Men in Jeans

When Richard Daniels started working at Area 51, he figured he’d see some weird stuff, but he never thought he’d get sent out on a gig with ET as his sidekick. They were Area 51’s version of Men in Black, though they dressed in tee shirts and jeans. Blended in better.

Well, Rick blended in better. He flicked a glance at Kiernan Fyn, his extra terrestrial companion. He looked more biker than space guy. According to the guys who’d know, Fyn could kick ass in at least two galaxies. Maybe that’s why no one had made him trim his dread locks to conform to military regs.

“Quiet,” Fyn said, staring at the house.

He should know. Rick shut off the engine, adding to the silence in the clearing. When he’d picked Fyn up, his wife said he was excited to get out of Area 51. He didn’t look excited then. Didn’t look it now. If his expression had changed in the last twenty-four hours, Rick had missed it.

“Yeah.” To fill the silence he added, “Maybe she’s not home.”

No way to tell with the garage door closed. Place looked and felt isolated, though technically it wasn’t. There were houses all around, but the lots were large, some close to half an acre. And the freeway was about five hundred yards through the trees. Not to mention freaking huge Houston, Texas, in every direction. According to one of the local guys, the neighbors were “Texas close.” Guess that meant they were in the same time zone.

“Maybe.”

That doubled Fyn’s output from yesterday. Rick almost made a joke about him talking too much, but yesterday’s joke hadn’t gone well. No one could say Rick didn’t learn from his mistakes.

If they’d been tracking terrorists, Fyn was the guy Rick would most want at his back. He was like seven feet tall, all of it solid muscle. A bit of overkill as backup for a visit to a writer, though.

Unless she was ET, too.

Or a traitor.

Or both.

Rick contemplated Fyn. No, even if she was all those things and more, he was still overkill.

Though it was hard to make the case she was innocent when her books nailed the Garradian history so perfectly. Only the names had been changed. Been better for her if The Harradian Chronicles had been less popular.

Still, Rick couldn’t figure out why Area 51 was interested. It’s not like anyone outside of Area 51 knew about the Garradians—except the Project Enterprise expedition. It was scattered over a couple of galaxies, so he knew they weren’t talking. They might be emailing, but they weren’t talking, well, except to each other.

Rick turned his attention back to the author’s house. It wasn’t anything special. It huddled down in the trees and Texas scrub as if it weren’t sure it had a right to be there. Looked a bit shabby except for the front door—a bright, unapologetic red.

J. E. Smith had only recently bought the property, so maybe it was her way of making her mark. Or maybe she just liked red. According to her driver’s license. Jillian Elaine Smith was thirty years old, five foot six inches tall and weighed 135 pounds—though she’d probably skimmed a few pounds off her real weight. Rick had never met a woman who was honest about her weight. She had black hair and blue eyes, and the official photo, well, he’d have been hard pressed to pick her out of a lineup, based on that photo.

Not that he’d find her in one. No criminal record, not even a parking ticket. She had the normal amount of friends—male and female—and none of either had stayed overnight since the surveillance started. She appeared to be the right amount of reclusive for an author—or a person with something to hide.

Like the fact that Jillian Elaine Smith had died at birth.

Who was she really? What had compelled her to write the books? She’d never have popped up on the Area 51 radar but for the books. The ID grab was almost flawless. She’d even managed to create a false grade school trail. The geeks were still trying to figure out how. It’s not like she could have stolen the ID in kindergarten.

Early surveillance had failed to unearth any connection to Area 51, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. It was their job to figure out just who and what Jillian Smith was—or wasn’t. Someone further up the line would decide what to do about her. No one had told them exactly how to do anything without giving away what they knew, but no one had ever said his job would ever be easy. It helped to have low expectations. He just hoped they were low enough for this gig.

They slid out of the car and Fyn shadowed him up the walk. Guy cast a long shadow. Rick applied some pressure to the doorbell. When nothing happened, he applied some more and held it for a twenty count. Just before they could consider their next step, they heard footsteps approaching the door.

There was a peep hole, so Rick held up his ID so she could see it.

The door didn’t open.

“What do you want?” The voice sounded muffled coming through the red door.

“We need to speak with you, Ms. Smith.”

The door opened a crack, the chain still on. Part of a face peered out the gap.

“Let me look at your ID.”

Rick put it in her hand. They weren’t FBI but she wouldn’t be able to tell. It was an authentic forgery.

“He doesn’t look FBI.”

Rick looked at Fyn. She was right. He’d crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet, like someone who meant to stay as long as needed. If he’d really been FBI, the dreads would be long gone.

Rick tried to look safe and trustworthy. “You can call that number on the badge, ma’am. They’ll vouch for us.”

“I’m sure they will.” Her voice sounded a bit dry, a bit cynical.

Lady wasn’t a fool.

Another long pause, then the door closed—and opened again, this time without the chain. She stood in the opening. She had a cordless phone in her hand, her thumb on the speed dial. Just a guess, but he had a feeling nine-one-one was the number. Very smart lady. Pretty, too. Way better than her driver’s license photo, but then most people were. Green light spilled into the dim hallway, highlighting the fact that she was, well, hot. Great features, great body in shorts and a tee shirt. Bare feet, the toes painted same red as the door. She had gathered her hair into an untidy mass on top of her head, but silken strands escaped to curl against creamy skin.

Her eyes were so blue, they almost looked purple.

Not what he’d expected from a writer. Or ET. Now if she was Mata Hari…

The eyes narrowed in suspicion and her body language was defensive.

“Why would the FBI be on my doorstep?”

Her gaze met his. Her chin lifted. Slid Fyn’s way. Fyn stared back without speaking. Huge shock that. After what seemed like a long time, his shoulders lifted in what might have been a sigh. Or a shrug. A slight, a very slight frown formed between his brows.

“We’d like to talk to you, ma’am.” Rick smiled in a friendly way. Whether he wanted it or not, he’d been cast as Good Agent. Fyn was tailor made to be bad.

“So, talk.”

