<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n

Read an excerpt:<\/h3>\n

\n

CHAPTER ONE<\/b><\/p>\n

The first I ever heard of the Blind Mice was from my fourteen-year-old son, Zach. I was scrambling to get him and his sister ready for school, stepping over dolls and skater magazines, thinking ahead to the temp job I was starting in about an hour, when Zach came slumping downstairs in a suspiciously plain T-shirt.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTurn around,\u201d I said. \u201cLet\u2019s see the back.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He scowled but did comply. The clothing check was mandatory after that vomiting-skull sweatshirt he\u2019d slipped out the door in last month.<\/span><\/p>\n

Okay. No drugs, profanity, or bodily fluids being expelled.<\/span><\/p>\n

But there was something. An abstract computer-ish symbol. A mouse? Possibly the nose, eyes, and whiskers of a mouse?<\/span><\/p>\n

Printed underneath was, <\/span>Nibble, nibble. Until the whole sick scam rots through.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

I checked the clock: 7:38. Seven minutes before we absolutely had to be out the door, and I still hadn\u2019t cleaned up the grape juice spill, dealt with my Frizz City hair, or checked the furnace. For twenty minutes, I\u2019d been hearing <\/span>ker-klacks<\/span><\/i>, which my heart said was construction outside but my head worried could be the failing heater.<\/span><\/p>\n

How bad did I want to let Zach\u2019s shirt slide?<\/span><\/p>\n

Bad.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIs that supposed to be a mouse?\u201d I said. \u201cLike an angry mouse?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe Blind Mice,\u201d my son replied. \u201cMaybe you\u2019ve heard, they\u2019re overthrowing the corporatocracy?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

His eyes bulged teen sarcasm underneath those bangs he refuses to get cut.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWait,\u201d I said, \u201cthat group that\u2019s attacking big companies\u2019 websites and factories?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGovernment too.\u201d He drew his face back ominously. \u201cAnyone who\u2019s part of the scam.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd you\u2019re <\/span>wearing their shirt<\/span><\/i>?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He shrugged.<\/span><\/p>\n

I would\u2019ve dearly loved to engage Zach in a serious discussion of socioeconomic justice\u2014I did my master\u2019s thesis on the psychology of labor devaluation in communities\u2014except we needed to go. In five minutes.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat if Principal Broadhead sees that?\u201d I said. \u201cGo change.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cZach McGill, that shirt promotes domestic terrorism. You\u2019ll get kicked out of school.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLike half my friends wear it, <\/span>Mom<\/span><\/i>.\u201d He thrust his hands into his pockets.<\/span><\/p>\n

Ugh. I had stepped in parenting quicksand. I\u2019d issued a rash order and Zach had refused, and now I could either make him change, starting a blow-out fight and virtually guaranteeing I\u2019d be late my first day on the job at First Mutual, or back down and erode my authority.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWear a jacket,\u201d I said\u2014a poor attempt to limit the erosion, but the best I could do. \u201cAnd don\u2019t let your great-grandmother see that shirt.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Speaking of, I could hear Granny\u2019s slippers padding around upstairs. She was into her morning routine, and would shortly\u2014at the denture-rinsing phase\u2014be shouting down that her sink was draining slow again; <\/span>why hadn\u2019t the damn plumber come yet?<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

Because I hadn\u2019t paid one. McGill Investigators, the PI business of which I was the founder and sole employee (yes, I realized the plural name was misleading), had just gone belly-up. Hence the temp job.<\/span><\/p>\n

Karen, my six-year-old, was seated cheerily beside her doll in front of orange juice and an Eggo Waffle.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMommy!\u201d she announced. \u201cI get to ride to school with you today!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The doll\u2019s lips looked sticky\u2014OJ?\u2014and the cat was eyeing Karen\u2019s waffle across the table.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHoney, weren\u2019t you going to ride the bus today?\u201d I asked, shooing the cat, wiping the doll with a dishrag.<\/span><\/p>\n

Karen shook her head. \u201cBus isn\u2019t running. I get to ride in the Prius, in Mommy\u2019s Prius!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I felt simultaneous joy that Karen loved our new car\u2014well, new to us: 120K miles as a rental, but it was a hybrid\u2014and despair because I really couldn\u2019t take her. School was in the complete opposite direction of New Jersey Transit. Even if I took the turnpike, which I loathed, I would miss my train.<\/span><\/p>\n

Fighting to address Karen calmly in a time crunch, I said, \u201cAre you sure the bus isn\u2019t running?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She nodded.<\/span><\/p>\n

