Blades of Winter by G. T. Almasi Page A

that it’s always
my
idea to play cribbage, I up the ante and tell him I won’t sleep with him if I lose. This isn’t a very realistic threat. I love him, and he knows it. Fortunately, Trick doesn’t care about winning arguments or card games.
    It was a busy week for each of us. I spent most of my time with the Med-Techs, learning how to use my new hand. At first I kept overdoing everything. I’d move too fast and knock stuff over, or I’d grip something too hard and bust it. I must have broken an entire crate of wineglasses. I got better when I stopped trying so hard and made myself relax. My synthetic sense of touch will take some getting used to. Everything feels like I’m wearing a thick glove. The Meddies say they can recalibrate my new hand’s sensitivity for me after it’s more firmly settled into my nervous system. They also grudgingly told me that yes, I’ll be able to punch things much harder than before.
    Meanwhile, Patrick stuffed his head with intel to prepare for our trip. He’s got twice the work he normally does, since we’re being sent on two missions at once. After we had our mission brief with Cyrus, I understood what Trick had been trying to tell me. The Fuerza Libertad brief was neatly typed and had been properly entered into CORE. The documents detailed the time frame and the mission goals and parameters and included pictures of our targets and news clippings about their victims. All very official.
    Our brief for the Big Bertha job was the exact opposite. It was entirely verbal: no paperwork, no Job Number, nothing. It was like we took extra-strength sneaky pills.
    My partner and I haven’t had any private time together since I pinched the Hector job. While we waited for our flight, Trick asked me how that evening with my mom went. I told him I had let Cleo cry for a few minutes, and by the time I’d worked up the nerve to go into the kitchen, she’d stopped. She said she was okay in this distant, detached way I hadn’t seen since … well, in a long time. I gave her a little hug and went back to bed. The next day my mother was already at work by the time I woke up, but she’d left me a note.
    Dearest Alixandra, I’m sorry if I seemed upset last night. I’m very proud of you and love you very much. —Mom
    For the rest of the week my schedule was totally different from hers. This prevented us from having time for any more serious talks, but that might have been for the best. We both felt bad about hurting the other’s feelings, and there wasn’t anything else to say, anyway. I kept her note and slipped it in with the rest of my stuff when I packed my bag this morning. I also packed two flasks of 100-proof cherry schnapps.
    Covert agents like us travel with an assortment ofguns, ammo, knives, bombs, and other gear. This doesn’t cause a problem at domestic airports, where we flash our ExOps ID cards and blow past the security desk. From then on we use our traveling aliases, which are always civilian identities. If we posed as spies from a competitor’s agency, we’d be much too memorable. On our return flights we evade security with a variety of acrobatic dodges. My favorite is the ol’ ventilator shaft routine.
    Our disregard for airport security also enables us to carry on our own booze. I prefer things like flavored schnapps or brandy. I get Coca-Cola from the air waitresses to use as a mixer and let the good times roll.
    Sooner or later the Barbies figure out that I’ve been drinking in their airplane and get on my case. I’ve learned to break down these busybodies in five stages. Denial: “This girl can’t be drunk, she’s only had sodas.” Anger: “What did she just call me?” Bargaining: “Maybe I can distract her with food.” Depression: “I hate my job.” And, finally, acceptance: “Oh my God, this girl is a nightmare. Just let her do what she wants.”
    Trick moves my cribbage pegs for me since my left hand is holding my cards and my right hand is still