“Strewth? Laid it on thick, did I? Fair dinkum.” She turned to face briefly toward the convention center, “Suffer, maties!” Those shallow idiots who had led such sheltered lives that they thought the game ending was as painful as losing someone.

  Laura laughed with that Wookie-high giggle.

  “That was another thing I lost in my past.”

  “They that sow in tears shall reap in joy,” Laura whispered. “Psalms 126. Isn’t it about time you sought joy?”

  “Not one of my strengths.”

  “Start here. Start now.” Laura didn’t continue.

  “Chapter and verse?” Holly had come to like their little game.

  “Me. Time to adult up, Holly.”

  “I thought that meant…” She didn’t know anything anymore.

  “Hey, we’re two amazing grown-ups. If we don’t deserve some joy, who does?”

  Again Holly didn’t have an answer. But she did have something she hadn’t felt in a long time: hope. It was a strange, new sensation that she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt before—or needed so badly.

  Captain Marvel wrapped an arm around Princess Fiona’s shoulders. “No one deserves it more than us superheroes.”

  “Strewth,” Laura said with a decent Broad accent.

  Holly, for the first time in years, perhaps since her brother’s death, laughed.

  Acknowledgments

  M. L. and Laura Ware have know each other for years through writing workshops. She’s been a newspaper columnist and fiction writer for years (more about her works at https://laurahware.com). She is a quiet, funny, and devout woman. She has raised two boys of her own as well as an “honorary” one. She has traveled on missions and done too many years of caregiving with very few complaints.

  But she showed another side while being interviewed for this story. She is also an avid gamer! She kept her two sons, and her honorary one, in check with her sword-and-sorcery gaming skills. The utterly amazing things we don’t know about our friends.

  Her favorite charity is Timothy Hill Ranch (https://www.timothyhill.org/) offering a Christ-centered community for troubled children and young adults. Please mention her name if you choose to add a donation to hers.

  Mike’s Last Big Con

  Mike Munroe’s path before joining Miranda’s team was all about survival. Of all the characters, he still is the best at hiding his past from others. It’s time for Mike to show us who really is—or at least really was.

  1

  “You’re in my chair!”

  “Comfortable.” Massar tipped back and planted the heels of his cheap rubber-soled Rockports on the corner of Mike’s desk. A pebble of asphalt stuck in the heel tread had Mike Munroe wincing.

  He dropped into one of the client chairs on the wrong side of his own desk. In these chairs—cut lower, but too subtly to consciously bother the most practiced observer—Mike now sat a few crucial centimeters of perceived superiority lower than Massar. And it was Mike’s job to know that perception was everything.

  “Just—” he didn’t know what. He could feel Agent Rob Massar’s cheap FBI suit soiling his eight-thousand-dollar RECARO Sportster CS office chair, and he couldn’t do a thing about it. Massar’s hidden carry at the small of his back was probably carving a hole in the tight-grained black leather. Asking Massar to go easy on the furniture was like asking a Catholic priest for leniency during confession. It would only make things worse.

  There was no point asking how he’d gotten past the security system, the FBI owned Mike’s ass and they knew it.

  This was the same way his first meeting with Massar had begun, back when the office chair was from Staples, the desk from a business bankruptcy auction, and the office was in a strip mall next to a coin laundry. Five-ten of Catholic FBI agent with a receding hairline and a well-trimmed goatee gone to gray had strolled through the front door and sat in his chair.

  “Been some good years, Mike.”

  “Sure, ever since you horned in on my operation.” Advertising had been the perfect scam. Flashy presentations, mock-up and ad placement for a steep fee—and no direct way to measure the results. When the ads didn’t hit the mark, Mike would pay off a few hustler buddies to go into whatever business and be vocal about that great ad that had brought them through the door. Posting a few rave reviews online from untraceable accounts didn’t hurt either.

  “Ah, Syrian money laundering. Those were the days.” Massar nodded as if sipping a Manischewitz grape wine like it was a Grand Cru Burgundy.

