, her eyes popping wide. “Oh, honey. What’s happened?”

“Well, not much,” I stammer. “I just needed to get out of Nashville and start over. So I was thinking of doing that here.”

“Here?” She squeezes the dish towel, her eyes alight.

“Perhaps,” I say, trying to sound like it isn’t my only option in the whole world. But if I step over the threshold and stay with them, it has to be because I’m invited. I won’t live with their disdain. Sleeping in the car would be better.

“You want to stay here,” my father clarifies. He’s still holding that TV remote. And he still hasn’t opened the screen door.

It’s not a good sign.

“Just for a little while,” I say. “Until I find a job and a place of my own. I’m a baker.”

“You…what?” my mother asks. “Like, cakes?”

“Bread, mostly. I went to culinary school. I specialize in bread-baking.”

My father squints at me, and that’s another clue this isn’t going to work. “Culinary school,” he echoes. There’s dismissal in his voice. Baking is not a real man’s job. I might as well have said that I’m a ballet dancer, or that I star in a drag show. My father’s ideas of what a man should do with his life are straight out of the fifties. 

“No more guitar?” my mother asks. She’s hoping I’ve grown out of being the queer little music nerd my father couldn’t tolerate. She’s trying to sway him.

“No guitar,” I agree, although it kills me a little to imply that I somehow got with Dad’s program and outgrew music. The truth is that I accidentally left my guitar behind in Nashville.

I did outgrow musicians, though. But that’s another long story.

“If you stay…” My father purses his lips. “It’s our house, our rules.”

I swallow hard. “I’m a great house guest. I even cook. And clean up.”

My mother makes a happy sound and reaches for the latch on the screen door. She even elbows my father a little to shift him out of the way.

He doesn’t move, though. He’s still staring at me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. “But you’re not… You won’t…” He falters.

“I won’t what?” I ask, already knowing where this is going.

Dad can’t even spit out the loathsome words. “You have a girlfriend?” he asks.

Coward. I shake my head. “I don’t have anybody. That’s why I’m standing on your front steps. I had to leave a bad relationship with nothing but my clothes and a box of books. But I still date men, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m still gay.”

My mother lets out a sound of dismay. And the way my father’s face shutters, I know I came here for nothing. 

“You haven’t been to church,” my father says, as if that isn’t a non-sequitur. But to him I suppose it isn’t.

“Not lately,” I admit. “My life blew up, Dad. I have nowhere to go. I’m asking to stay in my old room for a couple of weeks until I can regroup. And I’d help out around here, of course.”

There is a terrible silence while we stare at each other. And then he slowly shakes his head. “Not until you ask God’s forgiveness.”

It’s really astonishing that you can storm out of a house at eighteen in the middle of a shouting match, and then pick right up again in the same place eight years later. We’re still trapped in the same dialogue we’d had my entire last year of high school. 

“I am humble before the Lord,” I say quietly. “But I will not apologize to Him for who I love, or who I am.”

My father gives me a disgusted look, as if I just announced my committed worship of Satan. He folds his arms across his chest. The posture is clear. Go away. You are no longer my son.

Message received. I feel a flash of the old hurt, but it’s followed swiftly by exhaustion. My anger is muted by two days behind the wheel of my car and by already having years of living with his rejection. 

Still, I look him right in the eye. You arrogant fuck. Who says you can judge me?

My mother sniffs, and I know she’s crying. Mom wants me to come inside. But she doesn’t want it enough to stand up to him.

That’s when I finally realize I’m done here. Probably forever. There is nothing left to do but turn around and leave.

I take one last look at him. But there is no softness there. No affection for the kid he used to love, although I’ve always been me. I’m the same boy who caught all those baseballs with him in the various yards around the country where we lived when he was in the Air Force. I’m the same son who mowed the lawn and got up early to go fishing, because I craved his attention.

He doesn’t even blink. His rejection is unmoving.

So I turn around and make myself walk away.

The sound of the heavy wood door shutting behind me comes even more suddenly than I expect it to. And I have the sudden, terrible urge to spin around and hurl myself at that fucking door. Open up, you cowardly fuck! I might scream. Part of me wants to make a big scene, the way I used to when he lectured me during my senior year of high school.