Since no one could see them, it was hard to make a case for taking it private. At this rate they wouldn’t be inside before she wrote and released another book. Speaking of which…

“We were wondering where you get the ideas for your books, ma’am?”

Her jaw slackened. Her eyes widened. It didn’t reduce her hotness factor at all.

“What?”

Rick wished he had a tie to tug on. Not that he liked wearing ties, but the moment seemed to call for a good tie tug. “We need to talk to you about your books, ma’am.”

“Is this some kind of weird joke?” She looked past them, as if she expected a camera crew to pop out of the underbrush. “A new reality show?”

“We’re not allowed to joke, ma’am.” It took some work, but his lips didn’t twitch.

She didn’t try to keep hers from twitching.

“I—you…” She sighed. “You’d better come in.”

Finally she stepped back so they could enter. She kept the phone in hand, though.

Nothing unusual, or even that interesting, about the hall or the Great Room at the end of it. Rick wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, or would that be hoping? Maybe a picture of her home planet on the wall? Alien furniture. Her certificate for passing spy school? Garradian artifacts?

“I understand you only recently moved here?” He looked around. She’d settled in fast. He’d been at Area 51 for two years and he still had some unpacked boxes lying around.

She arched her brows, her body language still defensive. Or annoyed. Hard to tell those two apart sometimes.

“Can we sit down?” Rick had had twenty-four hours to come up with a plan. Twenty-four years wouldn’t have been enough. He was basically winging it. So far couldn’t feel any lift. More like they were running along the ground. Hitting stuff.

“Of course.” A pause. “Can I get either of you something to drink?”

Lot of reluctance in her voice, a bit of polite.

“Water would be nice.” Rick smiled.

“Yeah.” A pause from Fyn. “Thanks.”

He kept that up, he really would be talking too much.

She disappeared into the open plan kitchen that butted up against the Great Room. Fyn settled on the edge of a chair, like it was a hot seat, his hands clasped between his splayed knees.

When she returned, both men stood again and she handed them each a bottle of water. Rick twisted the top off and took a drink. The cold water felt good going down. Nevada was hot, but that was a dry heat. Texas was damp hot.

“Thank you, ma’am.” He waited for her to perch on the edge of a rocker, before resuming his spot on her couch. He let the silence grow, hoping she’d give him an opening.

She didn’t.

“You been writing long, ma’am?”

She rubbed her temple as if it ached before she answered. “About five years.”

“You were a librarian, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Most people would be babbling by now, spilling their guts. She just looked at him, her violet eyes wary.

Okay. He thought a bit, then tried, “Any reason why you chose science fiction?”

She looked away. Looked back. “It’s what I like to read.”

“Really? You read science fiction? Why is that?”

Her lips tightened and he thought she’d lose it.

“Because I like it.”

Point to her. “Right.”

Fyn shifted restlessly. “Why’d it take you so long to answer the door?”

Wow, a whole sentence.

“I was reading. Science fiction. With my headphones on.”

He could see temper simmering in her eyes.

Fyn looked around. “Where’s your book?”

Her fingers tightened around her bottle of water. “I was outside. On the deck.”

Fyn rose, pointed out the patio doors. “Out here?”

“Yes.” She snapped the word off.

“Mind if I look?”

He got a look that might be permission.

Fyn pulled the glass door back and stepped out. Rick could see the foot of a lounger, saw Fyn pace toward it and stop. He turned. Retraced his steps.

She stood up, her arms crossed again. “It’s called Games of Command. Do you need me to tell you the plot to prove I was reading it?”

“Actually,” Fyn said, “I was wondering about the dead guy.”

He had to be joking, but he wasn’t. Jilly could see a dead guy, lying on his back at the foot of the stairs. He was dressed in a Star Fleet uniform—kind of ironic because it was a red shirt one—and had on a pair of Vulcan ears. He also had a huge scorch mark in the middle of his chest. This was in the center of a round body and below rounder surprised eyes.

“Do you know him?” Agent Daniels, the “good” agent, asked.

She heard him through an odd rushing in her ears, kind of like the surf going out and coming in. Should she call a lawyer? He asked the question again and finally she nodded.

Jilly looked at Daniels, sort of aware he was a nice looking guy, in a distant kind of way. He filled out the jeans well. And the tee shirt. Had great eyes. Green. Her favorite color. It was his eyes that convinced her to let them in. Now she wished she hadn’t.

Bad agent was hot, too, and kind of wild, like one of the characters in her books. He looked great in jeans but would look better in leather and packing space guns.

“His name?”

She rubbed her temple. “I don’t know.”

“You said you know him.”

This question came from bad agent. Something Fyn or Fyn something.

“He read my books. He’d show up at signings.” He’d dress like Jusan, one of her characters, and used that name when he sent her fan email. Did they realize how many people showed up at her signings? Her head started to ache.

“He was stalking you?” Daniels jumped on it like a cat on a mouse.

“In a benign way.” Jilly rubbed the sides of her arms. She turned abruptly and went back inside, but it felt like “Jusan” came with her, his image tattooed to the inside of her lids. She massaged her temple, feeling the ache sharper now. She really needed to get that checked. It seemed to be happening more often. Headaches had been the norm after the fender bender, no surprise there, since she’d banged her head against the steering wheel, but they’d eased up until recently. Now the pain wasn’t enough of a distraction from her dead fan.

How had her personal stalker ended up dead in her backyard?

This had to be some kind of record for a bad day. First the FBI shows up at her door asking weird questions about her books, then they find a dead man in her backyard. Maybe not the worst day ever, but surely in the top ten?

She could tell the big guy thought she’d done it. Daniels just looked surprised. He’d called the police, but they were taking their time. She didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved. The two men crouched by the body, talking. Fyn gestured, then got up and walked toward the tree line. Daniels seemed to hesitate, then he came back inside. She turned and sat at the table. She couldn’t see the deck from the table. Daniels sat down opposite her, and she could see him trying to figure out what to say. She decided to help him out.

“Why are you really here?”