  Mike had learned about the traditional Jewish wine at many high holidays. He might have been raised from nine on in a Catholic orphanage, but his boyishly handsome looks, the nuns’ phrase that had initially ticked him off, had him going home with more than a few Jewish princesses over the years. He’d learned fast that there wasn’t a Jewish princess alive that didn’t want to throw a Catholic boy in her father’s face and he’d happily offered himself. The entire race of women seemed to have serious daddy issues, which they really loved flaunting a goyim to repay. The more decent their father was, the harder they pushed Mike in his face.

  Then their sisters would get in on the game of stealing him away from their siblings and… Mike never had any reasons for complaint.

  He’d once asked Agent Rob Massar if he’d ever had similar experiences. They’d both survived the full twelve years of Catholic school after all, though on different coasts and Massar’s hadn’t been part of an orphanage.

  Sure, except I was smart enough to marry one of them.

  Which meant their experiences had nothing in common.

  “Yeah, some days.” Mike agreed. Always safer to agree with the FBI. Besides, they had been good, still were.

  His first two clients had been a grocery store and a dog groomer. Both run by a pleasant Syrian lady who was dealing stacks of counterfeit twenties out the back door. They paid most of their suppliers in cash…he always took a check. She’d recommended him to others in need of legitimate promotion campaigns to cover clandestine businesses. His absolute discretion was his reputation. He was careful to never notice what side-business was going on.

  At least not until the day Massar had showed up in his office chair, tossed down his FBI badge, and asked how Mike felt about working for the government. We’ve got two fine job opportunities all picked out for you: informant, or making license plates in a federal penitentiary—completely your choice of course.

  Mike had selected Door Number One.

  Massar and the FBI had guided him to bigger and bigger targets since then. It had become a rolling client list: Client C recommending him to Client D with glowing reviews, and by the time he’d leveraged that to Client E, the FBI would be moving in on Client C with D in its sights and E none the wiser.

  A rolling con, the best since he’d started dealing battered Bicycle cards in the girls’ bathroom at the orphanage. He never lost in that game, and he wasn’t losing now.

  His fifth-floor office had a commanding view over the heart of Cherry Creek North, the fast-beating heart of Denver, Colorado’s most affluent center. Fourteen miles to Centennial Airport where he kept his Beech Bonanza. The six-seater prop plane was a write-off for the company because it was perfect for entertaining clients. He loved working in advertising. Just this weekend he’d—

  “You hit the jackpot this time.”

  “I did?”

  Massar dropped his heels to the floor and leaned his elbows on the Amish walnut Mission-style desk.

  Mike would have to remember to polish off the FBI cooties later.

  “You aren’t playing stupid with me, are you, Mike?”

  For once Mike didn’t know what Massar was talking about. Mike had known all about the Syrian matriarch money launderer. He’d tried a little distraction play there, but Massar had the facts so he hadn’t tried hard. The FBI just hadn’t had enough to pin down a conviction. Mike became their inside man—their trained monkey.

  Ever since, except for the rare legitimate client who slipped in sideways, the FBI had fed him a folder first and he’d gone in with his eyes open.

  No folder this time, and the current clients were all on track to the shitter in their neatly tiered progression.

  “Seriously?” Massar squinted at him.

  Mike shrugged. “I’ve been out of town the last few days. What did I miss?”

  He’d taken the plane, his skis, and the exceptionally flexible Violetta Celeste Giovanni up to Aspen. They hadn’t done much skiing, but he had a new ad account for several of Violetta’s ventures. She was as well-endowed in business as she was in body.

  “I should let you roast on your own spit.” Massar laughed.

  “The joke sounds good. Care to let me in on it?”

  “No,” Massar pushed to his feet. “No, I think it’ll run better if you play this one straight.”

  “Straight?”

  “You know me, Mr. Straight Arrow.”

  “You?” Mike would have laughed if his throat hadn’t suddenly gone dry.