I asked how she knew.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBus driver said, \u2018If the stoplights are blinking again in the morning, I ain\u2019t taking you.\u2019\u201d She walked to the window and pointed. \u201cSee?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I joined her at the window, ignoring the driver\u2019s grammatical example for the moment. Up and down my street, traffic lights flashed yellow.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBlind Mice, playa!\u201d Zach puffed his chest. \u201c<\/span>Nibble, nibble.<\/span><\/i>\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The lights had gone out every morning this week at rush hour. On Monday, the news had reported a bald eagle flew into a substation. On Tuesday, they\u2019d said the outages were lingering for unknown reasons. I hadn\u2019t seen the news yesterday.<\/span><\/p>\n

Did Zach <\/span>know<\/span><\/i> the Blind Mice were involved? Or was he just being obnoxious?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGreat,\u201d I muttered. \u201cBus won\u2019t run because stoplights are out, but I\u2019m<\/span> free to risk our lives driving to school.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Karen gazed up at me, her eyes green like mine and trembling. A mirror of my stress.<\/span><\/p>\n

Pull it together, Molly<\/span><\/i>.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t worry,\u201d I corrected myself. \u201cI\u2019ll take you. I will. Let me just figure a few things out.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Trying not to visualize myself walking into First Mutual forty-five minutes late, I took a breath. I patted through my purse for keys, sifting through rumpled Kleenex and receipts and granola-bar halves. Granny had made her way downstairs and was reading aloud from a bill-collection notice. Zach was texting, undoubtedly to friends about his lame mom. I felt air on my toes and looked down: a hole in my hose.<\/span><\/p>\n

Fantastic.<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019d picked out my cutest work sandals, but somehow I doubted the look would hold up with toes poking out like mini-wieners.<\/span><\/p>\n

I wished I could shut my eyes, whisper some spell, and wake up in a different universe.<\/span><\/p>\n

Then the doorbell rang.<\/span><\/p>\n

CHAPTER TWO<\/b><\/p>\n

Quaid Rafferty waited on the McGills\u2019 front porch with a winning smile. It had been ten months since he\u2019d seen Molly, and he was eager to reconnect.<\/span><\/p>\n

Inside, there sounded a crash (pulled-over coatrack?), a smack (skateboard hitting wall?), and muffled cross-voices.<\/span><\/p>\n

Quaid fixed the lay of his sport coat lapels and kept waiting. His partner, Durwood Oak Jones, stood two paces back with his dog. Durwood wasn\u2019t saying anything, but Quaid could feel the West Virginian\u2019s disapproval\u2014it pulsed from his blue jeans and cowboy hat.<\/span><\/p>\n

Quaid twisted from the door. \u201cSchool morning, right? I\u2019m sure she\u2019ll be out shortly.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Durwood remained silent. He was on record saying they\u2019d be better off with a more accomplished operative like Kitty Ravensdale or Sigrada the Serpent, but Quaid believed in Molly. He\u2019d argued that McGill, a relative amateur, was just what they needed: a fresh-faced idealist.<\/span><\/p>\n

Now he focused on the door\u2014and was pleased to hear the dead bolt turn within. He was less pleased when he saw the face that appeared in the door glass.<\/span><\/p>\n

The grandmother.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhy, color me damned!\u201d began the septuagenarian, yanking open the screen door. \u201cThe louse returns. Whorehouses all kick you out?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Quaid strained to keep smiling. \u201cHow are you this fine morning, Eunice?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Her face stormed over. \u201cWhat\u2019re you here for?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re hoping for a word with Molly if she\u2019s around.\u201d He opened his shoulders to give her a full view of his party, which included Durwood and Sue-Ann, his aged bluetick coonhound.<\/span><\/p>\n

They made for an admittedly odd sight. Quaid and Durwood shared the same vital stats, six one and 180-something pounds, but God himself couldn\u2019t have created two more different molds. Quaid in a sport coat with suntanned wrists and mussed-just-so blond hair. Durwood removing his hat and casting steel-colored eyes humbly about, jeans pulled down over his boots\u2019 piping. And Sue with her mottled coat, rasping like any breath could be her last.<\/span><\/p>\n

Eunice stabbed a finger toward Durwood. \u201cHe can come in\u2014him I respect. But you need to turn right around. My granddaughter wants nothing to do with cads like you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Behind her, a voice called, \u201c<\/span>Granny, I can handle this.<\/span><\/i>\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Eunice ignored this. \u201cYou\u2019re a no-good man. I know it, my granddaughter knows it.\u201d Veins showed through the chicken-y skin of her neck. \u201cGo on, hop a flight back to Vegas and all your whores!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Before Quaid could counter these aspersions, Molly appeared.<\/span><\/p>\n

His heart chirped in his chest. Molly was a little discombobulated, bending to put on a sandal, a kid\u2019s jacket tucked under one elbow\u2014but those dimples, that curvy body…even in the worst domestic throes, she could\u2019ve charmed slime off a senator.<\/span><\/p>\n