He studied her for what seemed like a long time. “You appear to have—come into possession of classified material.”

“What? What classified material?”

“I can’t tell you that. It’s classified.”

“You can’t tell me what classified material you think I already have?”

“That’s right.”

“And where is the evidence of this classified…” She stopped. “My books? You think my books contain classified material?”

“Have you been in contact with anyone in the government, ma’am?”

“Only the IRS. They’re fans of my money since my books started selling well. I don’t know if they read them.”

He actually smiled. A nice smile. Might have curled the toes in her shoes if he weren’t freaking crazy.

“It’s in your best interests to cooperate with us, ma’am.”

“Kind of hard to cooperate when I don’t know what your problem is.” She huffed out a frustrated sigh, fought her way to calm. “I write science fiction. I make it up. How could making up stuff be classified?”

“That’s a good question. But…”

“The answer is classified?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He was quiet for a minute. “What about experts who help you with technical stuff?”

“Experts? You mean experts in scientific advances that haven’t been discovered yet? Or are fictional? Those kind of experts?”

He didn’t blink. “Yes, ma’am.”

Jilly leaned forward, hissing through clenched teeth. “Aren’t any. Don’t exist. I make it all up.” She leaned back, taking a couple of deep breaths. “Have you read my books?”

“I read one of them, the first one.” He smiled again. “It was good.”

“But somehow classified.”

“Well, yes.”

He shifted, as if uncomfortable, but he didn’t look uncomfortable.

“You know, your comedy routine would play better with your straight man here instead of patrolling my back yard like Sherlock Holmes.”

He grinned. His gaze seemed admiring, but that might have been part of the routine.

“Seems to be taking the cops a long time.” Had he even called anyone? Maybe they killed “Jusan”…

She heard an odd, thumping noise. What the…

Helicopters. Several of them.

She gave Daniels an ironic look. “I’m sure that’s the HPD. They always arrive by chopper.”

He liked her, Rick realized, more than he should. She had spunk and a good eye for bull. She’d seen right through them, even before the real Men in Black swarmed over her place like ants on cake. Though they also wore jeans, just more expensive ones.

She still sat at her kitchen table, her hands loosely clasping her bottle of water, staring at the wall in front of her. One or two times, Hitchens, the guy in charge of the team, had stopped to ask her a question. Each time, she’d turned her gaze toward him, stared at him for a full minute, then looked away without speaking.

She hadn’t asked for a lawyer. Yet. He hoped she didn’t, since she wasn’t getting one.

Fyn emerged out of the woods at the back of her house and gestured for him. They met in the center of the backyard.

“Found something.”

Apparently he’d used up his allotment of full sentences. Rick signaled for a couple of the guys to come with them and followed Fyn into the woods. It was cooler under the trees but somehow more humid, which felt like it canceled out cool. The heat made the smell back here more pungent.

Fyn stopped and pointed to one of the trees. Rick stepped around, staring at the scorch mark on the tree, about chest high if the man was as short as the dead fan. They moved deeper into the wood and found more of the marks until they reached a small clearing. Fyn paced around, pointing out his finds. Some trampled flowers, a mix that clearly wasn’t indigenous. More scorch marks. Tire tracks. Footprints. A dead ferret.

A ferret?

Rick crouched by the critter. No scorch marks on the visible side. He turned it over and realized it was still warm. Its heart was still beating. Okay, even in an odd situation, that was pretty strange.

He stood up, stepping out of the way of the photographs being taken.

“What if he just walked in on something?” If he’d been planning on an unscheduled visit with his favorite author, sneaking through the woods might seem logical, particularly to a guy dressed like Spock.

“See if you can find our victim’s vehicle.”

Rick didn’t wait to see the guy nod, just headed back toward the house. When Fyn joined him, Rick wasn’t totally surprised to see him carrying the ferret, which was starting to wake up. He hoped they found an owner. Fyn appeared to be bonding with it. And Rick would probably get the blame when he wanted to take it home. Fyn’s wife could kick some serious butt.

When they got back to the house, more show and tell.

The victim was one, Oscar Redding. According to his Texas driver’s license he was taller and thinner than he looked. Couldn’t fudge his age, which was forty-three. He was a card carrying member of the Star Trek Fan Club, the Stargates Fan Club, the Star Wars Fan Club, was president of the J.E. Smith Fan Club and had an ID badge for Consolidated Weapons Systems, Inc.

Crap.

CWS had provided some of the weapons systems for the Enterprise Project ships. Some of their people had helped with the repair and refit of the Doolittle’s weapons arrays. It was hard to see where he fit in, but it was also hard to see an innocent connection when the man was dead—apparently shot with a Garradian type ray gun, if Fyn knew his stuff.

Rick had no doubt Fyn knew his stuff.

Rick phoned home. “I need to know what information Redding had access to and I need to know it yesterday.” He’d always wanted to say that. A bonus that he meant it and that it was true.

“Sir?” It was one of Hitchens’ bright young men. “Mr. Hitchens was wondering if you could join him in the garage. With Ms. Smith.”

There was a small Ford pickup truck parked to one side of the double garage, but that wasn’t what had caught Hitchens’ attention. No, it was definitely the workshop on the other side, complete with welding equipment. On the shelves, Rick could see all kinds of what appeared to be alien technology. On a workbench lay a ray gun. Did ET have a workshop?

Smith crossed her arms over her chest, her expression cool and closed.

“Can you explain this, ma’am?” Rick asked.

She stared at him for several seconds. “It’s obviously my secret laboratory, Agent Daniels.”

“This isn’t a joking matter, ma’am.”

Hitchens did sinister and threatening better than anyone Rick knew.

“Am I laughing—what was your name again? I don’t think I caught it.”

No one said anything.

“Let me guess. Classified.”

Time to be good cop. Rick eased up next to her.

“Ma’am, if you could just explain? You have to admit, this is rather…odd.”

“You mean more odd than a bunch of Feds swarming my house and asking about my books?”

Seemed like a good time not to say anything.

