The Almost Assassin
By
Laura Pauling


Books by Laura Pauling
YOUNG ADULT

The Almost Assassin (short story)
A Spy Like Me
Heart of an Assassin

MIDDLE GRADE

How To Survive Ancient Spells & Crazy Kings
How To Survive Pirate Curses & Tainted Treasure (March 2013)

Visit laurapauling.com for more information and purchase links.


Praise for A SPY LIKE ME (Circle of Spies: Book 1)
“Move over Gallagher Girls—there’s a new spy in town! A Spy Like Me is a fast-paced, high-energy ride through Paris that left me almost as breathless as Pauling’s hot hero. Super fun beginning, great story, and an ending that won’t disappoint.
Gemma Halliday, NYT best selling author of Spying in High Heels.
“Oh. My. Holy. Spy. Pants. A SPY LIKE ME is the most fun we’ve had in Paris since ANNA AND THE FRENCH KISS. The perfect mix of romance, mystery and danger, A SPY LIKE ME has more twists and turns than a Paris arrondissement.”
Lisa and Laura Roecker, authors of THE LIAR SOCIETY series.

Table of Contents
TheAlmostAssassin
Excerpt from A Spy Like Me
Excerpt from Heart of an Assassin

THE ALMOST ASSASSIN

Malcolm shoved the last cream puff in his mouth and pushed back his chair. He couldn’t stand the waiting. Behind him was a small closet that contained all specialty items. Disguises. Night vision goggles. Special pens with hidden cameras. Everything he’d need to be the next 007, the handsome teen spy, the boy who slipped in and out of the shadows, escaped prison, and defused bombs. 
Or whatever his family really did.
He pulled on a ratty wig. Slipped a god awful dress over his head and stuffed a couch pillow up it so he looked like a frumpy old woman. He hunched over. It took several times to get the voice just right. With shaky steps he crossed the room and picked up his umbrella.
“So you think you can pull one over on the old lady, do you?” He shook his foldable weapon at his pretend nemesis. His voice crackled. “You’ve got it wrong, sonny boy.”
Malcolm dove into a series of well-trained, well-practiced Kung Fu moves and high-pitched screams meant to intimidate and cause soul crushing fear. His legs kicked. His arms sliced the air. Well, the best he could with a lumpy pillow up his shirt. 
After a sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead, Malcolm gave up. The umbrella clattered to the floor. An old lady wielding her umbrella as an instrument of death? 
Not quite believable. Laughable really.
He ripped it off and threw on another disguise. 
Dreadlocks hung around his face. Sunglasses kept his eyes hidden. Turning his iPod on – or pretending to – Malcolm sauntered through his tiny living room with the walk, the talk, the look of a Rastafarian teen. Perfect. 
He might have actually been sputtering out a few beat box noises, which sounded more like an unhappy baby, when a voice cut through the air.
“Little brother, I thought you’d tire of dress up. Eventually.”
Malcolm didn’t have to turn around to know his older brother stood in the doorway. The dry mocking tone of his voice ripped apart Malcolm’s charade, which fell around him in pieces. After wiping spit from his mouth, he pulled the dreadlocks from his head and turned. “Hello, Will. By the way, I’m doing fine. How are you?” The sarcasm felt sweet on his lips.
Will strode into the room, his ego taking over the small space. With one suave jump, he sat on the kitchen table. “Sure you’re up for this? You can always call it quits and go back to Mommy’s side.”
Home. Malcolm briefly closed his eyes. Gingersnaps. Warm fires. His dog he missed like crazy. His friends.
“I can easily take your place. I’ve seen your assignment.”
Will’s mockery lay over Malcolm like a blanket of porcupine quills. Each word jabbed and poked into the façade he was barely holding onto. His brother always interfered, assuming Malcolm couldn’t do anything right. He had to prove he could do this to his dad and himself. Words drove up his throat and shot out his mouth. “This is my mission. Stay. Away.”
Will wiggled his fingers and puckered his lips. “Ooh. Sensitive.”
Deep breaths. In and out. Malcolm regained control. “Tell me what you came to tell me, then leave.”
Will threw a file folder onto the table along with a flash drive. “You’re on a need to know basis. And what you need to know is in there. Try not to screw up.” He cracked his knuckles. “Though I’ll have no problem coming in and cleaning up your mess.”
The dreadlocks dangling from Malcolm’s hand tickled his feet but he didn’t take his eyes off his brother. Surges of violent ideas pulsed through his mind: his hands wrapped around Will’s neck; or even better, ropes tied around his brother’s wrists and his body dangling over a pit of hungry sewer rats. 
A couple light slaps on the cheek from his brother snapped Malcolm out of his vengeful thoughts.
“Good luck.” Will winked. “You’ll need it.”

***

That evening just after dark, Malcolm slipped on his night vision goggles. An apartment stood across the street. It certainly didn’t look like the dwelling of an evil mastermind. Or someone who deserved death. He’d opened the file and caught the address. Not much to go by. He’d popped in the flash drive but his father hadn’t included a lot of info. Just the bare minimum. Breadcrumbs. A street address. A name. And the cryptic comment: suspicious activity. 
Their home he could find. Stephen and Savvy Bent – what kind of name was Savvy? Must be a couple working together. But what did suspicious activity mean? They shot cans off the fence in their backyard? Or something more criminal?
And that wass the way it would be all year. Just enough intel for Malcolm to proceed but not enough to fully understand what was really going on, why he was spying, and what these people did wrong.
Malcolm crossed the street with purpose in his step. A recon mission. That’s what this was. Nothing else. The darkened windows and closed blinds told him no one was home. He stopped and shook off the nerves that caused his shaky fingers and tense shoulders. He puffed out his chest and sucked in his breath. “I am the man.” Then he crept up to the windows.
He couldn’t see. He couldn’t hear a peep. No television. No radio. No idle conversation. With a shimmy and a shake he had the front door unlocked and he slipped in with the breeze. He pressed a tiny button and a camera in his goggles started recording. On light feet, he prowled, watching, spying, taking note of every dirty dish, open magazine, and ticket stub. Nothing suspicious. Clearly he was dealing with pros who knew how to hide their tracks and live their cover.
The bedroom. That’s where people hid stuff they wanted no one to see, like guns, secret info, or encrypted codes. He poked his head into an office possibly filled with files but most likely holding info that only showed what they wanted people to see. Not the real incriminating illegal juicy stuff. 
A door at the end of the hall was open a crack. He approached with the stealth of ninja. He nudged the door open with his toe. Ah, yes. A bedroom. A smell of lilac perfume or lotion enveloped him, tickling his senses. 
Somehow lilac didn’t say mad killer. 
He turned slowly in the room, absorbing everything: the flowery rug on the floor, the collection of cheap necklaces, the fluffy pillow and stuffed animals. A girl? The file didn’t say anything about a daughter.
A door slammed. Voices.
Malcolm jumped on the bed and tried to push the window open. It wouldn’t budge. Oh hell. He’d be imprisoned for invading the room of a girl before he even started his mission.
Footsteps thudded in the hall. “I’ll be right out, Dad!”
Malcolm dove into the closet and shut the door. His body trembled. Thank God Will or his dad weren’t outside monitoring his every move. He had no doubt they’d keep an eye on him the whole year but no tracking device could reveal he was in a girl’s closet. He hoped.
“I just have to change out of my spy clothes!” she called out louder.
Spy clothes? Malcolm pressed an eye to the crack. A girl. But not a young girl. An older teen. Long dark hair. Legs like a goddess. Was this Savvy?
She shed her dark clothes and they dropped to the floor. The smell of lilac washed over him. He tried his hardest not to look but what if she was wearing a wire under her clothes? Or had a gun strapped to her leg? He had to know these things. Write them up in his file he hadn’t started yet. 
He pressed his eye to the crack where the door hung open a tiny bit. The shadows in the low-lit room hugged her body, showing off her curves. He gulped. No wire. No gun. 
After getting dressed, she rummaged through her bag. “Lock picking device? Check. Taser? Check. Secret camera? Check. Skittles? Check. Phone in case Mom ever calls me but yeah, right like that’s ever going to happen? Check.”
Malcolm stood straight. Both eyes open. So this girl was Savvy, and her father must be Stephen. Maybe they were a team and worked a Paris underground operation. Maybe he should get the hell out of there. Fast. As soon as they left, he’d slip out and melt into the night shadows. 