But the other half of me is already numb. I drove all the way to Vermont thinking I might have a chance. When God closes a door, he opens a window. It’s the worst kind of cliché, but I wanted it to be true. All the way here I wondered if my breakup was some kind of sign that I was meant to live my life elsewhere. I thought maybe I was sent home again for a reason.

Apparently not, though. This week, when God closes a door, he also engages the deadbolt.

I go back to my car and start the engine again. Might as well have left her running. I do a three-point turn without looking at the house, yellowed pine needles crackling under my tires. It’s time to form a Plan B. So I point my car toward the center of Colebury.

I’ll bet my father is already watching the playoff game again. Maybe he’s treated himself to a second beer, just to wash away the disturbing intrusion of his queer son during the fifth inning.

And my mother is crying into a hand towel in the bathroom. Quietly. So she doesn’t make a fuss.

I can’t think about them right now. I have more practical problems—like how to get a job immediately. And where to sleep tonight. Best-case scenario—there is magically a job opening at the King Arthur Flour Bakery, where I began my career. But even if they hire me tomorrow, it will be at least two weeks until I could expect to be paid. 

I have to figure out how to stay alive for several weeks on a few hundred dollars. 

As I drive into town, I notice that my gas tank is almost empty. There goes twenty-five bucks. I drive slowly anyway, taking in the sights, wondering what’s changed. Just before the turn into Colebury, I spot a couple of new businesses. There’s a bar called the Gin Mill with lots of cars in the parking lot. That place looks like a good time, but I don’t have money to spend, not even on a single beer.

In the same lot, though, there’s another business that’s even more interesting to me. The Busy Bean. A coffee shop. It’s closed now, but I make a note to pay it a visit soon. If it’s a big coffee shop, they might be able to use a baker, one who doesn’t mind pouring coffee, too. 

Beggars can’t be choosers. And since I’m this close to becoming an actual beggar, I have to keep my options open.

I gun the engine, climbing the hill toward the town square. The houses look a little better maintained than the last time I was here. It’s a warm autumn night, and there are people standing outside the old diner, chatting. That place has shined itself up, too. When did Colebury get cute? I’m stunned at how cheerful it looks, with window boxes on the store fronts and every street lamp lit.

My nostalgia bubbles up inside me again like yeast. This is my hometown, even if I never felt welcome here before. I was born here. And even if I spent most of my first eighteen years living on various military bases around the world, I finished high school here, too. 

And I like the look of the place, damn it. I feel the pull. 

Wouldn’t it be funny if I settled down in Colebury right under the noses of my parents? I want to see the look on my father’s face when I walk into the diner holding hands with my future boyfriend.

Now there’s a happy thought I’ll need to revisit when I’m trying to fall asleep in the passenger seat later.

Behind the old diner, I see something that’s actually useful to me. A gym. TRY A WEEK ON US, reads a sign in the window.

It’s the first lucky break of the day. Or maybe the month, if I’m honest. If the gym has even a half-decent locker room, I can shower there every night. I’ll need to look professional while I’m job hunting.

I park my car and get out. Come on, Colebury. Don’t let me down.

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Are the World of True North books considered canon?

Readers have asked if the World of True North books are to be considered canon. Here is what I can say about that…

When I was taught the word “canon” in high school, it meant a regulation or dogma decreed by a church council, or an authoritative list of books accepted as Holy Scripture. To my understanding, it’s now used in fan fic circles to indicate the author’s true work, or at least the authorized storyline, as opposed to loosely appended secondary ideas and storylines?

So that’s what I’ve been asked—will the World of True North books be absolutely consistent with the series? Or, if not, will they create a sort of spaghetti entanglement that’s not meant to be taken on the same level as the original 7 (soon to be 8) True North books.

Before I answer, I need to admit that I am not terribly knowledgeable about fan fic and its potential relationship to canon. Everything I know about it I learned from Rainbow Rowell’s FANGIRL, which is wonderful, and if you haven’t read that, I don’t know what you’re doing with your life.

I will also admit, although reluctantly, that I had to google the spelling “canon vs. cannon” before I wrote this blog post. You may realize at this point that the concept of canon (one N) and I are not that well acquainted.

This is a cannon, not a canon.