Finally she sighed. “I like to—build some of the stuff I use in my novels. They’re mock ups. Models, so I can picture it, describe it, visualize how it would be used if it were real. Which it’s not.”

Rick stared at the ray gun. “So that’s not real?”

“Of course not!” She picked it up, pointed it at the wall, and squeezed the trigger. A flash of light surged out of the tip, slamming into the wall. Flames flickered for a few seconds, before they went out.

Smith walked forward, looking just a bit dazed, and reached out to the big, black mark left on her wall. Before Rick could suggest she not do that, she pulled her hand back.

“It’s—hot.” She looked at Rick. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it. “Do I need a lawyer?”

Rick sighed. “Tell me you checked that thing for prints before she picked it up?”

A tech nodded. “Been wiped clean, sir.”

Rick studied the room again, his gaze stopping on the door. He nodded toward it. “Have you checked the door?”

Hitchens nodded. “It leads out to the backyard.”

So, someone could have come in here while he and Fyn were talking to her. That didn’t explain why someone would leave a piece of alien tech in her garage. Or the dead guy in her back yard.

It was clear that the clearing had something to do with the dead guy. But it didn’t clear Smith of involvement in whatever was going on. Rick really wanted to clear her. “Was the door locked, ma’am?”

“Probably.” Her chin lifted.

He looked at the tech.

“There are scratches on the lock. It could have been picked. No way to tell when, sir.”

He took the ray gun from Smith, looked at it, and handed it off to Fyn. Fyn studied it carefully. Looked at Rick. Shook his head.

So it might have been made in the U.S.A. Or here in this garage. Could someone develop a working ray gun in a garage?

Was he even asking himself the right questions?

Jilly was back at the table. The feeding frenzy seemed to have died down, but it didn’t help her headache. How had her space gun mockup been replaced by one that actually worked? Who had killed “Jusan?” The two events had to be related, but thinking about it without full disclosure from these people just made her head ache more. She rubbed her temples, fighting back a feeling of falling that seemed to be a side effect of the headaches.

Bad cop Fyn intrigued her for some reason. She shifted in her seat to keep him in sight as he paced restlessly around her house, a ferret around his neck. She didn’t remember him arriving with a ferret, but then she’d been more interested in good cop Daniels at the time. She got that odd, almost-shift in her vision and felt a longing to be at her computer. These were her most creative moments, when it seemed like her vision split between what was and the place where her novels happened.

Daniels sat down opposite her again.

“You said Redding brought you gifts,” he began.

“Was that his name?” It seemed important to know his real name, though she couldn’t have said why.

“Oscar Redding. What kind of gifts did he bring you, ma’am?”

“I wish you’d call me Jilly,” she said, then wished the words back. This wasn’t a social occasion and he wasn’t her friend, even if he acted like he was. He was good cop and it was his job to trap her into admitting she’d killed—Oscar.

His smile warmed the cold places inside her, even if it shouldn’t.

“Jilly. The gifts?”

“Flowers. Chocolates. Jewelry—nothing expensive. Trinkets. Like charms related to my books.”

“Flowers. Any special kind?”

“Usually a mix of types, the kind of thing you could pick up at the grocery store.”

“Not your favorite flower?”

Jilly frowned. “I didn’t really have one.” That wasn’t true, but the flower she saw in her mind existed only in her novels. It was a lovely, waxy red, the color of her door and her toenails and the scent, she didn’t know how to describe its scent. It—soothed. She’d missed it when—when what? How could she miss something that didn’t exist? Why did she sometimes feel homesick for a place that wasn’t real? She rubbed her temples again.

“You have a headache, ma’am, sorry, Jilly?” He looked worried.

He did good cop very well.

“I’m fine.” She didn’t want to like him. She wouldn’t like him. He was just playing her and he wouldn’t tell her why.

He studied her, as if considering what to tell her, but he was really doing it to break her.

“We found some flowers scattered around on the ground in a clearing back there.” He nodded toward her back yard. “And we found his car parked just off the freeway on a dirt road. I figure he was coming to see you.”

She shook her head. “No, not to see me, not dressed like that. If he was planning on seeing me, he’d have been dressed like Jusan, my character.”

Daniels straightened. “You think maybe he meant to leave the flowers?”

“Yeah, I do.” She rubbed her face. “He wouldn’t realize how creepy that would be. He’d probably think he was being thoughtful.” She hesitated. “I had mentioned I’d moved in my blog. Maybe it was a—house warming gift.”

“Did you know he worked for a company that makes experimental weapons?”

She had a feeling the question was supposed to shock her.

“I didn’t even know his real name.” She hesitated. “I suppose on some level I knew he had a job. I mean, he bought me stuff, but not expensive stuff. I might have vaguely thought he was a computer geek or something. When I thought about him. Which wasn’t that often.” She rubbed her face again. “I had lots of fans. Some of them also give me things.”

“Like what?” He looked curious. No more, no less.

“Pillows and tee shirts with my book covers silk screened on them. Souvenirs from their vacations. Plush toys. Space toys. It was—sweet. Friendly.”

“You’ve written four books, but the stuff in your garage, it didn’t look like a lot of stuff?”

Jilly felt pain stab her temples again. She fought the urge to rub the spots.

“When I finish a book, I hold a contest for most of it. It clears the decks. It’s something I can give back to my fans. Might even be valuable when I’m dead.”

“Do they keep it?”

“Some do. I’ve seen some of it turn up on eBay.” Tiredness tugged at her concentration. She’d been up early writing. “I’ve donated a few things to charity auctions and they’ve done pretty well. They’re unique. More valuable since I hit the NYT.”

“NYT?”

“New York Times bestseller list. I was on there with J.K. Rowling.” A few books down, but still there. She couldn’t hold back the smile or the thrill it still gave her to remember seeing her name there with Rowling’s.

“Cool.” His smile took some of the edge off her headache. “Did anyone come with Redding to your book signings?”