***

Malcolm liked this costume the least but it was a favorite of his family’s and one of the first personas he’d learned. But here he was in the Jardin de Tuileries, dressed like a mime. The dried paint itched constantly. The baggy pants and suspenders made him feel like an idiot. And the white face with contrasting black triangles above and below the eyes and the black lipstick creeped him out.
He’d spent the past several mornings tracking the girl, watching her every move, learning her routines. That was his mission so far: data collecting, otherwise known as spying. In a span of a few days, she’d been all over Paris. The Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, a bookstore, a warehouse. He couldn’t quite figure out what she was up to. Unless she was scoping and casing out joints for a future crime! That had to be it! He slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. A cluster of Asian tourists stopped admiring the naked butt of a statue and stared at him. More of a glare actually.
Immediately he jumped into a common mime routine of walking backward, or what he called the Michael Jackson move. Soon they lost interest and walked over to the next naked bust. He glanced at Savvy just in time to see her look away and go back to her journal. What was she so busy writing? Maybe the beginnings of a master plan to rob the Louvre. If only he could get close enough. 
Malcolm spent the next several minutes trying to build up the courage to sneak up behind her. He studied a couple statues, stroked an angel’s wing, performed for a group of children. Sweat tickled his armpits, which made him feel very cowardly indeed. What would Will say about that? 
He hated to admit it but there was something mystifying about watching this girl in this beautiful park, her long dark hair teasing him. She seemed sad. Yet she was in Paris, the city of romance and light. He wanted to comfort her, to put an arm around, to play with her hair and bring a smile to her face.
Before he knew it, Malcolm was five feet behind her, then three feet. His breath hitched. He could almost reach out and touch her. So close. He peered over her shoulder, hoping to catch sight of her scribblings.
Hair whipped his cheek as she turned around, her face trapped between rage and fear. “What’s your problem?”
Malcolm froze, every bone and muscle refusing to cooperate. All his training drained from his mind and body. Her eyes, deep and blue, pulled him in and wouldn’t let go. His heart raced.
She stood and cast a shrewd glare at Malcolm. “I said, what’s your problem. Oh wait,” she lifted her hands in the air, “you probably don’t speak English just like everyone else in this stupid city so why would I expect any answers, why would I think you could talk to me, person to person, why would I expect anything? You’re just a clown.”
Her words jolted Malcolm into action. Using jerky movements he pretended he was trapped inside a box and pressed his hands flat against invisible glass walls. He put everything he had into his act, trying not to steal glances at her.
She didn’t lose steam. “I’ve been stuck in this city for almost six months. Yes I love the pastries, the macaroons and the tarts drizzled with fruit and chocolate. They’re incredible. But what was my dad thinking? I miss my friends. I miss my old town. And trust me, I never thought I’d miss a small podunk town with nothing in it but a few farms and the local store. But I do. I miss it all.” She plopped down on the bench, apparently spent for the time being. 
Malcolm crossed his legs, scratched his head, and looked toward the sky, like he was thinking of a solution to get out of the box.
But she wasn’t done. “Forget it. You’re stuck. You’ll never get out of the box. You’re a clown. You’re supposed to look creepy and entertain people. But I hate to tell you. Most people just watch and laugh to be polite when really they wonder why someone would paint their face and pretend not to talk. Haven’t you noticed when moms hold their kids a tad bit closer when you come near? Or they slowly inch away while praying for you to leave?”
Her words, full of despair and a bit of anger, settled on him. In the space of a few minutes she’d torn apart his life and cut down to the marrow of his existence. He missed home too. He was stuck in this city too. And he was in a box, with no way out. Not if he wanted to be a part of his family.
Her voice softened. “But I understand. We all are forced to go along with it, accept certain things.” She laughed, a dry and brittle laugh. “Thank God you can’t understand me.”
Malcolm felt the urge to hold her hand, to smooth down her hair, and paint a smile on her face. Instead, he stuck a finger up in the air, opened his eyes wide and his mouth.
“What?” 
Guilt tugged at his heartstrings. What if she or her family were involved in something criminal? That couldn’t mean anything good as far as their future relationship. Why was he even thinking that? Of course he couldn’t have any kind of relationship with her. Maybe he could warn her somehow, let her know she and her family were in danger. He pretended to open a smaller box and pull out a gun. 
“What’s that? A key? Oo, what about a croissant? Do you have any croissants in that magic box? You know, the kind with the chocolate strips inside?” A smile pulled at the corner of her lips, a real smile.
With much regret, he formed his hands into the gun and pointed it at her.
Her smile disappeared and her face paled. 
He hated to do this but maybe she’d take the not so subtle warning, maybe later when she was scaling the walls of the Louvre or about to do whatever she does, she’d remember and stop. Maybe she’d completely freak out and her family would disappear off his family’s grid. He pulled the trigger, threw his body back, and covered his head from the invisible shattering glass.  
She gripped the sides of the bench and stared.
He sauntered away with his hands in his pocket and didn’t look back.
He thought it was over.
He thought she’d run home.
He thought she might scream.
He never expected it when he felt the electricity zap through his body, his legs and arms clenching and pulsing. The ground rushed up to meet him. He tried to blabber a few words but she wouldn’t give him time.
Her foot landed in his stomach more than once. She leaned close, her breath on his face. “Creep!” Then she ran.

***

Malcolm smoothed any wrinkles in his white shirt but his fingers shook. If anyone took note they’d see he wasn’t quite as put together as usual. His hair was a bit mussed. His black apron, always tied expertly in the back, was inside out and the strings dangled unevenly in the back. 
Savvy was sitting out on the café’s patio, with a friend, her long dark hair dancing in the breeze, her mouth laughing and smiling, but the same sad aura surrounded her. 
He shouldn’t care.
He shouldn’t be attracted to her.
He shouldn’t be the one to possibly end her life in the future.
Maybe that wasn’t the plan. Maybe all he’d do is collect information. He could do that. All he’d wanted to do since he turned thirteen was earn his father’s approval and have him slap his shoulder and say, “Good job, son.” 
A tray slammed against the counter in front of him. Malcolm jerked to attention. The boss’s right hand man scolded him. There were tables to wait. Customers to make happy. Croissants to sell. 
Malcolm nodded and muttered an apology in French. He wiped the sweat off his hands and gripped his pencil and ordering pad. Then he headed out the doors. The laughter of happy couples, the chatter of businessmen, and the sound of cars from the main road greeted him. A motorcycle buzzed off in the distance.
But all he could see was the girl. Savvy Bent. That was her name. That’s what the files said. Five foot ten. Black hair. Blue eyes. Loves pastries. That was all he knew. What did she do for fun in her spare time? Learn how to break open safes? How to stalk high profile politicians and then take them down in broad daylight?
He stopped, table by table, taking orders, smiling, playing the role of the charming waiter without a care in the world. Slowly, he circled closer to her table. Would she recognize him somehow from the day in the park? His skin tingled just thinking about it.
He approached their table, zeroing in on the flush in her cheeks, the speckles of gray in her blue eyes, and the way she absent-mindedly drummed her fingernails against the tables.
He straightened up. “Bonjour.” His voice cracked and the girls looked at him with silent smirks. He cleared his throat. “Bonjour!”
Savvy’s friend ordered for them while Savvy took him in with her eyes. But he couldn’t read her face. Did the white and black waiter’s uniform remind her of the black and white stripes of his mime shirt? 
He finished writing the order down, but hesitated, swaying closer to her. The smell of lilacs tempted him to pull up a chair and chat. What he knew of her so far made him want to get to know Savvy. 
Not snuff her out.
He should say something, anything! Like how’s the weather? Or what a nice day. Or, are you really a spy and do you come from a family of criminals? 
What was he doing? Heat spread across his cheeks and he whipped around and strode inside. Will would’ve handled that like a pro, not a bumbling, awkward middle schooler asking a girl to dance.
His phone vibrated against his leg. No one called him except the family. It would be a text. And it would tell him the next step of the mission. He stacked plates across his arms and made his way into the kitchen, depositing them in the sink. They landed with a crash and several kitchen staff cast him dirty looks. 
Hands up, he backed away with a cheesy grin. Out of the kitchen, he slipped his hand into his pocket and wrapped it around his phone. What would they want him to do, right here, right now? In a café. With hundreds of witnesses.
Slip a drug into her coffee?
Poison her pastry?
Or lure her away into a solitary place, like an alley? And then, and then. He couldn’t think it. After imagining Will and his father watching with their arms folded and their faces frowning, Malcolm finally pulled out the phone and read the text.
Oh hell. 

