And we hadn't done a thing to the place since we'd acquired it.

  I shared my office/former Victorian bedroom with Tactical or as we called him, Tac. Our oversight and technical genius, who was as sharp as a tack, as thin as a bean pole, and as agoraphobic as a chihuahua with separation anxiety.

  The room next door — also decorated in a charming puke green — housed our two senior operatives. CR-2s as opposed to my CR-4. So, they were junior to me. Not that they acknowledged that. Harlee was dim but sweet. Kai, on the other hand, was a lazy brute who liked to cheat on his expense sheet.

  The third and final office-come-boudoir was given over to the chief intelligence officer. The counterpart to Cox-the-bullet-dodger on the A-Team. Dean was a lady's man, a party animal, and an adulterer. When his wife found out he'd been cheating on her, she left him, the house and the four kids.

  We all had an interesting past here at Banana House but that wasn't why we were here. Special Operations was the place all good operatives went to carry out their duty in secret, hiding their elite talents behind grungy walls, and honing their unusual skills on top-secret jobs. Occasionally, we backed up the front-of-house; Alpha Team. But mostly, we hid in the shadows, did what no one else could do, and got stuff-all thanks for our efforts.

  And then there was our illustrious leader, Deputy Director Henry Markham, who haunted the ancient sitting room of the former house. No one knew exactly what Old Harry had done to end up here with the monkeys. If he had an elite skill, I sure as hell hadn't seen it in action. It was more likely he stole someone's idea, created the Soggy Bananas, and somehow continued to pull the wool over the Director's eyes to stay here.

  It was considered an elite posting. That's why the Alpha Team were jealous of us. But to look at us, you wouldn't know it. We embraced the banana and donned the cloak of a monkey with relish. Hopefully, that way, you'd never see us coming.

  We were no MI6, but we made the best of it.

  The gravel driveway crunched, then, as a shiny, late-model Range Rover drove in. It seemed out of place but also, somehow, fit. I peered through the doorway, across the semi-circular hallway, and out through the grimy curved windows to see Harry climb out of the vehicle.

  "Meeting in the kitchen!" he shouted upon entering the house. The door slammed behind him, rattling the glass along the front of the building and shutting out the inclement weather. I heard the rest of the monkeys slowly head toward the only room not painted puke green. In honour of its former role, the kitchen was in a blood-red; like a bloody steak or a particularly obnoxious lobster. It clashed with the puke in the offices.

  If you were looking for character, you could find it in spades at Goldie's.

  I trundled along behind everyone else, listening to the joking, the ribbing, and the exaggerating of the case they'd just completed. I didn't join in. I never did. Always on the outside looking in. I told myself, that was the way I liked it.

  It was a hollow thought but for the best.

  "All right, all right!" Harry shouted. "Get it together. Take a seat." He paused for breath, and then excitedly said, "We've got ourselves a live one. Hot off the press from HQ." His feverish eyes scanned the room and settled on me, and then he said in a deceptively soft tone of voice, "Heard you caught yourself a sniper, Cat."

  Everyone looked at me. I nodded my head. Said nothing. I wasn't a glory hog and Harry only ever gave backhanded compliments.

  "Of course, you cocked up the job you were on and got the deputy PM shot. But hey! 'Least you saved the head honcho, eh? Might even get a medal for your efforts."

  Kai chuckled at my expense and Dean gave me the once over, probably checking for bullet holes or a wardrobe malfunction.

  "Well done," Harlee whispered from beside me. Tac just looked at his Nikes.

  "The rest of you lot," Harry said, raising his voice again, "better pull your socks up. Can't have the Basque Witch show you up, now can we?"

  "I'm not Basque," I muttered for the hundredth time since we'd started these meetings. I didn't bother to address the 'witch' part. It was no doubt a play on words and I didn't think it deserved a spotlight.

  Harry ignored me and clapped his hands together; rubbing them, somewhat evilly. His eyes danced with avarice.

  "And now's your chance to shine for me," he declared. "We've got ourselves a Big One."

