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  A real classy gentlemen.

  My deep suspicion of him slipped a little and I finally approached him on his eighth visit. At the end of my shift, I walked right up to his table and sat down like he had invited me there.

  "So I can't wait to tell everyone I have a stalker. I'll be the talk of the town for at least a day."

  He put his book down and said, "Easy to understand how you would confuse a devoted patron with a stalker. The coffee is excellent here," he intoned.

  I made an unimpressed face at him and reclined in my chair, stretching out my legs comfortably in front of me. "So you're a spy."

  He bent his head to the side and said, "More or less. I prefer the term thief. Seems less Hollywood cheese, don't you think?"

  I nodded, having to agree. "So, what do you know about me?"

  "Alexandra Rose Hawkins. Five feet, nine inches. One hundred twenty five pounds. Twenty one years old. Born November fourteenth. Lives alone at one eighteen Lexington Avenue, apartment 4C. Above average SAT scores. Dropped out of college due to financial trouble. Parents killed in a car crash at eleven years old. Sent to live with your only living relative, your aunt Sherry, who you like well enough and occasionally talk to, but don't miss. Left for college at eighteen and didn't move back home when you dropped out. Right handed. Works at a book shop, tutors academia. Indulges in fast food a few times a week but for the most part, grocery shops for relatively healthy food to cook at home. Enjoys running and yoga. Taken a few self-defense classes and you even went to the shooting range with the closest thing you could have called a friend your first semester of college, who you lost touch with before it could grow into a lasting friendship. No real friends to speak of, though you have do have several acquaintances you like to volley jokes and insults back and forth with on a regular basis. Two previous romantic relationships, though neither grew to anything serious --"

  I held up my hand to halt his progress. "Okay, that's enough. That was . . . strange."

  He relaxed back in his seat and asked casually, "So how did you start picking pockets?"

  I considered him and chose to humor him for a hot minute. "How does anyone? I was desperate."

  "Why were you desperate?"

  "I was angry, young and poor. I've always watched people and been able to blend in well, to go unnoticed. I used that to my advantage and figured out how to lift things without them knowing. I got really good at it."

  "And now?"

  "I'm less angry, a few years older, and still not rich. I came to this book shop enough that Linda recognized me and eventually, she offered me a job. I took it, picked up tutoring again, and dropped my thieving ways. And that's the end of my very brief sob story. I don't need saving and I'm definitely not looking to save others. As you can see, I'm doing just fine on my own."

  "You're bored."

  "What?"

  "With your life. You're bored. You don't really get anything out of what you're doing here. I can help with that."

  "Oh, so you're bringing new purpose to my life?" I asked dubiously.

  "And excitement, among other things."

  "You're oversimplifying my life, reciting facts off a sheet of paper. That doesn't mean you know me. And saying you want to excite my life does not make me want to jump on your bandwagon. It makes me want to run in the opposite direction. It sounds like you're offering me a free trip to Russia only to sell me off as a sex slave or something once I get there."

  He ignored that altogether and told me more about myself. "You're a good person. You have a conscience and morals, even if you are a bit of a thief. You work for your money, you teach kids in your free time, and you overcame the obstacles in your life without encouragement from anyone else. I bet you even chose the people you stole from based off their appearances, only picking the ones who seemed so well off, they probably wouldn't even bat an eye at a stolen wallet."

  I didn't confirm his suspicion, but he was right.

  "You have a lot of potential to offer the world, and it's not from this book shop."

  "Are you trying to recruit me for the Super Thieves or something? I'm not trying to 'offer the world' anything," I said.

  "Maybe you should."

  "Are you secluded in your little spy world? Are you lonesome? Bored? Looking for a challenge?" I lightly baited him.

  "Are you?" he returned. I said nothing. "Our headquarters aren't too far from here. It's a compound disguised as a huge cabin in the woods."

  "That's not comforting," I said. "That's the setting for most horror flicks."

  He continued speaking like I hadn't. "There are other kids there, as well as a few adults. We've taken in those who otherwise have nothing in the world but have talents that we tap in to --"

  "And exploit," I finished for him.

  "Not quite. These people are whip smart. They'd know if they were being exploited," he said.

  Hmm, interesting.

  "How big of a thing is this? Is it like a school of mutant teenagers or something?"

  "No. We're a relatively small unit. There are only four others like you. They've all been there for a while, and would answer any questions that you don't trust me to answer truthfully."

  I raised my brows at that last bit. At least he was aware that I didn't trust him as far as I could throw him.

  "What does 'others like you' mean?" I asked.

  "Intelligent, well rounded. Fast to learn and adapt to any situation. Perceptive. Independent with little or no family. Physically fit. Quick on your feet. An aptitude for deception. An appetite for retribution and adventure. A sense of right and wrong. A craving for a bigger sense of purpose." He paused. "I could go on," he offered.

  "You think I'm all of those things?" I asked skeptically.

  "You are all those things, Alex."

  "I don't work well with others."

  "You would be surprised," was all he said.

  I could tell this guy got off on one-liners. Not going to lie, I kind of liked that about him.