***

Minutes later, after taking a short break and splashing water on his face, Malcolm headed outside, a pistol in the pocket of his apron. He couldn’t believe they wanted him to assassinate her. Today. 
What happened to collecting data? 
To easing into his mission slowly? 
To waiting until he knew of her guilt?
What was he supposed to say? ‘Hey, would you walk across the street with me to a dark alley so I can kill you?’ Or ‘Please, follow me, back to my apartment, where I can help you into the afterlife.’ 
What if this was a test? Maybe his family didn’t really want him to use the gun but wanted to see if he could make independent decisions. They certainly didn’t need some wishy washy teen working for them.
But what if this wasn’t a test? Maybe the instructions were the real deal and for some unknown reason he had to act fast? What was so special about Savvy Bent?
With his eyes on her, he bumped into a table, which nudged the arm of an older lady. Her glass tipped and cold water spilled down the front of her shirt. She gasped. He spit out apologies. She waved him away, face red, eyes twitching.
His shoe caught and he stumbled. After regaining his footing, he stepped up to Savvy’s table. They were almost done. A smudge of chocolate covered the tip of her nose. He whipped out the bill.
They stopped chatting. Savvy smiled at him in amusement.
Malcolm looked over his shoulder, afraid Will hovered in the dark corners or behind the hedge, watching him, writing notes to report back to Father.
“Are you okay?” Savvy asked.
“Um, you’ve got,” he pointed to her nose but didn’t want to touch her, “a bit of something.”
She stared at her friend who nodded yes and discretely touched her nose. Savvy grabbed a napkin and wiped off the chocolate. 
Malcolm took the moment to get his body and his mind under control. It would only take seconds. Cakes fell flat in the same amount of time. He could do this. He had to. No choice.
“Are you okay?” Savvy asked again, with a clean nose, but a surprisingly sexy flush to her cheeks.
A breeze blew the bill from the table. He chased it down and put it under her plate. “I’m fine.” But his words came out a little bit too breathless.
Her friend nodded toward the street. Savvy pulled out money and left it on top of the bill but under the plate. 
Their chairs scraped against the cement and they stood. 
They turned to leave.
Savvy glanced back and waved, innocent and breathtaking.
Oh hell. He couldn’t stall any longer. But what would this simple mission put in motion? Probably something he couldn’t stop or control. He wanted to complete his mission but he didn’t want to be a chump, a mindless puppet. He would not, could not kill, without knowing why.
“Wait!” His voice came out a whisper.
Savvy walked away.
“Wait!” He called out louder.
She turned back. He made up the ground between them. They stood inches apart. Her friend, the chatter, the city of Paris faded. His brother, father, whispered in his ear, guilting him, pushing him.
“Did you want something?” Her melodic voice awakened his senses.
He opened his mouth but the words stuck in his throat. He could let her go. End the mission. Save her life.
And be shunned from the family. Forever.
Her friend tugged at her arm and pulled her away, widening the gap.
Or he could figure this out on his own, do it his way. The words flooded his mouth and tumbled out. “Would you go out with me sometime? Like a date?” 
She narrowed her eyes and took in his appearance.
He tried to smooth down his hair. “I promise I don’t bite.”
“Okay.” She smiled and wrote down her number. Then she and her friend walked away, arms hooked, heads together, whispering and laughing.
Elation ran through his limbs, sending a burst of adrenaline to his already wired body. He’d put off her untimely death. But for how long? How long would his family put up with his blatant ignoring of orders?
Hopefully, he and Savvy would make it through their first date.
Alive.

***

If you’ve enjoyed this short introduction to Malcolm and Savvy, I’d appreciate an honest review on Amazon. Thank you!

Keep reading for an excerpt from A Spy Like Me.

Or if you’ve read A Spy Like Me, read an excerpt from the sequel, Heart of an Assassin - available now.



