Be Good Mrs. B | Spies, Lies & Butterflies Book #2

8. booyah

"So you're telling me that you – my baby sister – have been living secretly as an undercover operative with a sector of the CIA conducting full-fledged missions with guns and other miscellaneous spy gear?"

"Mhmm."

"And on one of these missions, you met Nathan – who you initially believed to be a criminal before realizing that he, too, was an intelligence agent that you learned was a murderous double agent when he tried to shoot you, leaving you for dead in the middle of the ocean?"

"Right."

"That has to be the biggest load of crap I've ever heard."

"And, normally, I'd agree with you. If it weren't the truth."

"Not to mention the horrendous fact that no one can know that McCain was killed in service to his country."

I nodded.

"Show me your badge."

I rolled my eyes, "Seriously, Sadie? Do you really not believe me?"

Eyebrows high on her forehead, she repeated the request, "Show me."

I unfolded myself from my position to retrieve both the real and fake insignia-bearing pieces of plastic. I threw them on the table.

"Oh, goodness!"

"Would you look at that – it's all true," I walked to the kitchen to grab two chilly longnecks.

Cracking open both beers, I returned, setting Sadie's in front of her.

"No – I was looking at your hair. That wasn't a good time for you," she was frowning at the photo.

"I'm a spy, Sadie. Cool, but let's discuss your tragic hair in your badge photo."

"Just sayin'," she shrugged before continuing, "How'd you do it for so long? How'd you keep up the charade for so long?"

"I had McCain. And I was committed to the work – it made me feel purposeful, and it's not like I was outright lying all the time. I traveled for work – you knew that." I shrugged, leaning against the couch.

Wadded tissues littered the floor from our intermittent crying sessions. I expected Sadie to be level-headed, but not this level-headed.

"Yeah, but I thought you took meetings and stayed in mediocre hotels, not this."

"Technically, I do take meetings and stay in mediocre hotels... sometimes."

"To be honest, I thought you were into some weird stuff, but my imagination could've never conjured this up. I thought maybe you were hardcore into Burning Man or secretly a pre-professional pole dancer – you've got the whole bangin' body thing going. But, this? This is both badass and scary as hell. Mr. & Mrs. Smith have absolutely nothing on you and Nathan."

"I wanna be offended by that... I do," I snorted a laugh. My sister was remarkably assuring. Always strategic and apt during crises, she was altering my preconceived theories on how I believed she'd respond to this news.

Agents were taught never to divulge the truth – we were under oath – but stories about retired operatives revealing clandestine careers to loved ones validated my reluctance to disclose the true nature of my work, retired or not.

"Admittedly, I am a little pissed. I'm shocked. You put yourself in harm's way every day. It could've just as easily been you instead of McCain. And then, this whole thing," she gestured at my shoulder, "but, I'm – I'm kind of proud of you. You found something you're good at, and you're protecting a lot of good people. You're, quite literally, changing the world. Hopefully, for the better...," she grimaced before shrugging.