The truth is that I seem to have a good deal of trouble keeping my own books from contradicting one another. There’s a hero of mine who has two birthdays, for example. (In two different books, though. I’m not THAT loopy.)

Okay, fine, that’s happened twice, in different series. And then there’s the book where a character’s old phone number doesn’t work in one book, and then works again in the next. There are two drivers named Reggie, in different cities, too. And when I realized I had two publicists named Becky I decided to just always name the publicist Becky because when you’re in charge you can lean into your own eccentricities.

When people ask why these errors happen, I often say that my subconscious is an asshole. But sometimes it’s not even my fault. In an epilogue, I let the Brooklyn Bruisers to win the Stanley Cup Final in June of 2020. I just didn’t anticipate Covid, and the lack of June 2020 hockey.

In short, perfection is impossible. At least if you’re me. I have stacks of character sheets and carefully made series bibles (thank you Claudia) at my disposal, and I still screw it up from time to time. So imagine my horror at the expectation that 45 new World of True North books might occasionally trip over each others’ feet. But that doesn’t mean we’re not trying.

TL;DR I am finally ready to answer the danged question

The World of True North books are meant to stand proudly alongside the original series without messing anything up. The authors have taken care to consult me and each other. There are some wonderful synergies they’ve created. Even the four mini series cross each other delightfully. I’m so impressed with all the work these authors have done!

One of the things we’ve got going for us, though, is that the authors of these worlds are populating some spaces that haven’t been thoroughly litigated by the core series. For example, the Speakeasy bar that Alec and Griff and Otto and Lyle create in book five (Speakeasy) is never visited by the main characters after its opening date. So my authors were free to populate it with their own people.

Ditto the Moo U hockey team. While Dylan and Chastity give readers a thorough introduction to the quirks of Moo U in Heartland, the hockey team itself is brand new in this new series, launching first on February 15. And the Vino & Veritas bar that Roderick and Kieran visit in the epilogue of Roommate becomes a fresh setting for a new series, too.

But lets not forget that 45 people can’t share one brain. If you’re determine to find small inconsistencies, and you look hard, I’ll bet you’ll find a few. It won’t be intentional, and it won’t be for lack of trying.

We’ll do the best we can! We can’t guarantee perfection. But we will guarantee you a really good time.

All my best,

Sarina

Try out the audio of Roommate

Did you hear? Teddy Hamilton and Stephen Dexter are narrating Roommate!

Try it out right here. And there are more excerpts at YouTube.

An international Goodreads giveaway!

Easy peasy lemon squeezy!

International Goodreads Giveaway: Roommate by Sarina Bowen


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A free story in this new anthology!

I have a treat for you! I wrote a short story called BOYFRIEND and contributed to this free anthology! BOYFRIEND introduces the Moo U hockey series in the World of True North! And I can’t wait for you to read it!

Heads up about one thing: when you download this anthology, you are signing up for every author’s newsletter. You may unsubscribe at any time.

BOYFRIEND will also be published at the retailers next year, but I don’t know the date yet!

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First Chapter: Loverboy

Loverboy, Chapter OneGunnar

“Excuse me, sir. I'm here to pick you up.“

I squint at the blond kid who’s approached me near the baggage carousel. He's holding one of those signs that drivers use to help their passengers identify them. Instead of my name, the sign bears a silhouette of a skeleton key, and nothing else.

That's The Company logo. And as further proof of his identity, the blond kid tugs aside the V-neck of his T-shirt to show me that he wears the same key inked on his skin.

I have one, too. In fact, I was the second person to ever get the team tattoo, just moments after Max Bayer—my college roommate and now boss—got his.

Even so, I won't get into a car with anyone unless I am certain the situation is legit. I’ve spent the past four years running our West Coast operation, so there are a bunch of New York-based agents I’ve never met.

But when I glance at my watch, there’s a new text from Max: I sent a kid to pick your grumpy ass up. The name is Duff. You're welcome.

"What's your name, kid?" I grunt.

"Duff, sir." He takes the handle of my suitcase right out of my hand. “Shall we go?”

“Thanks, Duff. What's your specialty?" I ask, because everyone in The Company has a specialty.

“Precision driving and high-speed ops."

“Sweet,” I say as we head for the doors. “Maybe you can take me for a spin on the track before I head back to San Jose.”