One
I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect date – the Eiffel Tower, a night in Paris, and holding hands with the waiter I’d been flirting with for weeks. Nothing could ruin it.
“I have a surprise.” Malcolm smiled, flashing his dimples. “Close your eyes.”
I huffed before shutting them. “Fine.” 
I’m not really a surprise-me kind of girl. Ever since I’d moved to France with my dad, I’d wanted normal. Cornflakes with heaps of sugar for breakfast, jelly and pepperoni sandwiches at lunch, and a language I could understand. No more parlez-vous francais. Give me a healthy dose of swearing, loud-mouthed, impatient Americans, thanks.
“Hey, Savvy.” He nudged my arm. “No peeking.” 
“I’m not. I swear.” 
Okay, maybe I was a tiny bit. With my eyes shut tight, in almost complete darkness, I could hear the hum of the passing motorboats, the traffic from the road, and the leaves above me, whispering. 
Malcolm’s warm hand pulled me forward, and I stumbled in the dark. The sounds and smells in the evening air became sharper: the tangy River Seine and the laughter of couples nearby. My imagination went wild. Maybe he’d surprise me with a boat ride. Flower petals would be scattered at our feet, and violinists would be playing on the bank, as we passed, holding hands and locking lips. 
I tripped for the third time, straining to hear the lap of the water. “Are we almost there?”
“Soon,” Malcolm said.
Grass tickled my ankles, and I gripped his hand tighter. But he let go and pulled away. I heard the unzipping of a backpack. So maybe it wasn’t a boat ride. Maybe my surprise would be a hot air balloon flight over the sizzling sunset of Paris where we’d toast to the many romantic nights ahead of us. 
“Surprise!”
I opened my eyes and gasped at the sight before me. It wasn’t a boat ride or a trip in a hot air balloon, which frankly are probably highly overrated and a bit cheesy. Instead, he’d laid out a checkered quilt with a full spread of sparkling cider and mini-tarts slathered with all kinds of berries and drizzled with chocolate. 
I gasped. “Wow!” 
“I have a confession.” Malcolm looped his fingers in mine.
Oh no. I tensed and pulled away. I should’ve known it couldn’t last. “What?”
He shifted his weight from foot to foot. 
“What’s the confession?” I urged.
His cheeks turned pink. “I overheard you and your friend talking about your work the other day when I took your breakfast order. I didn’t mean to spy on you. And this morning I talked with your dad about a possible job with Spy Games.”
“Really.” I drew out the word, while my mind raced. 
So this whole date was a set up so Malcolm could have an in with my dad and his crazy business of letting people run around Paris pretending to be spies? They at least paid to do it. In my fantasies, this date was about me. Not about a cute boy using me to supplement his income. 
“Yeah, I know it was kinda stupid.” Malcolm kneeled on the blanket as he laid out fancy cloth napkins and poured the cider. A gentle breeze rippled the sleeves of his shirt and teased the hair above his ears. Cider splashed out of the plastic, fluted glass. He smiled awkwardly and held it out to me. 
“Forgive me?”
The tips of my fingers brushed against his when I accepted the glass. “Well, I don’t know. Espionage is a serious crime.” I paced in front of the quilt. 
Malcolm lifted his hands, palms out, in an act of surrender. “Guilty as charged.”
I spoke in my sternest most lawyer-like voice. “I want to believe you liked me for me. That you waited on our table because you thought I was cute and you liked the way I laughed.”
“Why do you think—”
“Whoops.” I put a finger to my lips. “The defense is not allowed to speak. You’ll get your turn later. Maybe.”
Malcolm sipped his sparkling cider, which I promptly whipped away from him. Some of it splashed out on his jeans. “No cider while on trial.”
He snorted, trying to hold back his laugh.
I stifled a grin and continued my interrogation. “I’d hoped for days you’d been building up the courage to ask me out with sweaty palms and an out-of-control heartbeat. The whole shebang.” 
It’s how I felt waiting for him to ask me out. Once I’d admitted it, I couldn’t look him in the face. He reached for a strawberry tart, but I slapped his hand. 
“No, no, no. No indulging until proven innocent.” I spied the cloth napkins. Perfect. “Hands behind your back.”
He complied with a silly grin. “Do I get my one phone call and a lawyer?”
My heart fluttered, but I stayed on task. Using my famous Spy Games knots, I tied the napkins around his wrists, tightly. My hostages could never escape. I grabbed a strawberry tart, because prosecuting a spy makes one hungry, and continued my attack. 
“When asking a girl out on a date, especially in Paris, certain expectations are involved. The boy should spend hours planning the date and picking out the perfect desserts and the right clothes to wear to impress her.”
“I object!” Malcolm blurted out. “Hours? That’s ridiculous.”
I stomped my foot and shouted. “Order in the court room!” 
People walking by glanced our way, and even a mime was distracted from his act, so I kneeled and brought my face inches from his. 
“Was that an admission of guilt?” I said in a quieter voice. “Did you not put much forethought into the planning of this date? Did you not truly care? And is it true that your only intention and motivation were to get closer to the girl for your career purposes?” 
He leaned forward and before I could officially object, he kissed me. 
I jerked away, spluttering and gasping, but completely delighted. “The defense is not allowed to sway the verdict. That will be a penalty.”
“What’re you going to do? Splash more cider on my jeans?” He tilted his head, completely underestimating the girl he’d offended. 
I narrowed my eyes, and a grin spread across my face as an utterly evil idea sprang into mind. I sipped the sparkling cider, letting the tart liquid coat my throat. With shaky fingers, I rushed to unbutton his pants and slide them off, revealing navy blue boxer briefs. I pulled off his crisp white tee and let it stay bunched by his hands. Yum. Nice view. 
Malcolm spoke in a husky voice. “Are you flirting with the defense, Ms. Bent?”
I ignored the sudden desire to drop the case and pushed forward. “Once you were close to the girl, the plan was to infiltrate her father’s company. Do you deny it?”
“There’s more to the story,” he murmured, his gaze lingering on my lips.
The sounds of Paris at night faded and for a moment I could pretend we were like all the other couples sprawled across the city. Except, we weren’t. Boys don’t play games with me and get away with it. 
“I proclaim you guilty on all accounts for espionage and for asking a girl out under false pretenses. Punishable by death.” 
He moved to kiss me again, and I was tempted to give in to his tactics. But with a laugh, I stepped back. “The court has decided to let you off with an easy sentence.”
He waited for his sentence, but his flushed face told me he was thinking, hoping that I’d come back and kiss him. He’d underestimated me. This whole courtroom drama might be a joke, but inside, I was a bit hurt that this date wasn’t really a date. That it was just a way into Spy Games for him.
I cleared my throat in a judicial sort of way. “You are hereby sentenced to fifteen minutes of intense embarrassment by sitting in your underwear in public.”
His face turned a bit pale as he realized I meant what I said. I felt only slightly bad.
“Au revoir for now,” I whispered, and grabbed a smashed tart covered in strawberries because something that good should never go to waste.
And then, I was outta there for the full term of the sentence. Almost.
About two steps away and one bite into the tart, I heard a groan. Was he okay? Would his circulation get cut off? Maybe I should loosen the ties. I turned. Malcolm lay in the grass. Just like I left him.
Except for the blood running in rivulets down his arm.



Two
All I did was tie his wrists together and take off his clothes. 
For a joke. 
A bit of fun revenge.
I swayed, dizzy on my feet. The sounds of Paris rushed around me, swirling into a crescendo. My eyes were trained on the boy, my date, in front of me. Minutes ago he’d kissed me, offered me sparkling cider. He’d smiled and invited me into his world, his life. Now he appeared to be unconscious.
He groaned again, and I ran to his side. Blood gushed down his arm, leaving a trail and dripping onto the grass. No. No. No. How? What had happened? I’d turned away for three seconds! Only a serious injury could cause that much blood. 
Like a bullet wound. 
But I never heard a gunshot. He was a waiter. I was a nice girl having her first date in Paris. Things like getting shot didn’t happen in situations like that. 
Following my instincts from watching too many crime shows, I pressed the quilt against his arm to stop the bleeding. But I had no idea if it was working, especially in the growing darkness. Slowly, I pulled the quilt off and peered at his arm. The smell of blood and the protruding flap of skin sent my stomach into upheaval. I quickly covered it up. DOCTOR, my mind screamed. 
“Doctor! Doctor!” I called out to tourists and couples walking past, but they ignored me.
Some pulled out their phones and snapped pictures. Others saw what looked like a questionable scene and hurried by, not wanting to get involved. And I had no idea how to say in French, “Help! A boy might possibly be bleeding to death!” Or, “I tied him up but I didn’t shoot him!” 
I knew exactly how this would look to the police. Terrible. Like I was some crazy, gun-happy, screwed-up American teen. Or like I belonged to some secret, ancient society that murdered people for no apparent reason. Right.
I struggled not to pass out. Who would hurt Malcolm? And what if they were still watching? With a gun aimed at us? Or me? Crap. I dropped to the ground next to him, huddling close. 
“Please, please be okay,” I whispered. 
“Oh, now you want me to be okay,” Malcolm mumbled. “After tying me up.”
I shook with relief that he was talking and still breathing. I kept pressing the quilt against his arm. “Do you know who might’ve shot you?”
“Do you have a jealous ex-boyfriend?” he asked. A bit of drool clung to the corner of his mouth.
“This is nothing to joke about,” I snapped. “We need to get you to a doctor.” 
“It’s not that bad.” His eyes blinked open briefly. He felt his arm, wincing. “It’s just a grazing, I think.”
“Not that bad? You’ve been shot!” 
I felt past the quilt to the cloth napkin tied around his wrists. The ties had to come off, and I couldn’t hide in his shadow forever like a coward. I had to act. And it had to be soon. Before this situation got any worse.
My legs trembled and panic set my skin on fire as I scooted around his body. The barrel of a gun could be pointed right at me, the shooter focused and aiming, waiting for the right moment to pull the trigger. I tugged at the binds, but they weren’t called my specialty knots for nothing. Only one thing to do.
“This might hurt but I need to pull you to safety while I go for help.” I hooked my arms under his shoulders and pulled.
I heard the ping first and felt the pricks of shattered tree bark against my back. I dropped to the ground. Sobs ripped from my throat, and I curled into a ball. That was why I never heard the gun shot. The gun had a silencer on it, which meant professionals. 
“Savvy?”
“What?” I said in a tiny, scared voice. 
“Come close and listen.”
I inched over to his side so I could see his face. Pain flecked his expression from the set of his jaw to the way his eyelids fluttered shut every few seconds. 
“What?” I whispered. I couldn’t even hold his hands because they were tied up.
“I like you.” A twisted laugh escaped his lips. “I shouldn’t. But I do.” 
“Let me get help.” I wanted to reach out and touch his cheek, to comfort him, but I curled my fingers into the grass.
“We need to run,” he said. “Help me up.”
“What if they shoot again? Or what if you pass out from blood loss?” 
He glanced to the right and left as if hoping to spot the shooter. “If they wanted us dead, we’d be dead.”
I let his words soak in. This was a warning? For what? Eating too many chocolat au pains? 
His words puffed out with each breath. “I try. To bring my dates. Home alive. Their dads like that.” He held his breath and grimaced with pain. “You run one way. I’ll run the other. Eiffel. Thirty minutes.”
“Shh. Okay. I get it. Don’t talk anymore.” This time I did run my fingers across his cheek, then I smoothed his hair.
“I’m serious. Go,” he barked. 
The back of my neck tensed at the urgency in his voice, and I glanced around. The light from the Eiffel Tower and the street lamps still cast a romantic glow but this night had become anything but romantic. Most people rushed past us. We could both stay here all night like sitting ducks, just hoping the shooter would leave us alone. Or I could do as Malcolm wanted and run away. 
“Fine.” But I didn’t move. I was rooted to his side, too scared to go, too scared to stay. I fumbled with the ties. “Let me get you untied.”
Then I heard another ping and the grass tore up next to me. I smothered a scream, grabbed my bag, and got to my knees. 
“Go! Now!” His voice hitched. “I’ll slip out of these knots in two seconds.”
I choked back a sob. “Thirty minutes.”
Then I ran. I didn’t look back, but flew across the grass toward the main road. The thought that a bullet could be shooting toward my back made me run faster than I’d ever run before.
 