  Massar kept speaking as he headed for the door, “We had a dog named Arrow, after that sixties animated movie The Point. See, my two boys loved that blue dog and named our papillon Arrow and our papillon-sheltie mix Bow. Dogs have gone and died on them, so now it seems I’m the only straight arrow. Watch out for the point.” And he was out the door.

  Arrow Massar had left a crease at the back of Mike’s good chair. The black leather slowly filled in, as if trying to repel the FBI’s presence.

  “Hit the jackpot this time?” he asked. No one answered. No clue from his desk. No one sitting in the Chesterfield armchairs clustered tastefully around a low table that matched his desk, close by the bar stocked with only the finest labels. No discreet sign in the glass display cabinet filled with awards he’d never won.

  What the hell had he missed?

  2

  A close review of his open files revealed nothing.

  To clear his head, Mike considered running up the highway to Black Hawk in his BMW i8. The roadster always put on a good show for the ladies; Violetta had certainly enjoyed it. Classy Italian lady in a hot sports car was always a fine thing. But he and Violetta had only just begun, so he had no need yet to go looking for anyone else to help him warm the sheets.

  Black Hawk, Colorado had a wide choice of casinos and poker tournaments where he could pocket some nice play money. When he was in a bad mood, he’d enter a low-buy-in tournament meant for beginners, play stupid, and clean up. In a good mood, he’d take on the high-level games at Bally’s. Still typically ended up in the money.

  Not that he needed it. Advanced Ads now boasted a very high-paying client list and the FBI covered many expenses and offered respectable finder’s fees—undercover consultant contractor. Their success rate probably wasn’t hurting Agent Massar’s career any, and Mike liked getting paid twice for the same work.

  But tonight he needed to think, not win, so he caught a cab to the membership-only Denver Press Club downtown. The nation’s oldest press club, it had a truly specialized clientele. Being in the media, or owning big blocks of it, they shared a wide variety of useful information.

  He’d built any number of relationships there, even if several of them were now members of Camp George West, otherwise known as the Colorado Correctional Facility. A pair of corporate CEOs had even reached the heady status of a lifetime membership in the Englewood Federal Correction Institution for insider trading and gross tax evasion—all with Mike’s invisible aid.

  The FBI always came at the businesses sideways. They used Mike’s information, but not wanting to blow his cover, they never revealed his role. He found the bad news, handed it off, and then moved out of the way.

  But this?

  Best if he played it straight?

  Other than with Sister Mary Pat at the orphanage he’d never played it straight in his life. She’d been his parents’ friend before he’d watched Mom and Dad die while trapped in the back seat of their totaled Chevy Cavalier when he was nine. She was a tough old bird and he’d never been able to get anything past Sister Mary Pat.

  Mike never played it straight at the Press Club either. Instead he always played to lose just a little. It made him a welcome player in any game.

  In the basement of the narrow two-story brick building, the poker room sported an exceptional bar, they were mostly reporters after all, and a half dozen hexagonal tables. Nothing fancy, just a green linen tablecloth and six players. Three of seven tables were in play when he arrived.

  Caroline set his usual Talisker single malt 18-year scotch beside him shortly after he found an open seat. He only knew a few of the players at the table, who traded affable nods. No one at this table was on his and Massar’s client list, which was all he cared about.

  The DPC was traditional enough that Texas Hold ’Em didn’t rule the tables here, instead it was dealer call. Mike didn’t pay much attention as Seven-card Draw shifted to Five-card Stud and then through a round of Hold ’Em. This wasn’t the sort of place where wild cards or strange variants like Badugi or Let It Ride hit the table either.

  Mike kept up the easy chatter that accompanied any friendly game. When she brought him a second drink, he tossed Caroline a pair of orange fifty-dollar chips—not a lot of black hundred-dollar chips at a game like this—to let her know to stop there. She offered one of those killer smiles of hers at the big tip. He’d learned early on not to assume anything past that smile as she had two kids and a cop husband at home. But his big tip meant the other guys had to pony up more than usual and he liked helping Caroline.