“It would be my pleasure," he says, holding the door. "How was your flight?"

“Fine. First class makes things bearable." Although I’m not sure why I’m here. Max called me to New York for a short-term assignment, but he didn’t provide details. All he’d said was: it has to be you.

Now, I like field work as much as the next guy. It keeps me sharp. But the lack of detail from Max is troublesome. And now he’s sent an obsequious man-child to carry my luggage and drive me around? There’s only one logical explanation.

This assignment must be horrific. 

“I’m parked right over here,” Duff says, rolling my suitcase toward a gleaming sedan. “Make yourself comfortable. If you’re hungry, I’ve brought a meatball sub from ‘Wichcraft and a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice."

My grip freezes on the handle of the passenger door. “You brought me my favorite sandwich?”

“Yessir.”

“Jesus fucking Christ."

"Is there a problem?" The kid looks alarmed.

“Absolutely. You know Max, right?”

“Of course I do.”

“Right. So he took the time to send you in search of my favorite sandwich and my favorite beverage? Does he do that for everyone he asks to take an assignment?”

“Uh, I’m still kinda new here,” Duff says carefully.

“The answer is no. He doesn’t do that. Exactly what am I walking into, young Duff?”

He gets into the car, then hands me the bag from the deli without meeting my eyes.

I buckle in, and the radio comes on when he starts the car. The first thing I hear is the windbag of a mayor giving a press conference. Lovely. I hit the power button on the stereo and settle the car into silence. Then I open the deli bag.

Even if I have my suspicions, I’m not willing to let a perfectly good sandwich go to waste. So I take the first bite as he navigates to the Triboro Bridge. “God, this is good. Do you know what it is?"

“The sandwich?” Duff asks, eyes on the road.

“No, the assignment.”

The kid looks uncomfortable. "I'm not at liberty to say."

“Oh fuck. Come on, kid. You're going to make me walk in there cold? Let me know what I'm up against.”

“He made me promise I wouldn't tell. You wouldn't want to get me fired, would you? I have student loans.”

“Likely story,” I grumble. “This better not involve crawling through a drainpipe. I have done that kind of Shawshank Redemption thing once for Max and never again.”

Duff visibly shudders. “It's nothing like that.”

“Will I need a wetsuit? Or hazmat gear?”

“No! But that's the last question I'm answering.”

I stew on that as we reach the FDR. “This juice is really good, damn it. But if you let it slip that Max squeezed the oranges himself, I will have to dive out of this moving vehicle just to save myself.”

Duff barks out a laugh. “Keep your seatbelt on. The juice is from the deli. You're making a BFD for nothing. It's a cushy assignment.”

“Likely story.” Why would Max insist I fly to New York to take a cushy assignment? Like I'm not busy enough making both of us rich in California? And he knows I hate New York. “You'd better not be lying, kid. Do you know what my specialty is?”

“No?”

“Information extraction.”

“Seriously?”

“You are new, aren’t you? I’m just fucking with you. My specialty is covert ops and surveillance equipment. You still don’t want to fuck with me. I could rig your toilet paper roll to blast your farts over a sound system in Times Square.”

He laughs again. “I’ve been warned.”

“How is Max, anyway? I haven’t seen him in a few months.”

“Intense,” is the first word out of the kid’s mouth.

Eh. That doesn’t tell me much, because Max is always intense. “How’s the vibe around the office?”

The kid is quiet for a moment. “My great-grandfather used to tell me stories about what England was like during World War II. And it’s like that. Everyone is hunkered down, trying to get by with too few personnel. We’re rationing our time off.”

“I see.” It’s not a bad analogy. The Company is at war in a manner of speaking. Our high-tech clients are all locked in battle with a common, invisible enemy. A ring of shady tech manufacturers has been trying to infiltrate Silicon Valley. Max is trying to shut it down on behalf of our clients, and also on behalf of civilization.

“Morale is pretty good even so,” Duff adds. “Because we’re on top of our game, and our clients are happy to have us. It’s not a thankless job, you know?”

“I do know that, kid. I absolutely know.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later I'm handing my driver’s license across the reception desk at The Company. The young woman on duty glances at my ID. “Welcome back to the New York office, Mr. Scott! Your security clearance is still active, even though it’s been a while.”