  Since when did Bowen House send us the big cases? We got the hard cases, the unusual cases, and the difficult cases that required lateral thinking to solve. The big cases, those that made it into the newspapers, were Alpha's domain. They'd never give them up willingly.

  "Some agents wait all their lives to bust a case like this one," Harry went on. "But I managed to convince the Director that this case is right up our alley, so to speak." Then, in what seemed a reluctant tone, he added, "It helped, of course, that the A-Team's been assigned an international gig and have all taken off to Bangkok to seek their glory. So, that leaves us guarding the home shores."

  I suppressed a chuckle. I wasn't the only one.

  Harry handed out manila folders to each of us and leaned back against the kitchen bench, straightening the tea towel beside him so it hung in line with the lobster-red cupboard.

  "All the particulars are in there," he started.

  "Child trafficking?" Kai spat.

  "Apparently, someone may have slipped in a container load of innocents to avoid a conversation with the Australian Navy. But that's not the traffickers' worst problem. No, some of these kids were taken from Hawaii."

  Shit. The US was going to come down hard on this one, and probably fuck up our lives with an oversight committee. And I suddenly knew why SOG had been assigned this case. Bangkok holiday or not; the A-Team deputy director was not an idiot. He'd shunted a live bomb off onto us.

  "Intel says the boat was heading to Papua New Guinea when the Australian Navy spotted them and moved in to intercept," Harry went on. "Cue the mad race across the Coral Sea and a quick change of plans away from Aussie toward us."

  "Shit," Dean muttered, mirroring my thoughts exactly.

  "Oh, don't go looking a gift horse in the mouth, Thorne," Harry chided. "Now you get to hone those interdepartmental skills you prize so much."

  "FBI?" Harlee guessed.

  "Yep," Harry said cheerfully. "You and Cat are picking them up at the airport in forty minutes."

  Harlee and I both groaned. Forty minutes to get to the airport from Wadestown was asking a lot. This place wasn't called The Little Big City for nothing. Congestion was a bitch like any other.

  "Dean and Kai will start looking into the suspected landing location of their vessel," Harry went on. "While Tac's going to compile as much data as possible on potential hidey-holes for a container load of twenty kids."

  Tac bounced a little on his toes in his excitement to get to work.

  "And you, Boss?" Dean asked.

  "I'm off to see what assets they'll loan us from Bowen. Meeting with First Desk." He seemed overly chipper to be visiting with the Director of the NCB on his home turf.

  I shuddered internally and once it was clear the briefing was over, headed through the door first.

  "Your car or mine?" Harlee called out from behind me.

  Harlee drove an MX-5; a two-seater sportster. I almost rolled my eyes at her. "I think we better take mine," I said.

  "Oh, shame. Would have been good to put the top down."

  I stared out of the curved windows at the storm clouds brewing and wondered just what drugs the girl was on.

  Five minutes later, we were cruising off down the driveway in my Citroen C3, the glasshouse behind us disappearing behind a copse of trees. It wasn't a bad gig, I reminded myself. My compatriots were all a bit bonkers, sure, and Goldie's Brae could fall down around our ears at any time, but the property was a little slice of rural life, just north of the CBD.

  And then it started raining.

  The drive took as long as I feared. There was a snarl-up at the tunnel, and then a tourist bus with a puncture at Caledonia Street. Finally, we made it to the terminal; forty minutes after the Feds' plane had landed.

  Things were off to a good start, then.

  The two FBI agents were waiting for us outside; dressed in matching black suits, wearing matching black sunglasses, and carrying matching black weekender bags at their sides. That was where the similarities ended. One was short, the other tall. One was slightly pudgy, the other a lean, mean, fighting machine. One had dark hair cut in a military style, and the other had the whitest blond hair I had ever laid eyes on, brushing the top of his collar.

  Weirdo FBI Agent also sported a tattoo creeping up his neck à la mobster-style. Intertwining thorny vines and snakes with beady little eyes staring out between glossy leaves. I noted two very non-conformist gipsy bracelets on either wrist, as well. I wasn't entirely sure, but I thought I saw a feather and bone sticking out of one of them.

  Interesting combo.

