Our heads bobbed, trying to keep pace with the action on screen. Within minutes, Jackson had maneuvered into the cab of the truck and neutralized the passenger by kicking him out the side door. Lunging to the other side of the cab, Jackson landed a knockout blow to Bartok’s skull. Turning the Russian’s stunned body to the passenger side, he stopped the truck then secured Bartok in cuffs before reaching public roads.
The local law enforcement, alerted and standing by, swarmed in with red and blue flashing lights and sirens. The officers in blue took over the scene while Jackson slipped away to protect his cover. Thanks to him, one of the world’s most notorious arms dealers was in custody.
The rush never got old.
As we wrapped up in the Control Room, the team recapped Jackson’s feats like teens exiting the latest action flick.
“Did you see him fall from the rafters? Holy Mother!”
“What a kick he laid on that guy. Bam! And he went down.”
“I thought I’d lose it when he jumped into the truck.”
I concentrated on the video feed as Jackson removed his shoulder camera, aiming it toward himself before turning it off. I doubted anyone noticed his pointer finger and thumb held down—sign language for the letter Q. Brushing his finger past his lips, he hit the switch to turn off the camera. Now I left, walking by the team and holding back a smile.
My job put me with other operatives, but no agent thrilled me like Jackson. He entered and exited danger without fault and always returned to us with the prize in hand. More than that, however, he treated me like an indispensable part of his success.
But I’d never be the stereotypical woman behind the successful spy. Girls like that could only be found in one place—
Entering stage left in six-inch heels and a long gown barely skimming here and there, she descends the stairs into a casino or a ballroom or a museum to find him.
The setting doesn’t matter, as long as it’s rich and exotic.
A cinematic pan closes in on her, commanding his attention from across the room, while he glances at her with a smug I-know-what-we’re-going-to-do-later smirk and bets it all on red.
And, of course, he wins, leaving the villain to wonder where his plan went wrong.
In the background the bass guitar twangs out the theme song as he throws back the rest of his Belvedere vodka—up with a twist—and makes a one-line quip about expecting the unexpected. Then he saunters across the room to claim her, the perfect prize. The heroine can foil, ruin, capture, trouble, encourage, or betray him, and still purr, “Oh, Jayce,” at the end.
For girls like me, scenes like this only existed in the movies.
In my job, I required props like a soldering iron, lab coat, and a command prompt rather than a push-up bra and stiletto heels. My dialogue covered the benefits of using Semtex in car bombs and the hypothetical implications if life on Mars existed. And I didn’t have much patience for celebrity gossip or following fashion trends.
My commitment to Jayce Jackson encompassed every sense of the word—except maybe the one-night-stand sense, but I kept hoping. He was every bit as over-the-top sexy as the dashing Brit from that classic movie franchise, but one-hundred percent all-American, from his dusty cowboy boots to his unending Southern charm. I’d seen Jackson silence a room of females by drawling a polite greeting and flashing his dimples. I firmly believed his license to kill came with a warrant to search my panties—and when required, I’d happily comply, for the sake of God and country.
But I wasn’t the throwaway girl who died at the beginning of the film, alerting the hero to his antagonist’s criminal dealings. I had a recurring role as a scientist-slash-engineer-slash-inventor for clandestine operatives. I created the gadgets, toys, and machines that made Jackson’s spying possible—the Quartermaster to CIA’s finest agent.
Even my name, Grace Quincy, foreshadowed a life fated for Q-dom. The day I joined this organization, I’d been christened “Q,” a surname-cinematic tag that stuck. Only those on the outside kept calling me “Grace,” a name underscoring God’s joke on my incredibly talented, athletic parents. My nerdy tendencies had troubled them while I was growing up, but now that I brought in the salary I did, they started to see the wisdom in all the science fairs, robotic clubs, and academic decathlons.
Yet they still managed to express their continuing hopes and disappointments at our weekly Sunday dinners. With the whole family invited, my older brother and younger sister and their spouses and children, my mother had plenty of perfection to draw from for comparison.
“Betty said the club is starting a Zumba class,” Mom hinted as she set silverware next to the plates I had laid on the mats. “It might be a good way for someone to start getting in shape.”
“Oh, who did you have in mind?” I pursed my lips, trying not to smile. Sometimes it amused me to make her squirm. Although I inherited my mother’s killer metabolism, my exercise avoidance techniques insured I would never beat her in a foot race.
“I just thought—you know—since you never seem to have time to go out biking or running with us.” She frowned.
“Maybe I don’t like running or biking.” Or anything else I have the possibility of falling off or tripping over.
“I know if you get out and try… You’re not a gawky teenager anymore, Grace.”
“Hmm.” I reflected. “And here I thought tonight would be a why-don’t-you-find-a-nice-boy-to-date night.”
“Grace,” she protested, “you make it sound like all we do is pick on you.”
“No, she’s pretty much accusing you of it,” my brother Carter teased, carrying in a salad and some potatoes to set on the table. “Can we eat soon, or are we gonna just pick on Gracie tonight?”
“Why don’t you call everyone, Carter?” my mom asked with a sigh. “We’re almost ready.”
As he left to get everyone, Carter winked at me, and I nodded in acknowledgement. Perfect though he was, he still found time to protect his little sister from a meddling family. I loved him for it.
Family dinners followed the same pattern most weeks. First, my sister Courtney would give us the rundown of all the ways the twins surpassed others of their age group. Then Carter’s boys would do something mischievous, evoking scolding from their parents and chuckles from the rest of us. Eventually the kids would be excused to go play ball in the backyard, and the adults would linger at the table over a glass of wine.
I often tried to escape as well, preferring the company of my niece and nephews to the judgment of my parents and siblings. Tonight, however, they had other ideas. When I stood to leave, my father’s hand squeezed my shoulder from behind, pushing me down.
“Where are you going, Gracie?” He reached over to my wine glass and topped it off with Chardonnay. “Why don’t you stay with the adults tonight?”
“I don’t have much to share.” I shrugged. “Besides, Mom wants me to get more exercise.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she called from the kitchen. “Sit down. I have an apple tart for dessert.”
Usually dessert bribery worked on me. But I also knew if my mom made it, it contained whole-grain, gluten-free tofu and an all-natural sugar substitute—not my idea of a treat. The kids had a reason to escape outside before dessert. But I also sensed something was up, so I gave in to the inevitable and relaxed in the chair.