Three
I flew across the grass, feet pounding, arms pumping. I wove in and out of the trees, cutting zigzag lines to throw off the invisible shooter. A cramp gripped my side, but I kept pushing. What if Malcolm was wrong? What if the gunman had bad aim or sneezed as he pulled the trigger? I zigzagged again.
Benches and tourists were a blur as I zipped past. I wanted to reach out and grab the darkness like a cloak and wrap it around me, but the blazing lights from the Eiffel ruined any chances of melting into the night.
Hide. That’s what I needed to do. I pushed harder, almost to the tower. I ducked behind a group of older men out for a stroll, and then after a glance behind my shoulder, I slid behind a cart and a man selling roses. Immediately I slumped to the ground, my chest heaving. Sweat streamed off me and dripped into my mouth. I tasted salt. Tears too? 
I breathed in and out. What the hell just happened? 
Someone touched my shoulder with a soft hand. I scrambled back. A man with corn silk hair offered me a rose. The owner of the cart. I reached out to grab the stem, trying to miss the thorns. He spoke in French, and I nodded.
“Merci,” I said.
“Trouble?” he asked, his brow crinkling with concern. Light danced in his eyes. He seemed perfectly content to sell roses all day. Just a kind man with probably a simple life, maybe some grandchildren an hour away. I couldn’t get him involved.
“No. I just need to rest.” I assured him, shaking my head.
He didn’t seem to understand and went back to selling roses. I lifted the bloom to my nose and let the soft petals brush against my skin, the sweet smell giving me a false sense of security. Was I safe? Had the mad man with a license to kill gone home? Or was he after Malcolm? Damn it. When would thirty minutes be up? I let my head fall against my knees and tried to ignore the guilt. If I hadn’t been all cute and flirty and tied Malcolm up, he’d be much better off. He might not have gotten shot. Wait a second. Why did he get shot? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
With each painful minute, I pictured Malcolm, running, falling, getting shot. And then the silent movie would start again and the scene would play over and over. After what seemed like an extremely long time, I pushed up and peeked around the cart. My legs cramped and my shoulders felt tight and sore. I had to be safe, right? I hadn’t heard any gunshot pings since I ran away, since Malcolm got shot, since our date got ruined.
With a slight limp, I walked the perimeter of the Eiffel, searching for Malcolm. It would be hard to miss a guy in his underwear. With every flash of brown hair, my heart leaped. But it was never him. I rubbed my shoulders, ignoring the fear squeezing the breath out of my chest.
Finally, I leaned against a tree, letting the crowds of people blur in and out. The boisterous sounds of the late-night crowd faded into white noise, and the nice man closed up his cart and left for home. I wasn’t sure how long I stayed or if I even nodded off here and there, but he never came.
Malcolm never showed.
I convinced myself he decided to seek medical help, or that he found the shooter and wrestled him to the ground and turned him over to the police. Or that it was too much for him to make it to the Eiffel, and he was safe at home, wherever that was. Why hadn’t I gotten his phone number?
Clouds passed over the moon, casting a shadow over the city of lights. Shivers racked my body. The crowds thinned. Thirty minutes had passed several times, and I had to go home.

The next morning, I woke up in a haze. My head pounded and my heart ached. Somehow I’d made it home last night, past Dad who’d fallen asleep reading a Dan Brown novel, and into the shower. But no matter how hard I’d scrubbed, I couldn’t wash away the memory of what happened. I’d stayed up late into the night, worrying.
Throwing aside any dirty clothes, I dug around in my closet and found the box. The one full of different spy gadgets—gifts from Dad, of course. A beginner’s code-breaker book that I hadn’t even cracked the spine on yet, an obnoxious flower pin that doubled as an audio recorder, and I couldn’t possibly forget about the black ski cap Dad wanted me to wear as a Spy Games’ staffer. I was hoping to find a bulletproof vest or weapon of some sort. Not that we needed weapons for Spy Games. The wannabe spies were placed in groups and traipsed across Paris together. I handed out coded clues at the Louvre and later tortured the hostage. Pretty boring, actually. But people seemed to love it.
Malcolm. Thoughts of him hovered in the room, not letting go, not leaving me alone. I liked Malcolm. I liked the lopsided grin he wore when he took my order every morning, already knowing what I wanted. I liked his polite and kind words when he waited for Aimee and me to finish chatting before he presented us the bill. And I especially liked that he was a cute boy who could speak English. 
Leaning against the wall, I breathed deep and tried to calm my beating heart. Why did I act so impulsively last night? I could’ve at least asked him some questions first or talked about my hurt feelings in a rational way. Not put him on trial. What had I said? Punishable by death?
I had to tell Dad. He might wrap me in bubble wrap and metal armor to keep me safe, but he’d know what to do about Malcolm. I entered the kitchen. Dad was buried in the morning newspaper, his legs sprawled out to the side of the table. He had no idea I’d almost died last night. I peeled a banana, took one bite, then threw it away. Instead, I poured coffee and drew comfort from three extra sugars.  
Finally, he peered over the top of the paper for a second, his wave of dark hair slicked to the side. “Morning, Savvy.”
I had to get his nose out of the newspaper. “We need to talk.”
“Sure thing, what’s up?” But he kept reading, as usual.
“It’s serious.” More serious than whatever drama he was reading about. 
He folded the newspaper and looked at me with scared eyes, scared in the way that he might have to buy tampons or something. My mouth went dry and I struggled to find the right words. 
 “Savvy?” He put the newspaper down, his full attention on me.
 “Right. Something kinda happened last night.” 
“With Malcolm?” Dad sat straighter and his voice became sharp. “If he so much as touched a hair on your head—”
“Whoa! Calm down.” I held up my hands. “Malcolm didn’t do anything.” 
Warmth spread through my chest. Dad hadn’t shown he cared this much since I lost my luggage on our flight to France. I’d freaked out because it had the scrapbook my friends made me as a good-bye gift, and he’d been so concerned. I looked at a clump of dried gel hanging from a hair above Dad’s ear, anywhere but at his eyes. I didn’t want to see his reaction to me getting shot at. 
“We were walking near the Eiffel Tower. He had this wonderful picnic—”
Dad lowered his eyebrows until they practically touched his nose. “Did you say the Eiffel Tower?”
“Yeah, um.” I searched for the right words but they wouldn’t come.
“There was a shooting last night by the Eiffel. Did you see or hear anything?”
“Pff, No.” Crap. That was my chance to tell all. Why did I blow it? Maybe Dad knew something. “Did anyone get hurt? Were any bodies found?” 
“The news didn’t say, but I’m glad you’re safe. Maybe you should stay home today and skip Spy Games.” Dad picked up the paper again like the decision was made.
I knew right then I couldn’t say a word about what happened. Not if I ever wanted any kind of social life again. I’d have to take care of Malcolm myself. Somehow. 
“Oh, man, but I was so excited for Spy Games today!”
“Really?” Dad perked up. He’d been trying to get me excited about his new line of work since we’d arrived. He must have recognized my less than enthusiastic interactions with the wannabe spies, I mean clients.
“Definitely.”
“Well, okay. But I want you to be careful.” His eyes narrowed as if suddenly deciding to be interested in my life, my real life, not just what he saw on the outside. “So what happened on your date?”
“You could say it was an adventure.” More like a horror movie. But I didn’t even care anymore why Malcolm asked me on the date. I cared if I’d accidentally had a hand in killing him.
Dad straightened the paper. “Ah, here it is. The shooting. Right next to the stories about some big pastry extravaganza contest, a missing monk, and a dog show. Oh your mom would’ve loved the dog show, all the fluffy dogs prancing around....” 
His voice trailed off and the white elephant (a.k.a. Mom) that had wedged itself permanently between Dad and me made its appearance. He gazed off, memories of past times flashing across his face, times when she was around. My legs jiggled up and down, fighting off the dread. I missed Mom too, but I had to know Malcolm made it. 
“Dad? The shooting?”
“Oh, right. The paper says the police found evidence of a shooting and lots of blood. But nothing else. No sign of anything. They’re combing the Seine for a body.” 
Did that mean Malcolm might have died? Maybe someone killed him, wrapped him up in the quilt and threw him in the river? My face prickled and fear spiraled up through my chest. I leaned over and fiddled with my shoelaces. I left a guy half-naked by the Eiffel Tower last night, alone and bleeding. I wanted to rush the three steps across the kitchenette and hang my head over the sink and puke my guts out. 



