the vehicle while my confused little brain tries and fails to keep up with current events.
That’s how I find myself sliding onto the leather bench seat of the strangest van I’ve ever seen. In the corner—behind the driver—there are two panels of monitors. I recognize the video feed from the hallway where only a few moments ago I felt both terrified and deeply confused.
There's a chair in front of this setup, bolted to the floor. And as soon as Gunnar climbs onto the seat beside me and slams the door, a dark-haired man swivels around in this strange chair to scowl at us.
He’s familiar, too. He’s a friend of Gunnar’s, but I haven’t seen him for fifteen years. He used to come into Paxton’s once in a while when Gunnar was working. What was his name? Matt? No, Max.
Remembering his name gives me a sense of victory, but it’s fleeting. I still don’t understand anything that happened tonight. “Who are you?” I demand as the van shoots forward. The motion makes my body slide against Gunnar’s.
Nobody answers except for my hormones. Ooh, we like the feel of Gunnar! Especially when we’re scared.
“What is happening?” I demand.
Again, I get no answer. Instead, Gunnar grabs a seatbelt and straps me in, the way I used to do for Aaron before he was old enough to do it for himself. Gunnar’s jaw is so tense that I worry that it might crack.
“Who was that man upstairs?” I try as the van takes a corner and accelerates.
Gunnar’s arm comes around me to hold me steady as the driver does a few more quick maneuvers.
“Did you get it?” Max asks the maid who obviously isn’t a maid. His eyes have the intensity of lasers.
“Of course I got it.” She’s the only one who looks the least bit relaxed. In fact, she reaches for an apple that's braced in the cup holder and takes a bite.
“Don't tease me.”
“Fine,” she says, reaching into her bra and pulling out a device, which she hands to him.
“You are a fucking goddess,” Max says, staring at the object in his hand. “Where's the spent battery?”
She takes another bite of the apple, then wiggles a hand into the pocket of her skirt. A moment later she’s handing off a gray unit the size of a cell phone, a cord protruding from one end.
“Good work, as always.” Then he turns to look at Gunnar, and the two men seem to lock attitudes at the same time they lock eyes. “You, on the other hand, have some explaining to do.”
“Oh, bite me,” Gunnar grumbles. “This mission was fucked from the start. Maybe you’d like to explain why the perp turned up seven minutes after you told us he was gone?”
“He was gone,” Max thunders. “I watched him get into the car myself.”
“Not gone enough.”
Another opinion comes from the driver’s seat. “You both fucked up. But I can settle this pissing match. Max was outmaneuvered by a paranoid international criminal. Gunnar was tailed by a piemaker.” He swivels around, and I recognize the one called Duff. “No offense, Posy. I’m sure that pie is killer. Not that I’d know, because Gunnar won’t share.”
And now I’ve had enough of being confused. “What is happening?” I shriek. “Who was that guy? Why were you stalking him? Why impersonate the hotel staff? What is up with this strange van?”
“Stalking isn’t really a word we use,” Max says, rubbing his chin. “It’s so negative.”
A high-pitched shriek of frustration erupts from my throat, and the woman holding the apple core glances my way. “Somebody needs a margarita. Max should buy, especially because I can’t safely enter the Soho Luxe for the foreseeable future. My name is Scout, by the way. Nice to meet you, Posy.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say through clenched teeth, because my parents were always big on manners, and old habits die hard.
“Duff, after you’re sure nobody is tailing us, could you drop me at home?” Gunnar asks. “I’ll talk to Posy.”
“Somebody had better talk to Posy!” I holler. “And it better be good.”
“Good plan. Be discreet,” Max cautions. “Can I ask, Posy, why you were following Gunnar tonight?”
“Because nothing makes any sense!” I howl. “The lowball bill for the window. With the key on it. It’s the same key that Gunnar has right here.” I place my hand on my sternum.
“Oh, dude.” Max scowls at Gunnar. “Reason numero uno for not getting naked on the job.”
“You’ve got the wrong idea,” Gunnar argues.
“I spilled raspberry syrup