  "You guys must be from The Bureau," Harlee said. She was obviously going for cool-kid speak.

  "You're late," Tall, Dark and Deadly pointed out.

  "Traffic," Harlee supplied. "Welcome to the Coolest Little Capital in the World. Or the Windy City. Or just the City. Sometimes, people call it Wellywood. You know, because of Weta FX and the Lord of the Rings."

  Agent Snaky Vine hadn't taken his eyes off me.

  "You don't say?" Pudgy drawled.

  "You will take us to your office now," Snake said. It wasn't a question, more a demand. And what was that accent? I couldn't quite place it. American, sure, but what State? Pudgy was Southern all the way.

  "Sure," Harlee said and I held up my hand to slow down all the happy-happy.

  "Let's see some ID," I demanded.

  Pudgy went straight for his wallet. Snake Eyes just stared at me.

  The next thing I knew, we were squeezed into my compact and heading across town to Goldie's. Special Agent Brant Adams chattered away merrily with Harlee from the back seat. Y'all-ing here and there.

  While Special Agent Raphael Nonpareil kept his mouth shut and his eyes target-locked on me.

  Strange name.

  Strange man.

  But very pretty.

  Cat

  We spent the afternoon going over intel. There wasn't much, other than trafficking statistics and a possible lead on a ring connected to multiple countries. There were copious reports of missing kids, though, but no way to connect them to the traffickers.

  Coincidence was enough to make my skin crawl.

  "I reckon y'all chose this place for its quaintness," Agent Adams — 'call me Brant' — said, as he took in our puke-green walls and the poster of a monkey holding a football while doing a suspicious activity. "No one would suspect Interpol to be hidin' out here."

  "That's right," I told him. "Subterfuge is our middle name."

  "Bless your heart, Cat," he drawled. "Ain't nobody gonna suspect a thang."

  Harlee giggled. I said nothing. Agent Nonpareil worked on being mysterious and broody.

  "Intel says they won't be makin' any fast moves on this one," Brant continued. "They've come here to go to ground. We've got their original destination covered, so they can't reach it now. They'll be fixin' to make new arrangements, I reckon."

  "Looking for an alternative buyer?" I suggested.

  "Yes, ma'am, that's what we suspect. We're hopin' you fine ladies and gents know a thang or two about who they should be lookin' to hook up with here. What's your tech guy have?"

  "Tac?" I called.

  Tac had his back to us and headphones on. To most, it would appear he was ignoring us, but I knew better. Tac had the kind of mind that could do multiple things at once; listen to several conversations while surfing the internet and still keep up. That kind of thing. His brain needed to be studied for scientific purposes.

  The flipside was, his nerves were shot to hell and back. I trusted the kid with my life as an overwatch. I wouldn't have him at my back in the field, though. That way lay fuck-ups.

  Which only reminded me of Deputy Director A-Team's slapdown.

  Tac turned in his seat and removed his headphones.

  "I've compiled a list of possible known contacts who could help them out," he said. "The best of which are local to us, which is handy. I'm working on the unofficial ones now."

  There were always some criminal masterminds who fell through the legal cracks. It didn't make them any more suspicious than the ones the police had dealt with. It just made them harder to find.

  "They'll start with the obvious ones first," I said, pulling my cell phone out and checking the list Tac had just sent me.

  I could hear notifications going off on the others' phones, too, so Tac was cooperating fully with our guests; not playing favourites. I liked to think, as we shared an office, that I was his favourite. Truth was, though, I was just one more data point in a complex system he had created. I thought maybe, Tac saw the world in ones and zeros. Genius. But flawed.

  Ain't we all, kid?

  "We should split up," Nonpareil suggested. He didn't elaborate as most people would. He didn't say more than was absolutely necessary. And most of the time, he said nothing at all.

  Just watched.

  It was strange to see my own tactics used against me.

  My fingers tingled slightly. I clenched my fists and the sensation went away.

  "Sounds about right," Brant agreed. "I'll take Harlee, you take Cat."

  Harlee laughed at his jokes; I got it. Still, I wasn't comfortable being teamed up with Raphael. Something about the man just didn't sit right with me.