Four
“You look pale.” Dad sounded like he cared. “Are you feeling okay?” 
“Yeah.” Except I’d made a huge mistake. I never should’ve tried to play the role of the flirty date. I never should’ve tied him up. What had I been thinking?
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” He folded his newspaper twice over, which always meant the talk was serious. And usually it meant chatting about my future, especially since I was seventeen. 
“Can we talk later?” My words came out kind of breathless, like I’d run ten miles. “I’m meeting Aimee early this morning.” And I had to see about a body.
He clasped his hands together. “I guess. We’ll talk later then.”
I nodded while under the table I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands. I had to know if Malcolm was okay. Maybe he’d gotten home last night, wrapped up his arm, and would be at work today. I hoped.
“Okay, but be careful. Stay with the crowds.” He pushed back the chair and it banged into the cupboard. He dumped the rest of his cold coffee into the sink. “You up for the fiver or the tenner this afternoon?”
“Maybe tomorrow.” And then I felt worse, if that was possible. I hadn’t run more than a mile since we got to France.
“Great. I’ll be at the warehouse preparing for the debriefing at nine sharp. I’ll see you there.”
I nodded and downed a glass of water before slipping outside. Resting my head against the front door, I traced my fingers along the fun circle designs burned into the worn wood. Dad wanted to talk to me, really talk to me, and I’d said no? What if he’d wanted to tell me about Mom? Or say he was sorry? That had to wait. My priority was finding Malcolm. 
I turned to leave and tripped over a brown paper package on the step. Every piece of mail we get addressed to Mom makes her absence that much worse. She should be here to get them herself. I kicked it off to the side and it landed behind a bush with a satisfying thud. The birds singing in the trees needed to be shot. I sprinted to the corner before slowing to a jog. Prayers slipped from my lips, me making a deal with God. Something about Malcolm being alive and at work, and me never eating cookies again.
Aimee waved ecstatically from the far corner of Les Pouffant’s, our favorite café. I speed-walked through the black wrought iron tables searching everywhere, behind every person and pillar. No sign of Malcolm. 
“Oof!” I walked right into a big somebody.
“Excuse-moi, Madamoiselle!” His big round belly puffed into me, knocking me back, and his long, curly grey beard had bits of frosting stuck in it. Cinnamon dusted his shoulders. He frowned at me, his shaggy eyebrows almost touching his nose.
“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, then rushed past him. Aimee had already ordered for me: an extra-tall latte and a croissant filled with strips of chocolate.  
“Oo la la, you look terrible!” The sun gilded Aimee’s blonde frizzy hair and speckled her blue eyes. “You know that was the Pouffant of Les Pouffant’s who you just bumped into.”
I waved my hand. I had bigger concerns than poofy pastry chefs. As soon as my butt hit the chair, I opened two menus and propped them at the edge of our table. I leaned forward and nibbled on my croissant.
“What is up?” she asked. 
I wrapped my hands around the warmth of the cup. “I don’t think I can do Spy Games today.”
She crinkled her nose and laughed. “You are never in the mood. Have you talked to your papa about this yet?”
“No.” I poked my finger into the melting chocolate, which I’d normally be devouring. “But have you talked with your grandmother about backpacking across the world yet? And touring ancient castles?” 
Aimee puckered her lips to the side. “No. That is different.”
Customers streamed in and out of the café, a sea of strangers, but none of them were Malcolm. If he didn’t walk out of the café in the next minute, I’d scream.  
After tapping the side of her cup and staring intensely, Aimee squealed. “I can not stand it anymore.” 
“Stand what?” I tested my latte before taking a sip. 
“Your date! With the cute waiter?”
“Shh.” I didn’t want to talk to Aimee about my date. Her friendship was too important. What if she wrote me off as a total jerk? And then slowly backed out of our friendship? I couldn’t handle losing my only friend. 
Aimee waved her hand. “Put away the menus. He did not show for work this morning.”
I gagged on my drink and spit it out on the patio. “What?” 
“He did not show. I already asked.”
Images of Malcolm being pulled from the bottom of the Seine flashed in front of me, his body deathly white, eyes vacantly staring at me. I groaned.
“I have heard that groan before. After you used your papa’s spy equipment to see if he ever talked to your mother and he caught you.”
I fiddled with the menu and sipped my latte. I tried to focus on the good parts of last night: the picnic and the effort Malcolm took to make it romantic, probably spending the last of his money for the week. I remembered his quick kiss. I remembered his fine-looking bare chest. But the color red bled into my images and ruined the memory.
“Share now, before I make a scene.” Aimee stared me down, her grip tightening on her cup, and the blue flecks in her eyes turning stormy.
I whipped the cash out of my shoulder bag and slammed it on the table next to a small metal tray. “We’ve got to go. Now!”
“Something must be terribly wrong if you leave half your latte.” Aimee placed her hand on my arm. “What happened?”
I combed my fingers through my hair and tried not to hyperventilate. “I’ll tell you on the way. Let’s go.” I grabbed the tray from the table, and while Aimee fiddled with her chair, I shoved the tray up my shirt. A girl can never have too much protection. 
We half ran, half walked toward the Eiffel. When we were almost there, I breathed a bit easier. Within minutes I’d know whether or not my date took a big drink in the Seine.
A little out of breath, Aimee said, “Start talking.”
That’s what I loved about her. Ever since we met, she always cared. Wanting to know what was wrong without wanting anything back. I took several deep breaths then summed up the previous evening. 
“Beautiful sunset. Sparkling cider. Fruit-filled pastries. Great conversation. A kiss.”
Aimee clasped her hands together with a dreamy look on her face. “Sounds romantic.”
Then I told her the rest, almost. I talked about his admission of guilt and the mock trial. And the part where I tied him up and the fact that Malcolm wears boxer briefs, not tighty-whities. When I tried to talk about the shooting and that I didn’t know if he was dead or alive, my throat closed up. I couldn’t do it. 
At first, her face showed nothing. Then her lips twitched, and her eyes crinkled. She lowered her head while her shoulders shook. Several times, she tried to rein it in and act casual but to no avail.
“Go ahead. Laugh. I get it. I’m an idiot.” But the truth was nothing to laugh at.
She stopped giggling, wiped at her tears, and then grabbed my hand. “Oh, Savvy. How do you get into these messes?”
“No clue. I just need to know he escaped.” A part of me wished I’d told her the truth.
“I’m positive someone found him last night after you left. I’m sure.” She cocked her head and suppressed a grin. “Almost sure.”
At the Eiffel Tower, I sprinted toward our picnic spot, with Aimee right behind me. The cops were already gone. The river searched. Not even a bit of yellow police tape was visible. The dewy grass soaked my sneakers, and I shivered at the bite in the air. He was nowhere.
“You sure about all this?” Aimee asked, a hand on my arm.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” I slumped to the ground, not caring that my homemade bullet-proof vest jabbed into my stomach or that the wet dew was seeping into my pants, and I’d have a spot on my butt for the next hour. What if he was lying in a foreign hospital or tied up as a hostage? I couldn’t let myself think he might’ve died. “What if something terrible happened?”
“I doubt that.” Aimee crouched next to me. “Do you like him?”
“Heck, no.” Even if I did, what did it matter? He’d gone missing and could very well be dead. And I had no idea why or what he was mixed up in. 
Aimee nodded as if to say, yeah right. Then she tapped her watch. “You might not get fired from this job because your dad is the boss, but I can.” 
She stood and slung her backpack over her shoulder. The whole ride on the Metro, I tried not to think about Malcolm. We got off at our stop after throwing out all sorts of conspiracy theories like my dad being overprotective and sending his goons to shadow us or Malcolm working for the Mafia. But I had bigger things to worry about.
Like what the hell happened to Malcolm. 