“Seven months,” I mutter. I hate New York. It reminds me too much of being a young, stupid kid. So I don’t come to town very often.

“Max is waiting for you in his apartment.”

“Where nobody can hear me scream? Awesome.” She and Duff both laugh, but I'm not really kidding. I press my hand to the sensor on the turnstile that allows me to pass through to the elevators. And then I do the same on a panel that summons the only elevator with access to Max's living space on the penthouse floor. “Thanks for the food and the juice, Duff,” I say as I step inside the car.

“Anytime.”

The elevator begins its smooth ascent toward the private living quarters of Max Bayer. His father started this company many years ago as an ordinary security firm. Meanwhile, Max and I graduated from Columbia together and then went off to D.C. to become top ranking intelligence officers together.

It worked. Mostly. But after some years went by, we both wanted out, for different reasons. Max left because an operation he was running went sour. Lives were lost, including someone very special to Max. He felt a lot of guilt. Not that he ever talks about it. Max is a vault.

But after he left, the place wasn’t the same. I was tired of risking my life for a bureaucracy that didn't seem to care about me. Nothing can make a guy jaded faster than upholding dubious government secrets.

“Join me,” Max had said at the time. “I’m going to reinvent private security for the internet age.”

It was a lofty statement, but that’s Max for you. Besides, he has a way of delivering on his lofty statements. And although I’m not half the genius Max is, I was one of about three people in the world he actually trusted. So—in spite of the New York location—it was an easy decision.

Now, as I let myself into Max's magnificent lair, I have to wonder what I've gotten myself into. There's a decanter of single malt sitting on the table. There’s a glass waiting for me, too, with one of those giant ice cubes—the kind that melt slowly, preserving the hundred-dollar shot of whiskey you pour over it.

"What's the occasion?" I ask. "Thanks for the ride and the sandwich. But you can imagine that I’m deeply suspicious.” I look around the vast room, trying to spot him.

My eyes come to rest on a pair of Max-shaped legs. That’s all I can see of him. They’re standing on an upholstered chair that probably cost the GDP of a small nation. The rest of him is inside a large air-conditioning unit that’s mounted through the old brick wall of his converted factory building.

“Moment,” he says.

I wait.

There’s a small bang. Like the sound of a .22 firing. In the company of another man, that might be alarming. But Max calmly steps down a moment later, removes a pair of headphones and begins to disassemble a Ruger rifle and return it to its case. “Hey, Gunn. Great to see you.”

“What were you doing with that thing? Capping pigeons?”

“Nah, I don’t mind pigeons. But I do mind that the City of New York has decided to install a surveillance camera on my corner. That’s not good for business.”

“So you just—” I make a finger rifle and pop him one.

“It’s very efficient,” he says, carrying the gun to a safe on the wall and locking it away.

“You don't think you'll get caught?”

“Nah. The butt of the rifle is too small to see in the air conditioner grate. I checked the view first with a drone.”

Of course he did.

“Great to see you, man. Let’s drink scotch.”

“What's it gonna cost me? When you start spoiling me, I get nervous.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You invited your brother Eric over for tacos. Then you shipped his ass to Hawaii. Now he has a baby and he’s engaged to be married.”

Max scratches his chin. “We’re not having tacos. You’ve got nothing to fear.” He picks up the decanter and uncaps it. “The job I have planned for you is a piece of cake. In fact, there are literally cakes involved.”

“Hmm,” I say, because that does sound better than crawling through a sewage tunnel. But I’m too smart to feel any relief. “Get to the point.”

“First let me catch you up on a few developments. Xian Smith is in New York.”

“Interesting.” We’ve been trying to prove that Smith is manufacturing compromised processors in Asia for placement into American devices. It's not easy to stay ahead of the cyber security war. Max is one of the few industry leaders who’s realized that hardware is the new frontier of cybercrime. Instead of hacking into networks, Xian Smith is taking a different tack: hack the modem before it’s out of the box.

It could work, too. Americans love their electronics, and they love to buy them cheaply. Most of our gadgets are manufactured overseas. Smith and his cohort—we still need to know who he’s working with—are underbidding honest manufacturers of smart speakers, modems, and servers. Smith sells the cheap components at a loss, and then slightly reengineers them, inserting spy chips to activate later.