She frowned, thinking back. Finally she shrugged. “It’s hard to say. People visited while they waited in line. I was usually busy talking to the person in front of me. Readers are mostly friendly. They don’t just talk the the book they are getting, but about other books they like. I can hear them. If you like this novel, then you might like this one. And some of them knew each other online, but not always in person.” She looked at him. “I’m sorry.”

He leaned forward. “Let’s assume that Redding’s death in your yard is a coincidence, Jilly. That it’s about that weapon and not you. He’s coming by to leave you a house warming gift before he goes off to the Trek convention downtown.”

“That’s easy, since it’s true. I’m not involved.”

A quick smile from him. He shifted, leaning toward her, though he didn’t move closer.

“He starts through the woods and runs into—something to do with that weapon.”

“Something?”

“It—appears whoever was in that clearing was shooting it. There were scorch marks on several trees. And the ferret.”

“The ferret?”

“The weapon appears to have a stun setting. They stunned the ferret.”

“That’s pretty cold. It would still hurt, and the pain lingers for several hours.”

Daniels looked at her, blinking slowly. “How would you know that?”

It was Jilly’s turn to blink. “I guess I don’t. That’s actually what mine does. In my book. Sorry.”

“Right.” He paused, as if collecting the threads of his story. “Suppose Redding recognizes someone or several people in the clearing? There’s some—confusion, maybe. Possibly even two of the weapons.”

“How could you tell?”

“The scorch marks on the trees, leading to your house. They go both ways and are of varying heights. I think Redding—and someone—took one of the weapons. Redding gets shot and someone—breaks into your garage. He or she sees your replica and makes the switch, then leaves.”

Jilly studied him for a moment. “Clever. You could be a novelist, Agent Daniels.”

“Call me Rick.”

Was his smile friendlier than the last one? More—intimate?

“Rick.” As soon as she said it, she knew it was a mistake. It forged a link between them that she liked too much—and that made panic flutter in the back of her throat.

She had to get away. It was the only way, they said.

Who were they? Four books and she still wasn’t sure. She just knew she had to keep pushing toward it, toward them, whoever they were. When she found out, she wouldn’t be worried anymore. She wasn’t afraid. Just worried. She didn’t need to be afraid.

Well, not until a man died in her back yard and she got invaded by—whoever these guys were. She might need to be afraid now.

“The other story is the one where you’re in the clearing, getting classified equipment and that our arrival was—unfortunate.”

“That one isn’t as well developed. If I’d been running from the clearing, wouldn’t I have been out of breath when I answered the door?”

“That’s why I didn’t spend as much time on it,” Rick said, looking a bit wry. “Hitchens likes that one, though.”

“Hitchens being the man in black.” As soon as she said the words, she felt a shiver of something dance down her spine, helped by the slight twitch Rick gave at her words. “Now that I know his name, will you have to shoot me?”

She kept her voice light and ironic, to hide her sudden, possibly rational fear.

Rick looked puzzled. “Shoot you?”

“He implied even his name is classified,” Jilly prompted.

“Oh, right. My bad.” Then he grinned, looking remarkably unrepentant. Did that mean he was actually the one in charge? “So…”

He stopped, met her gaze with a steady but determined one.

“So, Fyn and I are going to stay here. We don’t want you to be alone if someone comes back here looking for the weapon. And if they do, we’d really like to meet them.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then we’d have to assume you’re part of it and—arrest you.”

“Right.” She found herself wanting to smile when she should be angry. Furious maybe. “Then I guess you can stay.”

When he got up and walked over to Hitchens, she wondered why they were letting her stay. But she didn’t really have to ask it. It was obvious they didn’t really trust her. And it had started long before they found a dead man in her yard and a working space gun in her garage.

Hitchens and his boys melted away, taking the body and leaving the ferret. They’d wanted to take the ray gun, too, but Rick needed bait. If the killer was watching the house and had seen them arrive, he wouldn’t be back, not even for a ray gun. But it was possible whoever had switched the guns had led the chase away from the house. It was even possible he or she got clear. Or got caught and talked.

Either way, someone would be back to make the switch or they’d be in contact with Jilly.

Before Hitchens left, they’d wired the place from stem to stern. An ant wouldn’t be able to pass gas without them knowing it. If they’d had more time—but time seemed to be the one thing they didn’t have. Events had moved rather quickly since he and Fyn arrived to scope out a possible alien.

And Rick still didn’t know the answer to that question. And, worse, still didn’t know how to find out.

For the first time, he wondered why they’d sent him. And why Fyn?

When they went out to their car to add some armament, Rick asked Fyn.

He was quiet for a long time—no surprise that. The surprise came when he spoke. In whole sentences.

“There is evidence that some of the Garradians had,” he hesitated, “nanites in their bodies. Among other things, they—communicate with each other.”

“Okay.”

Another silence.

“I have some. I was injured during the battle with the Dusan. Nanites were used to heal me. If she had them, I should have sensed them.”

Rick didn’t even have an okay in him. Felt more like a hot damn. But he wasn’t confident enough to say it out loud.

“Does that mean she’s not Garradian?”

“No.” Fyn gave him a look. “Just means she doesn’t have nanites.”

“Do you think she is?” He’d spent a lot of time staring at her. He must have an opinion.

“Sara thinks she is.”

His wife thought Jilly was Garradian. He almost asked why her opinion mattered more than, oh, everyone else’s, but somehow couldn’t. Maybe it was that surge of menace that flared in a gaze already fully loaded with threat that did it.

“Then she’s a really good liar,” Rick muttered, more to himself than to Fyn.

“Maybe she doesn’t know.”

Rick looked at Fyn while he considered the words and the implication: that Fyn didn’t think she was lying either. It was kind of a relief but also disturbing. How could she write about the Garradian history and not know it was real? Even though he had a pretty wide definition of weird that was pushing it.

“I don’t see how,” he said, again more to himself.

Fyn shrugged. Maybe he’d just run out of words. He tucked his ray gun into his waistband and covered it with his tee shirt. He picked up his night vision goggles and handed the other pair to Rick.