  "I think you would be an asset to the team. You wouldn't be required to do anything you're uncomfortable with, though we would push your boundaries and limits. You would live there at the compound, free of rent in your own room, and of course be compensated for your contribution. There are classes every day, ranging from weapons training to general education. After you graduate the training, we'll send you out on missions. You would be free to leave the organization at any time. We'll even take over the rent for your apartment for you so that you always have some place to fall back to should you decide this isn't right for you."

  I stared at him, wondering how I found myself in a scene from a movie, being propositioned by Morpheus.

  "Do you kill people? Fight them?" I asked.

  "Only the bad guys and only when necessary," was his surprising response. I didn't really expect him to answer that at all.

  "Sorry, Graham, still not sold on this."

  A pause. "Call me Brooks. Here's my card if you change your mind and want to check things out."

  I looked down at it and saw his name and phone number. Graham Brooks. So that's his last name. Wonder if it's his real name. Probably not. But he seems a little off kilter, so maybe it is, I thought.

  *****

  Brooks continued to make regular visits to the shop over the next few days and I somehow found myself looking forward to seeing him every day. He never mentioned his convoy of twelve year old spies again, which was deliberate. But then, everything he did was very deliberate, which kept me on my toes.

  He was pleasant company and refreshingly challenging as we both pushed and pulled the conversation in different directions, testing and feeling each other out. His sense of humor was quick-witted and dry, and he didn't tiptoe around sensitive subjects. He asked what I thought about any particular topic, and then respected my take on it rather than trying to convert my thinking to align with his. Though I should note that he nodded his head sagely as if he agreed with most things I said, which was gratifying
.

  This wasn't all fun and games though. I knew what he was doing. He was more or less interviewing me for this job he wanted to give me, making sure I really was who he thought I was. Ordinarily, I would fuck with him a bit to throw him off, but he wasn't actively trying to deceive me about it, and I (grudgingly) began to like him (as a super curious, weirdly sage uncle, twice removed), so I let it be.

  On his thirteenth visit (I was keeping track), he finally asked if I had thought any more about his invitation to join his cult of misfits.

  "Yep. I even watched a few spy flicks to see if I could integrate into your world. I do qualify, in that I wear a lot of black clothing and I'm pretty low maintenance. Sadly, I lack the sociopathic tendencies that often lead to remorseless killing. Even though it looks really cool, blowing shit up and walking away completely unaffected, I don't have it in me. And there's also prison to think about. Don't know if you know this, but murder is illegal in most states," I quipped.

  "We're not assassins."

  "But it does happen," I insisted questioningly.

  "It happens," he confirmed.

  "And the hero saves the day," I summarized. "Me, I'm not the hero type. I don't want random people hugging me in desperate gratitude and naming their children after me because I saved their lives. I'd rather live in the shadows."

  "I know. That's part of the reason why you would be a perfect fit with us. We don't take the hero's spotlight. We're behind the scenes. Normally no one even knows we're in the room, so to speak. We don't do it for the glory."

  "What do you do it for, then?" I asked.

  "Personally, I found myself excelling at a specific skill set, and it gave me a certain sense of power over others. For example, if I were to fight that man over there, I'd win because while he excels at carpentry, I excel at hand to hand combat. When you find yourself in a position of power, even if it's not a position of control over others, you have a responsibility to use it. We use it for good."

  "Well said, Voltaire." He smirked at me, appreciating the reference. "That, I get," I relented. "But the killing . . . Yeah, don't think I could hack that. And I don't think I want to attend your classes so that you can desensitize me, either."

  "We don't desensitize."

  "Do you sensitize?" I asked as if I were scandalized.

  He didn't bite. He stayed on course, just like usual.

  "You would be surprised what you would be willing to do and the lengths you would go to, especially when it comes to protecting those you love."

  "But I don't love anyone," I said before I could stop myself.

  Damn it. I was in a good mood and my guard had shifted down enough that I spoke before I thought. My face shut down. I clenched my teeth and checked my anger. Score one for Brooks. I narrowed my eyes to let him know that I wasn't happy about that slip. And he knew it was a slip, because he pushed my buttons to make it happen. He leaned forward and implored me with his eyes and his words.

  "You're limiting yourself when you have so much potential," he said. "Is that what you really want?"

  What did I really want?

  I couldn't come up with an answer.

  I stared at him defiantly and after a few moments, his back hit his chair again. He fiddled with his coffee cup briefly before getting up and putting his jacket on.

  "I'll see you tomorrow," he said.

  I didn't look away from the chair he vacated.

  "Yeah," I clipped.

  *****

  It was only a few days later that it happened.

  I was sipping on a half-empty cup of coffee and checking the clock to see if it was time for Brooks to show up yet or not when the bell above the door rang. I glanced up and was met with a guy holding, I kid you not, a gun. And it was pointed right at me.

  My heart tripped over itself, pumping adrenaline through my system at an alarming speed. I tried to take slow, deliberate breaths and was really hoping it was time for Brooks to show up. I could definitely call in a favor from my favorite neighborhood spy.

  "Nobody move!" the guy yelled, swinging his gun in a wide arc to include everyone in the store before refocusing on me. I instinctively held my hands up in surrender. "You!" he yelled at me and I flinched. I never flinched, but I guess a gun changes things. "Give me all the money in the till."