  I looked at Harlee, then, who seemed as happy as a dead pig in the sunshine as Agent Adams would say. Nonpareil would eat her for breakfast. It was better like this. I could handle Manly, Moody and Menacing.

  I highlighted half the list of suspects and sent the amended document to Brant and Harlee. "Those are yours," I told them, pocketing my cell. "Let's do this."

  "Yes, ma'am," Brant said, sauntering out of my office without a backward glance. Harlee offered up a little wave and trotted obediently after him.

  That left me with a once again headphone-wearing tactical officer and a silent and watchful enigma.

  Just how had Raphael Nonpareil become an FBI agent? He didn't seem the sort.

  "Take it easy, Tac," I said, grabbing my jacket and throwing it on.

  As I headed toward the door, I heard him say, "Stay alive, Cat."

  I didn't reply. Tac always said that. As if he knew something, I didn't.

  Agent Nonpareil was almost too big for my Citroen. Somehow, though, he made squeezing into the compact hatchback an art form. I could have watched him do that all day.

  Smirking to myself, I started the car up and headed down the long driveway. I hadn't bothered to enter the first address in the GPS unit. I knew my way.

  "Catalin Aguirre," Nonpareil said, his voice a soft rumble beside me. "Basque."

  "I'm not Basque," I repeated my oft-said statement.

  "But you have Basque blood." A strange way to put it, but yeah. Somewhere in the dark depths of my ancestry was no doubt a Euskotarak.

  I said nothing. For a while, Nonpareil did the same. But I sensed him watching me. My every move. My every breath. My every heartbeat.

  "You have family?" he eventually asked.

  It was a simple question, but suddenly my fingertips stung.

  Clenching my stomach muscles, I said, "Don't we all?"

  "Your parents live nearby?"

  Why all the questions suddenly? Mr. Sexy, Silent and Sinister hadn't proven to be much of a conversationalist so far. But here he was, asking twenty questions.

  "The place we're going to is a dive," I said, not answering. "You might need some background to understand it."

  "Very well."

  Stretching my neck as I navigated the late afternoon traffic, I gave him the lowdown on Gio's.

  "'You'll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy,'" I said. "That's their motto and they live by it. A no-nonsense neighbourhood bar, specialising in craft beer and authentic Neapolitan pizza. It's a front for the Giordano family. Mob connections, money laundering, contract negotiations. They present themselves as middlemen, but frankly, Giordano is a don in his own right. It'd be the first place out-of-towners are directed to if they want to set something nefarious up."

  "If it's that obvious, why does it still exist?"

  "Because Giordano is one of ours."

  Nonpareil had nothing to say about that.

  The pizzeria was down what locals called a laneway and if you didn't know it was there, you wouldn't find it. The alley — or laneway — was wide enough for cars and offered up some parking during the day. But the chances of getting a park at night on Eva Street were slim to nothing. The dark greeny-grey concrete buildings surrounding the alley were built in the 40s and made me think of mental asylums or misplaced factories. Despite the pink-tinted asphalt underfoot, the place looked grimy and a broken beer bottle away from a good story, which suited Gio's persona of course.

  There were a couple of other restaurants and a chocolate shop down here, but Gio's was the only one that had made any kind of effort. A string of multicoloured light bulbs hung above a gazebo-type outdoor area, complete with overflowing green shrubs in planter boxes. Anyone would think the place had standards.

  We climbed the steps and entered through the dark green door. The moment we crossed the threshold, the world altered. Inside, Gio's shook off any hint of sophistication and merrily donned the tattiest clothes it could wear. Low ceiling, exposed brick walls, more of those multicoloured string lights mixed in with paper lanterns overhead, dirty-looking polished concrete masquerading as a floor, and mismatched metal barstools along the front of a worn wooden bar.

  It was almost an assault to the senses — the lights, the graffiti, the pirate flags and the pinatas — all of it was designed to fool you. The place screamed dive and yet it smelled amazing. Baking bread, hopsy beer, and Italian herbs and spices that had your mouth watering.