***

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One (Heart of an Assassin)
The cold sensation started as an itch on the back of my neck, like a spider crawling. The imaginary legs tap, tap, tapping against my skin, the tiny hairs bristling and tickling. 
I shivered then shrugged it off, blaming it on a cold draft. Thankful the hood of my sweatshirt kept my face in shadows. My hands were jammed in the front pocket, my fingers running over and over the smooth casing of a pocketknife. 
Mom told me to infiltrate the market place of our seacoast village in Greece. She wanted me to study five people to determine their economic status, why they were shopping, if they were happy or not, their age, marital status, the color of their underwear, blah, blah, blah.
I’d been doing this every week for the last few months when I really wanted to jump from planes or attend fancy parties as a seductive spy and duel with swords in the dark shadows. Cool things. I was tired of observing people haggle over the price of a radish. 
But ever since my adventures in Paris, where I solved the mystery of my best friend’s disappearance and rescued a monk from captivity all while outwitting a family of assassins—yeah, ever since all that, Mom had been a wee bit overprotective.
I drew closer to the crowded streets, totally incognito in my average teen girl clothing, and took in the increasing chatter of the crowds: the deep bellows of merchants trying for a sale, the whine of toddlers begging for some shiny toy or piece of candy, and the quiet hum of ongoing conversation. Beaded jewelry twinkled in the sun, glitter on T-shirts flashed, and friendship bracelets and handmade necklaces hung in a variety of brilliant colors. I searched for my first target and for something sweet to snack on while I observed.
I found the sweet dessert first. After I paid the man, I cradled the pastry in the palm of my hand. The wafer thin layers with walnuts were soaked in sweet honey syrup and tasted absolutely delicious.
The itch on the back of my neck grew to a prickle and the spider crawled down my back. This time I couldn’t ignore it or blame weather patterns, and my hoodie didn’t offer much protection or camouflage. I quickened my pace, the need to hide rising above my training mission. I ducked one way, then scooted between two old ladies, but the feeling remained. Someone’s eyes were on me. 
No one knew Mom and I were hiding out in Greece, but I made constant sweeps of the thickening crowds and pushed through the old, the young and the in-between. A lady with her messy hair piled on her head hassled a seller for a lower price on lettuce. As the seller ran fingers through his bushy black hair and argued, I inched backwards under the shade of his tent. Hiding. Hoping that no one noticed me.
Heat flushed my body and instinct screamed at me to get home. Fast. Each person who looked in my direction caused my heart rate to triple. I took several meditative deep breaths and merged with the crowd, acting like I suspected nothing. I bought a head of lettuce, and held onto it like it could protect me in a fight. I moved to the next cart and bought onions, even though Mom can’t stand them. At the next cart, I used the last of the change and bought fresh flowers, then robotically turned and moved toward home, past the fresh produce and back into the touristy carts. As I moved from the thicker crowds and turned onto a side street, my body tensed. Footsteps fell in line behind me. 
I stopped and slowly turned, ready to take them out with whatever method I could even if I had to bombard the guy with onions or offer up my dessert in exchange for my freedom. That would totally work on me. 
I certainly didn’t expect the Rastafarian teen who looked like he didn’t belong here anymore than I did. Long brown dreadlocks hid his face. He banged his head and swayed to the beat pounding in his ears through his ear buds. No guns. No black clothing or hulking men out to get me. 
He made beat box noises and drummed his legs with his hands. I froze, feeling stupid staring at his matted hair for no good reason. When he moved into my personal space, I freaked out and couldn’t convince my legs to run home. So much for a glorious confrontation. I tightened my grip on my pastry, ready to smash-in-the-face and run.
He rocked out, and just inches from me, turned his back. “Don’t act like you know me or that I’m talking to you.” 
Feelings that I’d kept pressed down bubbled up and spilled over, washing me with memories. Paris. Kissing. Rushing through the streets of the Extravaganza. Malcolm. For some reason my vocal chords wouldn’t cooperate and I said nothing.
He kept his back to me, pretending to listen to music. He said nothing while a mother strode by with her three children. My breaths came faster and faster. There was only one reason he would be in disguise and talking to me so secretly. Someone was following him or following me. Probably his family. As in his older brother, Will, the one who put a bullet in my leg in Paris. I had known it was a possibility, but this made it real. This was not how I imagined our reunion. And all my thoughts about wanting excitement felt like a complete lie.
“We need to talk,” he said. “Tomorrow night, near the docks you’ll find a bunch of sailboats. Find the one almost at the end. Both sails will be down and Mozart will be playing. I’ll be waiting.” 
Then as if he was a one-man band he drummed his hands against his legs and moved on down the street until he rounded the corner. I sank my teeth into the pastry, letting the caramelized sweetness distract me from the many thoughts running through my brain. But one in particular managed to break through and repeat.
Malcolm had found me.

 