Max works day and night to keep our clients’ products clean. But it isn’t easy, because the smorgasbord of “smart” devices keeps expanding. The people crave their phones, their smart thermostats, and their smart speakers.

If Max and I don’t shut down this ring of savvy information pirates, millions of devices will be used to spy on unsuspecting users. Whoever controls the spy chips can reap our secrets and sell them off to the highest bidder. Blackmail. Industrial espionage. Military secrets. If your toaster or your cable modem is spying on you, nothing is safe.

“Smith has been here in town for three weeks already, with no signs of leaving,” Max adds.

“That’s a long stay for him. There’s more business in California. He hasn’t tried to strike a new deal with our friend Alex, right?”

Max shakes his head. “But only because Alex is using our tech to scan each motherboard for design flaws or changes. She put him on notice.”

“Which means we still don’t have the proof we need.” I lift my glass of scotch, and inhale the nutty, caramel scent of it.

“Not yet,” Max admits. “Alex’s products are safe. But Smith has many other clients, any one of whom might be installing his compromised hardware. So I’m picking my way through his client list.”

“And how are you doing that?”

“Tireless surveillance. And guess what? I’ve just picked up a new client. He manufactures motherboards designed for onboard car navigation systems. And some of them are compromised.”

“Damn,” I say slowly. “Car companies outsource their dashboard technology. And people don't watch what they say in the car. If you had access to that ...”

“Exactly. And guess who made these faulty motherboards? Mr. Smith.”

“Fine. Well done. But how does that involve me?” I sip the scotch slowly because I need to stay sharp. Last time I let him get me drunk, I lost five grand at backgammon.

“So—on the one hand—we have Smith in town for an unusual stretch of time. That’s strange enough. But simultaneously there’s some really interesting chatter happening in a dark web hacker forum. Did you read about those three hackers who were poisoned?”

“Of course I did. I’ve never been so grossed out by a news story about hackers.” I have to fight off a shudder just thinking about it. Three men on two continents have been killed with a toxin resembling nerve gas. They died sitting at their desks—or writhing on the floor beside their desk chairs.

“Someone has been bragging about those murders. He calls himself The Plumber, and he keeps dropping details that aren’t available in the news.” Max eyes me over the rim of his scotch glass. “And here’s the part that’s going to make you think I’m crazy.”

“Am I? Try me.”

“The Plumber is here in New York, and Xian Smith is here in New York.”

“Could be a coincidence,” I point out. New York is a big city.

“I’m not done. The third part of this coincidence is that a certain arms dealer has left Turkey. One of our old friends from Langley told me that they think he’s in New York.”

“Oh.” I set down my glass. “And I take it you don’t mean just any arms dealer from Turkey?”

Slowly, he shakes his head.

“Well, shit.” We sit in silence a moment while I take this in. I can only name one man on the planet that Max wants to kill. There’s an arms dealer known as Aga who murdered some of the members of Max’s team.

Including the woman Max thought he’d spend his life with.

“I think Aga is in New York,” Max says quietly. “And I think he’s given up shoulder-launched missiles in favor of cybercrime.”

“Max! What the—?”

“I know it’s a big leap. I know, okay? You don’t have to tell me. But whomever is talking about those killings says that they all died with a red ribbon in their hands. The newspapers don’t have that detail.”

For a moment I just stare at him. “I’ll admit that’s creepy. But there are a lot of ribbons in the world. It might be a coincidence. Or a copycat. Those hackers who died were in three different countries.”

“I know.” He sips his whiskey. “But the chatter is all coming from a New York source. The Plumber posts this stuff from three different places in lower Manhattan.”

“Wait, what?” This story is getting weirder by the minute. “Who posts sensitive crap in dark web groups and leaves a trail?”

“I’ve been asking myself that same question. Maybe it’s a competitor who wants to expose him. Or maybe someone is scared. The Plumber moves around. He does his posting on public Wi-Fi in busy coffee shops. He wants people to know what the murderer is doing, without exposing himself. And I need you to find him for me.”

“Ah,” I say, because at last we’ve arrived at my part of this bargain. “You want me to find The Plumber, so you and he can have a little chat.”