  The game and banter occupied very little of his thoughts.

  Instead he mentally scrolled back through Advanced Ads’ meteoric rise over the last five years. AA was supposed to be a quick con: run the scam for a couple years, pocket the cash, and do a quick fade. When he’d started it, he hadn’t looked much past scalping the Syrian money laundress.

  Because of the FBI’s intervention, he’d had to expand instead of run. He made it a virtual company, careful to hire no one in the Denver area. He was the sole face of Advanced Ads and all of the invisible minions where just that, invisible. No partners. No one vying with him for the best slice of the pie. The pie was his, and the FBI’s, and he was living fat on it.

  Denver Post’s sports editor bet a red five-dollar chip on a pair of nines he had showing but he wouldn’t stop tapping his two hole cards. Big bet on nothing else.

  KOA’s Morning News host saw the red and raised with a blue tenner with crap showing. The Post caught himself tapping his cards more frantically, grimaced and folded. And so it went around the table.

  Mike couldn’t remember what he had in the hole, but saw the ten and rode out the round of bids.

  After the Feds had cleaned out a Mexican drug cartel’s trucking outfit, which had him running ads in the trade journals to look legit, they’d given him his first military file. He’d remembered protesting.

  Hey, I’m not cleared to see this kind of thing.

  Actually, you are, Massar had tossed a credit card-sized ID down on the table with Mike’s face on it, a bunch of data, and an embedded chip. Instead of the FBI, it had the US Coast Guard listed over their logo. You weren’t hard to vet. No family. No close friends. A loner, and even the ones we jailed said you’re trustworthy to the bone.

  Mike had picked it up carefully just in case it shot out James Bond nerve gas or something. It was definitely him, and his signature lifted from somewhere. I’m not Coast Guard.

  Well, we didn’t want someone rifling through your wallet and finding an FBI card. The encoded chip will get you where you need to go.

  Massar had dropped a file on his desk. And he’d followed the recently downed Mexican trucking cartel’s supply source onto Peterson Air Force Base. He offered his marketing services to help them climb the next step up the drug chain by find them a new trucking supplier—one run by undercover FBI. An entire crooked Air Force maintenance and flight crew was now visiting Leavenworth from that one.

  Sitting at the Denver Press Club poker table, Mike could feel that clearance card burning like a beacon in his pocket. They’d upgraded his security twice more over the years and he was as likely now to be creating advertising for shyster military contractors as he was for Chinese tongs seeking legitimacy.

  He glanced down at his pile of chips, which had grown noticeably over the last hour. The rest of the players at the table were eying him nervously.

  Oh crap!

  Mike flagged Caroline for a third scotch and set in to losing. But the cards were not in his favor. He couldn’t believably fold with a pair of queens showing. Triple fours in his hand had swept the table with a full house. The next round everyone else folded when he was showing a pair of sevens even though he held nothing else.

  He acted more drunk, folded when he could, and slowly bled the chips he’d won back out onto the table. He did all he could, but he’d just blown his friendly game / easy mark cover for a long time to come.

  Of course, if Arrow Massar was on target, and he hadn’t missed once in five years—and Mike had really hit some unknown jackpot—maybe he didn’t need the Denver Press Club as a resource any longer. Though he still had no clue what Massar had spotted that he’d missed.

  He bled down his chips until the night cost him five hundred dollars plus the drinks and tip. He was just glad that Talisker single malt hangovers were only bad, never brutal.

  3

  A month later, Mike was no wiser as Violetta oozed out of his bed and into the shower.

  He kept a room off the back of his office: king-size bed, a luxury bath in one corner, and in the other a small but well-appointed kitchen from which he could produce an espresso, a BLT, or Julia Child’s Boeuf Bourguignon with equal ease. He’d learned to cook at his mom’s knee and had discovered that helping Sister Mary Pat in the orphanage’s kitchen kept him clear of much of the bullying that ran rampant down the halls. For a couple years he’d dated mostly chefs just to spend time in their kitchens. Well, not only that.