A few hours ago, Fyn and his armament had seemed like overkill. Now Rick wondered if they’d brought enough.

Jilly cooked them all some dinner, not because cooking was her thing or to be friendly. Mostly she needed something to do with her hands. She longed to be sitting at her computer. She longed to be alone to think.

Her mind wanted to flash back to the space gun, the way it had felt in her hand. She should have realized it wasn’t the mock-up. Now she remembered the mock-up was a lot lighter, but at the time, it hadn’t felt wrong. What was even stranger, when it fired it had surprised her, but—not. She had this vision of standing next to someone—Kamen—and he was pointing to a black mark just like the one on her garage. Who was Kamen and why did he seem not made up? Why could she see a screen with what looked like specifications for the weapon on it? It felt weird to even think in terms of specifications. She was an author, a former librarian. Not a weapons specialist.

And why did the switched weapon look so much like her mock-up?

Oscar Redding aka Jusan used to email her questions about the weapons in her books. He liked the tech talk, the theory behind her stuff. Sometimes it surprised her that it felt like her answers were real, so real she pulled back from saying too much. There were actually three fans, slash, readers who liked to talk weapons tech on her email loop. Dragonslayer, “Jusan,” and skywalker8524. A lot of “Jedi” loved her books, too. She hadn’t known they were “space operas” until someone told her after her second book released. Some of her fans got defensive about the label, but it didn’t bother Jilly.

“Everything all right?”

Until Daniels spoke, Jilly hadn’t realized she was staring at her cupboard door, her hands idle on the raw chicken. Jilly hesitated, not anxious to throw any of her fans to the feds, but Oscar had died. If one of them was involved…

She turned to face Daniels, no Rick, he’d asked her to call him Rick. She propped a hip against the edge of the counter.

“I have this fan loop online. I was just thinking…” She hesitated again, wishing she knew if she were doing the right thing. Rick was smart enough to look encouraging, but not speak. “There are three of them that like to talk weapons tech more than the others. Sometimes to the point of being annoying. Oscar was one of them. I don’t think of them together, because it’s online, but they did know each other. At least, they went to the same SF cons.”

“You ever see them together—now that you think about it?”

His tone wasn’t condemning, which it could have been.

“How can I explain what it’s like? There’s a camaraderie when you’re on a loop. You feel like you know people, but you really don’t. Sometimes you put names to faces, but not always. Some people are bold online but shy in person. Jusan, Oscar, didn’t start really stalking me for several years. And it was always benign.” The pain in her head dulled to a steady throb. “If they have websites, some of them post pictures taken with me. There’s a place online for them to post websites. Might be worth checking out.”

“Let’s do it,” Rick said, taking the knife from her hands.

“The chicken…”

“I’ll finish it,” bad agent said, sounding almost friendly. Or hungry.

Jilly washed her hands and led Rick to her study. Her computer was already booted up. She had a feeling her hard drive had been copied. At least they hadn’t taken the whole thing with them. She pulled up the website and went into the links section. All three of the tech talkers had websites. She pulled up each one for Rick, then let him take her chair.

All three of them had at least one page of pictures taken with them and favorite celebrities. It gave Jilly an odd feeling to see herself in a picture next to those of William Shatner and Amanda Tapping. Like she was famous, too.

Rick made a call, feeding the names and websites to someone. After a bit, some information came back to his Blackberry that made him look thoughtful.

But not enough to share.

Jilly considered the two men left alive. Dragonslayer was a tall, cadaverous looking man who probably should have been an undertaker—and might very well be one. Skywalker8524 was the medium one of the trio, medium height, build and coloring. Short, medium and tall. She couldn’t have planned it that way if she wanted to. In fiction, it would be too obvious, she thought with a wry smile.

“Do you keep records on where your mock-up tech went?” Rick asked.

Jilly pulled open a file drawer and removed a thick file. Four books and a lot of tech. She handed it to him.

He flipped it open and studied the first sheet, which included a name, address and a photo of the item.

“Impressive.”

“IRS,” Jilly said. They didn’t like her claiming her welding supplies as tax deductions. They’d lost.

“I see you’ve made one of the space guns for each book.”

“It’s a popular item. And my characters use them a lot.”

“Were they all the same?”

“Mostly. The last one and this one were modified because that’s what happened in the book. Even in a fictional world, progress is necessary.”

Even as she said the words, she had that flash again of a lab in her book and specs on a screen. It felt so real, like she could reach out and touch them. Like she could actually build one…

With the flash came the pain, so sharp she almost gasped out loud. It hadn’t been this bad since the accident…

“Are you all right?”

Through little lights that danced in front of her eyes, she could see him, could feel his hand on her arm steering her into the desk chair.

“I think I’ve got a migraine.” She took several deep calming breaths.

“Do you have some medication?”

She almost shook her head, but thought better of it. “Used to, after the accident…”

“You were in an accident?” His voice was almost as sharp as the pain.

“A minor fender bender. Or should I say head banger?” She tried to smile but wasn’t sure it happened.

“When was this?”

“When?” She leaned her head against the chair rest, wishing he’d go away and leave her alone. “I don’t know, a few years.”

“Before or after you started writing?”

“Before.” The pain began to ease as her thoughts shifted in a new direction. Weird how that worked. “It’s kind of what got me started. It was a small accident, but it made me realize my life was passing so quickly and I wanted more.” She straightened in the chair. “I liked being around books, but I also wanted to write one. Then one became two and two become four.”

“Interesting.” His voice was a low murmur.

What was so interesting about it, she wanted to ask, but he seemed almost unaware she was still there.

Her glance strayed back to the screen and the photographs. A figure in the back drew her attention for some reason. Also made the pain spike again. She clicked on the picture, enlarging it and stared at the man standing to one side.

“He came to one of my book signings,” she said, feeling almost faint from the pain washing through her. It went way beyond her head. “He was strange. Looked at me like I should know him…”

Rick crouched by her chair, clasping her hands in his. Warmth crept up her arms and through her body.

“And did you know him?”