“Bingo.” Max sips his scotch.

“Okay. Sure. I’ll look for your informant. But I don’t know what you’re going to do if you find him.”

“Just talk,” Max says. “So long as he’s willing.”

Yikes. “Be careful, Max. Make sure you’re in the right frame of mind here. I know Aga is important to you. But you’re pretty important to the rest of us. So I need you to take care.”

He tilts his head to the side and studies me. “Thank you, Gunn. I appreciate it. I know you think I’m tilting at windmills. But I need to explore this.”

“Sure. Where should I start?”

“You’ll begin tomorrow morning at about nine-thirty, after the morning coffee rush has passed.”

“So I can get a table at one of the establishments your sloppy hacker likes?”

“Not quite.” He slides a photo toward me on the coffee table. It’s a storefront called Posy’s Pie Shop.

My spine tingles. “Interesting name.” There must be a lot of women in New York named Posy, though. Thousands, probably.

“Isn’t it? Note the Help Wanted sign in the window. They pay fifteen bucks an hour. They’re desperate for a barista.”

I let out a bark of laughter. “You can’t be serious! I don’t even drink coffee. They’ll never hire me.”

“Think about how easy it will be to watch the customers from behind the counter, Gunn. You’ll have an excuse to stare at everyone who comes through the door. The hacker posts half his stuff from this one location.”

“They’ll never hire me! And it’s shitty to take a job for two weeks and then bail.”

He shrugs. “She’ll find someone else.”

“She?” My spine tingles again. Posy’s. It’s probably just a coincidence.

Max reaches into the folder and passes me another photograph of a beautiful woman. She’s handing a plate across the counter to a customer. And smiling. That smile always made me stupid. I wanted her so badly.

But all I got was a single kiss. And then a whole lot of trouble.

I let out a groan and toss the picture back to Max. “No. You can’t be serious.”

He puts the photo away. Then he just sits back and watches me.

“You really think I’m going to apply for a job at her bakery? That’s stupid.”

Max waits.

“I can’t do that. She hates me. And given the way things ended, the feeling is mutual.”

Max sips his scotch.

“She does not want to see my ugly mug every day. And she does not need an incompetent barista. I mean—I’m sure I could figure out how to make coffee. How hard could it be? But that’s not the point. I don’t need to stand around in a bakery for hours on end just to follow up on this stupid lead you’re getting from some dark web forum. Even if the perp knows too much about …” I swallow. “A string of murders.” Grizzly, horrible murders.

A violent criminal is using Posy Paxton’s shop to boast about killing people? Shit. Posy isn’t equipped for that. She’s about as fierce as a kitten.

I let out a sigh of resignation.

Max watches me take all this in. “I knew you’d see it my way. You cared for this girl.”

“Did not,” I lie. “Fine. What if I did? I was young and stupid.”

It was fifteen years ago, for God’s sake. I worked at Paxton’s—her family’s swanky uptown restaurant—as a bartender. Posy turned up the summer before my senior year of college. It was the first time in my life I ever felt lightning-struck by a girl. She had bright, intelligent eyes. And her quick smile did unexpected things to my body. Every time she walked into the room, my heart rate sped up, and my skin felt too hot.

It didn’t even matter to me that she was a horrible bartender. Every time she smiled at me, I forgave her incompetence. Hell, I think I liked it. Because Posy needed a lot of help from me to do the job. I taught her a lot, even though we were competing for the bar manager’s job.

I wasn’t that worried, though, because I’d been working my way up the Paxton’s ladder since I was sixteen. I knew ten times more than she did. I used to tease her about it, too. But even as my mouth was saying, you call that a margarita? my heart was saying, will you please get into my bed?

She felt it too. At the end of the summer we shared the most outrageous kiss. Afterward, I walked on air, feeling like a game show contestant who’d just won a new car.

Until the next day, when she got me fired.

Posy turned out to be the same kind of unforgiving rich kid I’d spent my teenage years avoiding. And I guess I’m still bitter, because I think I’d rather crawl through a sewage pipe than work for her shop.

“Here’s an idea,” I say to Max. “I don’t have to work there. I can just loiter.”

“At your former rival’s place of business. Because that’s not creepy at all.” Max smiles slowly.

Fuck.

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