Page 10 of Penny for Your Saints

"I see we got us a lively one here, boys!" he barks in a trashy north shore accent before firing the tranquilizer rifle directly at me.

Dumbly, I look down at the little tufted dart protruding from the exposed stretch of thigh peeking through my all-but-totally-destroyed complimentary bathrobe.

I feel the spread of fuzzy warmth seeping through my quadriceps, my heart beat slowing as my eyelids begin to droop with the heaviness of sleep.

"Grab her before her head hits the floor!" The man in the doorway yells to the French guy now wearing my duffel bag.

I catch sight of him in the sidelong tilt of my peripheral vision just as my eyes flutter closed—the carpet rushes up to meet me in slow motion as I pass out.

“So, you’re really doing this?” I hear Michael’s voice before I see him, per usual.

“Yep, there’s not really any way around it—we want to get to the bottom of this shit, we’re going to have to take matters into our own hands.” I shrug, shuffling coffee orders for the boys—waiting in the van for my triumphant return—around in the cardboard drink tray next to the sugar, plastic stirrers, napkins, and insulated bottles of cream, milk, and plant-based-coffee-whitener on offer.

“Really Frank? You’ve jumped straight to kidnapping an active FBI agent as your best plan of action? You really have lost your touch, haven’t you?” Michael scoffs—his square jaw clean shaven, the gray at his temples reading as distinguished rather than past his prime.

I catch my own reflection in the glass window of the coffee shop; hair mussed, scars on my face from a lifetime as a soldier, beard unruly, dark smudges of sleeplessness circled beneath my droop-lid eyes.

Maybe Mike is right—maybe I’m washed up, maybe I’ve lost it.

Won’t stop me from trying, though.

“Alright… that’s my answer, I guess.” Michael scoffs a laugh, shaking his head and adjusting the Windsor knot in a shimmering blue satin necktie—his button-down blizzard white, and the lines of his navy felt suit, cut clean and angular—Michael Duboze; forever the portrait of what a man of the bureau should look like.

“And what would you do, negative Nancy?” I grumble back, pocketing a wad of napkins ‘just in case.’

“What? So you can ignore my sagely advice?” Michael scoffs, folding his arms over his chest, giving me a challenge in his raised brow and false smile.

“If you’re about to say something profound, could you hurry it up? The boys are holed up in the van waiting on their much-needed caffeine. I’m still on a tight timetable today, even if the king of the boy scouts disapproves.”

“Just try not to get yourself killed, ok?” Michael groans as I pull my sunglasses from my inner jacket pocket, preparing to step out into the early winter morning sun once more.

“I’ll try not to, but I’m still not in the habit of making promises I can’t keep.” I snort a laugh, but when I look up—a farewell on my lips and my hand ready to offer a warm shake—he’s already gone.

“One large coffee, black—” I lean through the narrow opening between the driver’s and passenger seat to pass Quentin hiscoffee, the brilliant white of the Diamond Center uniform seeming to issue a silent challenge as Quentin delicately pops open the thin plastic sipping window on the lid; his prosthetic nose and blond lace front wig making him look the part of ‘Hans, the deep tissue masseur, rather than Quentin Beckett; former MI6 turned ne’er-do-well vigilante.

“Medium hazelnut latte,” I continue down the line—passing Sébastien the sweet-smelling cup, his fingers—heavily laden with tattoos and chipping matte black nail polish—clutch greedily for the hot drink; an unlit cigarette pressed between the index and middle fingers of his left hand.

Sébastien only see’s marginally more daylight than our resident nocturnal beast, Cazimer—and those sunshine hours Seb does see are mostly through the hazy tinted windows of his ‘lab’—or the colorful glow of his bedroom; vibrant scarves from his native Morocco draped over the windows, Beni Ourain rugs of different sizes in a wide range of rich hues overlapping themselves on the floor. To see him, his warm brown skin and messy dark chocolate curls in the harsh, cold grey light of winter morning feels out of place.

“Extra largefreezymocha chip with extra whipped cream,” I sniff through my disgust at the frozen confection Cazimer has ordered—passing the drink with its swirled peak of whip cream under the plastic dome to Caz in the driver’s seat; his janitor’s jumpsuit beneath his quilted parka—the matching cap stowed safely in the glovebox; a plain black beanie pulled down over his distinctive bleach blonde buzzcut.

“Oh thank fuck, I still feel like a goddamn zombie,” Caz sighs with relief, trading me the empty energy drink can from his cup holder to make room for the frozen caffeinated confection.

“Are we really going to send Caz in again? You know ‘field work’ isn’t his strongest suit,” Quentin sighs, eyeing me throughthe rear-view mirror before side-eyeing Caz in his undercover garb.

“Um, Q—I’m sitting right here,” Caz snips testily, making a loud slurping noise as he struggles to suck the thick coffee frappe through the bright orange and pink plastic straw.

“You did fuck up your bit at the Gala.” Sébastien yawns, sipping carefully at his steaming latte.

“Oh, come on—you guys sent me in as literal bait and I hooked her. It was just that fucking tightwad in the monkey suit who fucked everything up.” Caz argues—one hand on the wheel—the other clutching his precious caffeine in a death grip; his startlingly blue eyes hidden behind a pair of mirrored bug-eyed sunglasses.

“Caz may not be aces at field work or the ol’ fashioned smash and grab, but we need to make sure we are covering our bases here. The hackerman bullshit was mostly prep work for this job, and our target is potentially going to need all four of us to ensure a smooth transition,” I explain with as much patience as I can muster. Sometimes it really feels like I’ve become scout master of a band of misfits I never signed up to babysit; this morning is one of those times.

All three of them bristle at the idea that nabbing Louise Penny, FBI agent, sigma—and most importantly, daughter of the deceased Margot and Landon Penny—would give them any amount of trouble.

“Listen, I know none of us are particularly used to being ‘team players’ anymore.” Quentin and Sébastien squirm in their seats. “Fuck, some of us haven’t had any experience—period.” I catch a flash of Caz’s eyes over the rim of his sunglasses in the rear view before I continue.

“But all of us know what’s riding on today—so let’s try our best, yeah?” I reach across the bench seat and snatch the unlit cigarette from Sébastien’s hand.

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