Two
The next day, Mom cooked dinner while I schemed on how to slip out unnoticed. Perfume lingered around her as she served up the chicken stir-fry and her every move sent a scent of apple blossoms my way. Her hair was up in an elegant twist, no strands framing her face; too sharp and clean cut for a dinner with her daughter. The fresh flowers I’d bought the day before wilted in a glass vase at our small table. She hadn’t understood why I came home with onions and flowers. 
“So what’s with the fancy hairdo?” I asked.
Mom patted her twist to make sure it was secure and then placed the serving dish on the table and retrieved the plates from the cupboard. “Can’t I make dinner for my daughter without being questioned?” 
“Sure.” I served up the stir-fry and stabbed my fork into my mushy veggies, wishing they were a giant brownie. 
We didn’t say much during dinner. There were too many unanswered questions and fears piling up in my mind. Mom cleaned up her plate down to the last zucchini. She glanced at her watch and brought her plate over to the sink. “I’ll be heading out for a bit.”
No surprise there. “Want company?” 
“Not tonight.” She hummed and rinsed off her plate. “What are you going to do?” 
Mom was good at that. Answering an awkward question and then redirecting the attention back on me. So I’d forget. But I never did. 
I stretched my arms out to the side and let out a totally fake yawn. “I think I’ll shower and head to bed with a book. I’m kinda tired.”
“Okay. Have a good night. If you could clean up that would be great.” Mom kissed the top of my head, grabbed a shawl and was out the door. 
Three minutes after I scrubbed the dishes, I was too. It wasn’t easy making my way through the village in the dark of night. Every unknown sound creeped me out: the scurry of tiny animals in the brush, the creak of tree limbs in the breeze, and the slight echo of traffic from the main roads. I rushed down to the docks feeling only one step ahead of my invisible enemies, darting from streetlight to streetlight until I realized it was probably better to stick with the shadows. Every sound was the footstep of an evil monk with the gleam of murder twinkling in his eye or the pitter-patter of Malcolm’s brother with a sniper aimed and ready. My entire back turned into knots. 
The briny smell of the Mediterranean tickled my nose, and I slowed down. When the tips of sailboats reflecting the moon caught my eye, I crept along until I was on the dock. My feet created a dull thudding noise on the wooden slats. The sway of the structure made me feel off kilter and slightly sick. Dark water lapped against the sides of the boats. I felt exposed, a sitting duck waiting to be picked off.
“Psst. Hey, Savvy!”
I jumped and whirled around, my heart rate spiking. Then I heard the strain of violin music and calmed down. If someone was going to put me six feet under they wouldn’t call my name, they’d just do it. I peered through the darkness. “Malcolm?” 
“Yeah. Come on in.” 
He stood on deck, light spilling out the door to his cabin. His familiar shape, the outline of his face and the hard lines of his body caused a twang in my chest, and parts of me I hadn’t known were hollow for six months filled with warmth and anticipation. His words whispered to me by the River Seine returned. He cared about me. Or he had. I flashed him a nervous smile and stepped aboard.
Down in the cabin, we stood too close for comfort, looking everywhere but at each other. A tiny table was built into the side, a convenient kitchen tucked into the corner, and a door at the end led into what looked like it might be a bedroom. 
“Do you live here?” I asked, running my fingers along the manly curtains with no frill, thinking how my mom would disapprove of the layer of dust on the sill.
“Yeah, I’m taking a little break from the family. You know.”
“Totally.” I couldn’t control my head as it bobbed up and down. I didn’t know much at all about his family and he probably knew everything about mine. I wanted to look at him, study his face and find the tiny dimple on his right cheek, see if he had changed like I had, but I could only make it to his feet and his frayed flip-flops. And his feet pretty much looked the same from what I could remember. 
“When I couldn’t follow through with my mission in Paris, they didn’t make it easy for me.” He stretched and totally failed in acting nonchalant about the whole thing. 
I gasped and met his eyes, fighting off the fluttery feeling in my stomach. His words were laden with hidden hurts, secrets about his family I’d probably never learn. “They kicked you out?” 
“Not exactly. I could’ve stayed but the looks from my dad and Will’s obnoxious remarks were getting to me. I had to get out of there.” 
This time I nodded with complete understanding. I knew something about living with tension, but I didn’t have a family boat to escape too. Must be nice.
“Want something to drink?” he asked and ran his fingers across the top of a cooler.
“No thanks.” 
The conversation stalled and seconds ticked by that felt like hours. I couldn’t stand the silence so I searched for a story, any story. 
“You should’ve seen my first day in the market place.” I waved my hand and fake laughed. “I turned down a zillion streets like I was in some sort of mythical labyrinth and never found what I was looking for even though I stumbled upon a few touristy stands and wanted to buy some twinkly jewelry until finally I had to ask this old guy, who I think was a bit drunk, how to get back home and you should’ve seen this guy’s hair, streaked with white, a total bed head.” 
My flow of words slowed to a trickle when I ran out of breath while the burn of embarrassment crept up the back of my neck. Tension separated us like a brick wall. What happened to the easy conversation we’d had in Paris? I’d spent months thinking, dreaming, and wondering about him. And here he was, right in front of me, and we were like strangers. I went through my inventory of lame jokes. Something. Anything to fill the widening gap between us. But mostly I just bit my lip to stop another stupid story from leaking out.
Malcolm sprawled across a padded bench, his long legs taking up most of it, and he studied me, his charcoal eyes pulling at me, questioning. Deep inside me, embedded in the walls of my heart, I felt a flicker, a tiny spark of what I used to feel. 
“So,” I said, crumpling on the inside and wishing this moment would end.
“So,” he repeated, then straightened up, a slight glint in his eyes. “How’ve you been?”
I skipped any more stories and reverted back to what we knew. Paris. The glib reply came easily. “You mean after you left me in an, um, rather uncomfortable position under the Eiffel Tower?” 
“Payback’s a bitch.” He grinned. 
Feeling sparked again, and I couldn’t help but smile back. “I’ve been just fine and dandy. Mom scooped me up and we moved here to recover. Been living here ever since.”
“No, I mean in general,” he said.
“Oh. I’m fine.” I threw the remark out there, leaning against the sidewall and crossing my legs, hoping, praying I looked cool, like meeting up with him was part of any other day.
“You seem different,” he said and tapped his fingers together as if they itched to hold some kind of weapon. 
I patted the palm of my hands against my legs and shrugged, rolling off the past five months like they were nothing. “Life happens.” 
“I understand.” 
His eyes caught mine and I knew he truly did understand. If anyone could understand about not fitting in with family, the longing to be accepted, and the need to be told the truth once in a while, it was Malcolm. 
He stood and stepped closer, not saying anything. I stared at his chin and the tiny hairs that needed to be shaved. I couldn’t get myself to look into his eyes again or at his mouth. My insides quivered. His hand traced my arm through my sweatshirt and he tugged on the sleeve, pulling me closer. I stumbled a bit. All I wanted was to lift my head and feel his lips on mine, a chance I thought I’d never have again, but how would this ever work? A spy and an assassin? Impossible. 
“Look at me,” he said gently. 
I kept my eyes to his chest. The feelings battled within me, part of me wanting to reach out and touch him, the other part urging me to run before I could get hurt, before Mom found out. 
His breath whispered against my skin, pulling my head up. I found his eyes, the charcoal flecks welcoming me home. I found compassion and understanding. I found a lost friend. The temperature in the room skyrocketed and a rush of emotion flooded my heart, drowning out any logic in keeping back the old feelings I had for this boy. Suddenly it didn’t matter that six months had passed. Time warped and I felt it was just yesterday we were whispering and laughing together. Forgotten memories and feelings welled, pushing to the surface, and I struggled to hide them.
He kissed my forehead and I pulled away, joking. “You’d better watch it. My Greek bodyguard could board your small sailboat at any time.” 
A devilish grin creeping across his face told me he wasn’t giving up. “Sure.” He said it like he didn’t believe me. 
“Seriously. I really shouldn’t be here,” I whispered. 
He knew what I meant. We were fine until he brought me home to meet the family considering they were trying to wipe out my family line. Permanently. They’d already tried to once. In Paris. The only reason I’d survived was because Malcolm was captured by my cute looks and couldn’t pull the trigger. Either that or he just chickened out. I liked to think it was my cute looks and infectious smile. 
“Shh. Let’s not talk about that,” he coaxed, and his words worked their magic. I didn’t want to think about it either. 
He reached across and wrapped his fingers in mine, his touch warm and soft. He leaned over, his breath brushing my lips, waiting. I swayed forward when a loud clunk echoed outside. A very unnatural clunk considering we were on a boat and waves don’t make loud thump-like noises.

***

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Redpoint Press
The Almost Assassin
Copyright 2012 Laura Pauling
First e-book edition, 2012
Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, except for brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, blog or broadcast.

This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. People, places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.

About the Author
Laura Pauling writes about savvy spies, murder, and mystery for all ages. In her fiction, the real and the incredible combine for heart stopping and often hilarious adventures.
She lives her cover of suburban mom/author perfectly, from the minivan to the home-baked snicker doodles, while hiding her secret missions and covert operations from the real world.
And her kids wonder what she does all day while they're at school; or why on Monday mornings she's a bit grumpy. Living the life of a secret agent isn't easy, but someone has to do it. But shh—don't expose the truth to her friends and family.
She may or may not actually bake cookies.
You decide.


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