“No…” Her voice was as uncertain as she felt. At the time, she’d felt like she should know him. “He just has one of those faces.” That’s what she’d told herself at the time. “I didn’t like him.”

Before Rick could speak, her phone rang, the sound shrill in the small room. They both jumped. She looked at the caller ID. It showed a private name and number.

Rick’s gaze went from thoughtful to intent in a single blink.

“Answer it.”

She depressed the call button. “Hello.”

“You have something of mine and I have something of yours, Ms. Smith.” The voice sounded like it was being filtered through one of those voice things. Metallic and sinister. The way a person would sound who killed with a space gun. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

Jilly cleared her throat. “I’ve always been a fan of the easy way.”

Rick looked at the seedy warehouse and almost sighed. Couldn’t the bad guys ever try to be less stereotypical? Just because they always had meets in places like this in the movies, did that mean they had to take it into real life?

“Nervous?” he asked, trying to decipher Jilly’s expression in the dim light and failing.

“Duh.”

The lady had spunk.

Fyn had already exited the car before they pulled to a stop outside the warehouse. It was possible he’d already rounded up the bad guys and was just waiting for them inside where he’d ask what took them so long.

“They told me to come alone.”

“They always tell you to come alone and they know you won’t. They know we won’t let you. He’s got his backup, too, which he hopes will trump our backup.” They could have a whole squad of Marines and not trump Fyn. Rick planned to stay out of his crossfire.

He handed her the ray gun. “You go in, show them the weapon, then hit the deck and let us clean up.”

“Sounds simple.”

“Don’t make it hard.”

“Okay.” Her voice sounded wry in the humid darkness.

As soon as she opened the door, the stink of old wet stuff rushed in. She slipped out, slammed the door, and he heard the crunch of her footsteps as she walked toward the slightly open door.

He looked at his watch. His backup was slow but should be here in five.

He waited until she reached the door, then started around the side of the building away from her.

Fyn slid through the darkness feeling comfortable for the first time since he left Area 51 and Sara. The night vision goggles made it easy to move around obstacles and see the opposition before they saw him.

He picked a guy up and threw him against a wall. He crashed through it. Cheap wall. His weapon was quiet, but someone might notice the flash. Besides, he needed the workout. He looked down at the guy. Not that he’d given him much of a workout. He paused to tap into the satellite system, the way Sara had taught him. He found one passing overhead and focused in on the area around the warehouse.

Ten heat signatures outside the warehouse, strategically positioned to cover any approach. Only four inside. Interesting. He made a mental heads up display, a HUD, to work with, lined up his angle of attack and started forward again. There should be a guy right—there.

Bingo. Only nine more to go.

Jilly moved toward the faint glow coming through the slight gap in the door. Rick had given her a flashlight and she used it, pointing it at the ground as she picked her way through the alley’s debris.

The night air was thick and humid and weighted with the scent of old dead everything. She reached the door and widened the gap enough to step through. There was just enough light to see her way clear to a barrel about five yards ahead. She assumed that was her mock-up space gun lying on top of it.

It was hard not to think of mice and cheese, particularly in this place.

“Hello?” Her voice echoed around the high ceiling.

“You wearing a wire?” The voice was still metallic, like on the phone. He’d probably gotten a voice synthesizer at one of the SF cons. Despite the disguise, there was something in the voice that tugged at her memory—and stabbed into the place in her head where her migraines started. Great. Not now. You can ache later.

“I’d never be that obvious.” She sounded cooler and calmer than she felt. Probably because she was being that obvious.

A pause and he laughed. She was sure it was a him.

“True. You never go for the obvious.”

Jilly couldn’t believe he fell for it. Or he didn’t care. Rick said he had goons. They had guys. Well, they had guys incoming. For now, they had Fyn. Actually, thinking about Fyn calmed her. He looked like he could kick some serious butt.

“You have my item?”

“Yes. I see mine there, if it is mine?”

“It’s yours.” A pause. “Mine’s more valuable.”

“Certainly more dangerous.” Her turn to pause. “I accidentally fired it. I should make you pay for the paint job.”

“I guess you could try.” A sinister pause this time. “I wouldn’t advise it.”

That sounded a bit too sinister for comfort. “I suppose not.”

“Make the switch and you can go.”

She almost believed him. He knew she hadn’t come alone. And he knew she knew he hadn’t come alone either. But she didn’t think he knew about Fyn. Or he wanted her to think he didn’t know? Her eye twitched. Maybe it would be better not to think too much until this was over.

“You get to see me, but I don’t see you?”

“You can see me, but then I’d have to kill you.”

Okay, that was definitely sinister.

“How long you been waiting to use that line?”

A laugh. “Feels like my whole life.” Another pause. “I don’t want to hurt you. I like you. I like your books.”

She knew, to her toenails, that he was lying. He didn’t like her. He didn’t like her books. But she had to play her part, pretend she believed him. She started toward the barrel, toward the mock-up, but something, maybe a gut deep instinct stopped her in her tracks.

“What are you doing, Ms. Smith?” Metallic anger in the voice.

“I’m having trouble suspending disbelief.” She licked her lips, then added, “Don’t feel bad. No one gets the plot right the first time through.”

She shifted closer to the shadows.

“Stay where I can see you!”

I don’t think so.

She dove for the shadows, the flash of energy heating her back as she went down.

Rick eased around a corner, then pulled back at the sight of the heat signature at the end of the corridor. Nothing happened, so he eased an eye out of cover and studied the figure. His posture was alert, but he had his back to him. Rick wasn’t sure he could cover the distance without the guy hearing something. He wanted to keep it quiet for now, even though he was worried about Jilly.

He couldn’t see what the guy hoped to gain from the meeting. He knew they were here. They knew his guys were there. He had to know their guys were surrounding this warehouse.

So why had he exposed himself like this?

Unless he wasn’t in there? Could he be broadcasting from somewhere else?

He started to swear, but then stopped. Okay, if he wasn’t going to show up for the meet, why set it up? If he wanted the weapon, then he wouldn’t stop until he got it…right?

