Page 75 of Gryphon

There was something off in all that bonhomie, but Mike couldn’t lay his finger on it.

Warn Holly? Or keep an eye out himself?

In her current mood, if he mentioned his suspicions to her, she might go for answers with that damn knife of hers. So, it was all on him.

Tad’s gift of the gab had coaxed Max into talking openly, which was more than Mike had achieved.

“A lot of Georgian Intelligence Service types come in here. Most are exactly what you’d expect.”

“Oh great,” Holly groaned.

Mike thought back to his FBI stooge days. Most Feebies were awful, some would have slept fine after putting a round through his head. But his handler had been a good guy, saving his life at a risk to his career when it really hit the fan.

“You’ve got one that’s different?” Tad asked him.

Max shrugged. “I know who to ask.”

Whatever he’d been waiting for happened. Max set down his fork and moved away from the bar. There was no sign of his tablet, so he wasn’t watching the cameras. Mike caught him glancing up to the left again.

“Need to put on another egg. Answer the door.”

As Max moved into the kitchen, Mike turned around, looking up to the left. There was a yellow light high up on the wall above the door. Not bright, just a single LED. As he watched, it went out. Close beside it, another one turned red. Followed seconds later by a knock on the door so tentative that he wouldn’t have heard it if he hadn’t been alerted. So much for his great psychoanalysis of Max’s preferred mode of communication; his constant glances up and to the left had been watching his security lights.

As Mike reached the door, he glanced behind. Tad still sat on his stool; Holly was nowhere to be seen. Only past experience let him catch the sound of her knife coming out of its sheath somewhere back in the shadows.

He opened the door.

“Max…” The woman’s voice died a few words later when she spotted Mike, which was just as well, he hadn’t understood any of what she’d been saying.

She asked something with another Max sound in it.

Mike held out a hand. “Hello. I’m Mike Munroe. Max is cooking you some Chirbuli.”

The woman didn’t cross the threshold, she looked as ready to run as an altar boy caught drawing a Snidely Whiplash mustache and horn-rimmed glasses on a crucified Jesus—a feeling he remembered well. She stood tall, dusky brown hair to her shoulders with a pleasant face and a figure to match. Casual jeans and green blouse completed the picture.

Max called out from the kitchen, “In or out, girl. You’re letting in a draft.”

Not a breath of air crossed the threshold.

She scanned once more, her eyes hesitating on Tad still at the bar, then she stepped in, sidling around Mike.

He eased the door shut and still she jumped when the latch clicked home. This was the one they needed to help them? Suddenly Mike felt far less confident than he had after talking to Max last night.

She twisted toward the door, perhaps ready to knock him aside in her escape. Then balked hard as Holly slid out of the shadows to stand beside him, blocking the door. Even five-ten with gold-blonde hair and a pale complexion, she found ways to be utterly invisible when in the mood.

He followed the woman’s next glance and spotted the emergency exit but she didn’t run for it.

Max returned from the kitchen. “Here. No runny middle, just the way you like it.” He slid it into the pan still resting on the bar along with a fresh cup of coffee. Apparently she understood English. The woman hurried away from them, over to the bar.

“Spooky little thing, isn’t she?” Holly whispered from close beside him.

“Roast in hell.” The girl looked straight at them though her voice seemed to come from above. Nothing wrong with her hearing either.

Max pointed upward. “Arch acoustics. One point, Georgians. Zero for the Americans.”

“Americans?” she asked, not taking the stool.

“What, you thought we were Russians?” Holly answered.

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