  I didn't move right away because I didn't want to alarm him with quick movements, meaning I'd get shot in the face. I mentally canvassed the shop, remembering who was inside while I kept my wide eyes glued to him. There was a mother and two small kids sitting by the bay window. A regular customer, a man, was stationed near where Brooks normally sat, near the wall. And finally there were two teenagers sitting on the couch, riffling through magazines. Or they were before the psychopath barged inside.

  "I said, give me the money!" he repeated at me, swiftly approaching the counter.

  Great, now he was agitated.

  "Hey man, I'll get it. I'll get it," I repeated soothingly.

  I edged closer to the till, keeping my eyes on him and hands in the air. I glanced down at the register and pressed the button that slides the drawer open. He handed me a bag and I started filling it with bills. All the while, my mind was whizzing in overdrive, constantly aware of the other people in the shop. Thoughts on them, one word kept dancing across the forefront of my mind.

  Innocent.

  These people were innocently enjoying an afternoon of coffee and literature, and this asshole comes in and threatens to shoot them? What the hell?

  I was almost done emptying the register when the bell over the door rang, and the gunman glanced in the direction of an unassuming new customer about to enter the shop. Before I fully contemplated what I was doing, I shifted slightly to the side and placed a hand down on the middle of the counter and then like I did it every day (which I did), I threw my entire body over the counter, rotating my weight on my hand. My legs flew through the air and I aimed my feet at the guy's hand and kicked the gun out of his grip. His head whipped back to me, shocked but angry. I landed by his side and as he turned his eyes away to search for the gun, I drew my arm back. I twisted my entire body back and to the right, from my feet to the shoulders, before reversing to the left and stepping into it as I planted my feet and jabbed his nose with my fist, transferring kinetic energy from my feet all the way up to my hand in a powerful right hook. The jab was so forceful, his head snapped back and blood instantly gushed from his nose as he staggered backward and to the side several steps, crying out in anguish.

  That's science for you, ladies and gentlemen.

  His hands rose to cover his definitely broken nose and I whirled to find the gun. I spotted it a few feet away from the New Guy who just walked inside and I made a dash to grab it. I turned and raised it just as he was shaking his head, attempting to get his balance.

  "On your knees!" I yelled at him.

  What can I say? I watched a lot of cop shows on TV.

  He looked at me and seemed to hesitate, his eyes flicking between me and the door trying to decide if he should rush me or run for it.

  "Get on your knees!" I repeated.

  His body leaned a little toward me, and I knew he was going to rush me. Anticipating this, I slid my aim to the right a bit and shot out the coffee pot I had left sitting on the counter just behind and beside of his left arm. Glass and coffee exploded in a loud shatter and naturally, he ducked for cover.

  "Get on your fucking knees now!" I shouted vehemently.

  He got on his knees.

  "Hands behind your head," I yelled. "Someone call the cops," I ordered over my shoulder without taking my eyes off of him. In my peripheral vision, I saw the New Guy reach into the front pocket of his jacket and take out a cell phone.

  I moved so that I was in front of the gunman, still a safe distance away, and the door was in my sight. I maintained eye contact with him and verbally thrashed him in my mind with every curse word I knew in existence.

  I was mad but not as furious as I'd expected to be in a s
ituation like this. I was focusing more on the adrenaline still surging through my veins and the elating sense of triumph I felt. I just stopped an asshole from robbing the store and endangering the lives of these innocent bystanders. And, I somewhat unhappily noted, I also felt that swelling sense of purpose that Brooks was talking about.

  Damn that man and his fancy words.

  In hindsight, I took a risk I probably shouldn't have, but in a split second decision between standing back or doing something, I chose to do something. I knew Brooks would read heavily into that.

  Movement at the door drew my eyes, and wouldn't you know it? Brooks stood there, still outside but looking through the glass with a big fucking smile stretched across his face. Smug son of a bitch.

  I glared at Brooks and returned my eyes to my hostage before he got stupid and decided to try and rush me again. His hand twitched from behind his head. I shook my head and hummed my voice at him discouragingly. He stilled his movements.

  Brooks walked through the door and produced his own gun. He flashed a badge at the other customers and approached the thief.

  "Cross your ankles," he told him calmly while pointing his gun at the thief who failed at life.

  Still on his knees and now having two guns aimed at him, he did what he was told. Brooks handed me his gun and took a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket. I kept both guns aimed at the perp, which made me feel absurd. Two guns? Really? Overkill.

  But a tiny part of me felt a little badass.

  Brooks cuffed the thief and pushed him down flat to the ground on his stomach, making sure his face was pointed toward us so he could see the guns that were still aimed at him threateningly. Brooks took his gun back from me and looked at me, still wearing a pleasant I told you so smile. I rolled my eyes at him and he chuckled. Holding a guy captive with a gun trained on him, he actually chuckled.

  I stared at the guy's cuffed hands and avoided looking at the customers or Brooks. I kept my breathing under control, replayed everything that happened, and assessed the situation. We all survived. Huzzah!