Unless he had another agenda…

It hit him all at once. He ripped off the goggles, jumped around the corner and downed the heat sig with one shot from the ray gun. Sweet.

“Fyn, move in now! We’ve got to get Jilly out of there. It’s a trap! All teams move in! I say again, move in now!

Fyn saw their signatures pop up on his HUD, even as he heard Daniels shouting in his head set. He’d cleared two sides and the back of the warehouse. Only three guys—make that two. He saw a door ahead and kicked it down, then rolled through the opening, firing right, then left, then straight ahead. In the sudden silence, he heard the thump of a body against the floor. He checked the HUD. That was odd, now he saw only one guy. Maybe Daniels took out someone. Guessed it was possible. Fyn jumped up and started making his way through barrels and crates toward what he assumed was Smith’s position. He could see the one guy left moving in on her, too.

What made Daniels think it was a trap? He adjusted the satellite tracking tighter, looking for anything in the area around Smith that didn’t look right…

“Bomb. I think we got a bomb.”

Rick moved into the main storage area of the warehouse at the same time Fyn gave the bomb alert. His gut kicked like a mule. The bright flare of an energy beam just missed him as he dove behind a crate.

“Jilly! He’s going to kill you!” He popped up and fired to one side of the location the ray had come from, then to the other. Got a muffled yell for a reward.

“Like I didn’t know that!” Jilly’s voice sounded too calm. “I would like to know why, of course.”

“Why?”

The metallic voice seemed odd, like they’d wandered into an SF movie instead of the cop show more suited to the setting.

“You don’t write mysteries, Meli. You peddle our secrets for this stupid world, pretending you created something.”

Okay, that was definitely SF.

“The book signing…” Jilly’s voice sounded strained now and Rick could almost see her rubbing her temples. “You thought I’d recognize you.”

“You pretended you didn’t. Your mistake. Maybe you should have been an actress instead of an author. Now you have to die.”

“Don’t believe him, Jilly,” Rick called out, trying to draw the guy’s attention. Hoping she’d use the time to work toward the door. He eased down an aisle, trying to work his way toward where he’d heard her. Light slammed into a support beam ahead of him.

An answering beam came out of the shadows across from him, hitting that spot. There was a thump, then a crash as a body tumbled to the floor.

“That’s everyone, Daniels,” Fyn’s voice came through the head set. “Only our people left…”

The pain was worse than any she’d ever experienced. Meli. That name pounded through her head. She knew that name. Rick said to get out. She needed to try to get back to the door. The rest of it, all of it waiting to crush her, that could wait. He was trying to kill her. He—his name was Ambrel. A paper pusher. A jerk, even before they left the outpost…

No, don’t think. Just move.

She felt the grit from the rough floor grinding into her hands as she crawled through a tunnel of crates and pain. She heard voices, saw flashes of light, but through it all, she saw her home, saw her people—before the scattering.

She hadn’t written books. She’d told their stories, shared their history. How could she not know what she was doing?

“Jilly! It’s clear!”

His voice was a light in the fog.

“Run! Run to the door! There’s a bomb…”

That cut through everything like a beam slicer. Jilly pushed up, looking around to get her bearings. As she started toward the door, a bright beam of light cut through the air in front of her.

Transport beam.

She raised the weapon, waiting for the light to clear, then pulled the trigger. Ambrel only had time to look surprised before the beam hit him in the chest, knocking him back one step. She fired again and he staggered, then he tripped over something and fell.

Jilly ran forward. He was lying on top of another body.

Dragonslayer.

Ambrel’s mouth moved once, before he managed. “You got me, but you didn’t save yourself, bitch.”

Suddenly Rick was on one side of her, Fyn on the other.

“Nice shot,” from Fyn.

They grabbed her arms, swept her toward the door. Her feet didn’t even touch the ground. As they pushed through the door, Jilly heard the explosion, felt the heat, saw the light, just before they went down…

Rick lifted his head cautiously and looked around. Hitchens’ team saturated the area and he could hear sirens in the distance getting closer. Beneath him, he felt Jilly stir and rolled off her. Flames from the warehouse licked the night sky, sending smoke in huge puffs to hide the moon.

Fyn was already up, his arms crossed like he was bored and none of any of it had anything to do with him.

“It was a transport beam,” Jilly said, as she took the hand he held out to her. “He’s—he’s—an alien.”

Rick kept a hold of her hand. The other still held the ray gun. It was pointed at her head. He eased it out of her grip and stuck it in his waistband

“How do you know he’s an alien, Jilly?”

She sighed, rubbing her head. “Because I’m one, too.” She looked at him, her eyes huge in her pale face. “I came here to escape people like him…” She rubbed her head again. “I forgot. I hit my head and I forgot, not completely, but enough. That’s why you came, isn’t it? To find out if I was—Garradian?”

“Yes.”

“I felt it, even with his voice disguised. I—knew him. I started to remember. I knew he was going to kill me, I felt it, even before my memory came back.”

“You got good instincts.” He brushed some dirt off her cheek.

“What happens now?”

“Area 51.”

Her brows arched. “It’s for real?”

He nodded, gave a half grimace.

“Wow.” She was quiet a minute. “So, you and Fyn, you’re like Men in Black?”

“Yeah. Only we wear jeans. I’ve never been big on suits.”

They started toward the car.

“So, you work there? When you aren’t tracking aliens?” Her wide gaze looked his direction, almost shy, a bit hopeful.

He smiled. “Yeah.”

“So, maybe we’ll see each other around?”

He stopped and faced her. “Oh yeah, Jilly Smith. We’ll see each other around.” Her smile was his reward. He grinned, started to turn, but stopped. “What’s your real name?”

“Melischodira.”

Rick blinked once, then again. “So, Jilly, do you think you can help us find your friend’s transport—station?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. And he’s not my friend. He killed Dragonslayer.”

His hand brushed against hers and he grabbed it, liking the way her hand felt in his. Dry heat and Jilly. Area 51 was looking up.