He said, \u201cCan\u2019t you beat a seventy-four-year-old woman to the door?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Molly slipped on the second sandal. \u201cCan we please just not? It\u2019s been a crazy morning.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI know the type.\u201d Quaid smacked his hands together. \u201cSo hey, we have a job for you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re a little late\u2014McGill Investigators went out of business. I have a real job starting in less than an hour.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat kind?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cReception,\u201d she said. \u201cThree months with First Mutual.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTemp work?\u201d Quaid asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI was supposed to start with the board of psychological examiners, but the position fell through.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHow come?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFunding ran out. The governor disbanded the board.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo First Mutual…?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Molly\u2019s eyes, big and leprechaun green, fell. \u201cIt\u2019s temp work, yeah.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re criminally overqualified for that, McGill,\u201d Quaid said. \u201cHear us out. Please.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She snapped her arms over her chest but didn\u2019t stop Quaid as he breezed into the living room followed by Durwood and Sue-Ann, who wore no leash but kept a perfect twenty-inch heel by her master.<\/span><\/p>\n

Two kids poked their heads around the kitchen doorframe. Quaid waggled his fingers playfully at the girl.<\/span><\/p>\n

Molly said, \u201cZach, Karen\u2014please wait upstairs. I\u2019m speaking with these men.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The boy argued he should be able to stay; upstairs sucked; <\/span>wasn\u2019t she the one who said they had to leave, like, immedia\u2014<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cThis is not a negotiation,\u201d Molly said in a new tone.<\/span><\/p>\n

They went upstairs.<\/span><\/p>\n

She sighed. \u201cNow they\u2019ll be late for school. I\u2019m officially the worst mother ever.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Quaid glanced around the living room. The floor was clutter free, but toys jammed the shelves of the coffee table. Stray fibers stuck up from the carpet, which had faded beige from its original yellow or ivory.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, you\u2019re an excellent mother,\u201d Quaid said. \u201cYou do what you believe is best for your children, which is why you\u2019re going to accept our proposition.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The most effective means of winning a person over, Quaid had learned as governor of Massachusetts and in prior political capacities, was to identify their objective and articulate how your proposal brought it closer. Part two was always trickier.<\/span><\/p>\n

He continued, \u201cAmerican Dynamics is the client, and they have deep pockets. If you help us pull this off, all your money troubles go <\/span>poof<\/span><\/i>.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

A glint pierced Molly\u2019s skepticism. \u201cOkay. I\u2019m listening.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve heard of the Blind Mice, these anarchist hackers?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2014well, yes, a little. Zach has their T-shirt.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Quaid, having met the boy on a few occasions, wasn\u2019t shocked by the information. \u201cHere\u2019s the deal. We need someone to infiltrate them.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Molly blinked twice.<\/span><\/p>\n

Durwood spoke up, \u201cYou\u2019d be great, Moll. You\u2019re young. Personable. People trust you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Molly\u2019s eyes were grapefruits. \u201cWhat did you call them, \u2018anarchist hackers\u2019? How would I infiltrate them? I just started paying bills online.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo tech knowledge required,\u201d Quaid said. \u201cWe have a plan.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He gave her the nickel summary. The Blind Mice had singled out twelve corporate targets, \u201cthe Despicable Dozen,\u201d and American Dynamics topped the list. In recent months, AmDye had seen its websites crashed, its factories slowed by computer glitches, internal documents leaked, the CEO\u2019s home<\/span><\/p>\n

egged repeatedly. Government agencies from the FBI to NYPD were pursuing the Mice, but the company was troubled by the lack of progress and so had hired Third Chance Enterprises to take them down.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNow if I accept,\u201d Molly said, narrowing her eyes, \u201cdoes that mean I\u2019m officially part of Third Chance Enterprises?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Quaid exhaled at length. Durwood shook his head with an irked air\u2014he hated the name, and considered Quaid\u2019s branding efforts foolish.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh, Durwood and I have been at this freelance operative thing awhile.\u201d Quaid smoothed his sport coat lapels. \u201cMost cases we can handle between the two of us.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBut not this one.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cRight. Durwood\u2019s a whiz with prosthetics, but even he can\u2019t bring this\u201d\u2014Quaid indicated his own ruggedly handsome but undeniably middle-aged face\u2014\u201cback to twenty-five.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Molly\u2019s eyes turned inward. Quaid\u2019s instincts told him she was thinking of her children.<\/span><\/p>\n

She said, \u201cSounds dangerous.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNah.\u201d He spread his arms, wide and forthright. \u201cYou\u2019re working with the best here: the top small-force, private-arms outfit in the Western world. Very minimal danger.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Like the politician he\u2019d once been, Quaid delivered this line of questionable veracity with full sincerity.<\/span><\/p>\n

Then he turned to his partner. \u201cRight, Wood? She won\u2019t have a thing to worry about. We\u2019d limit her involvement to safe situations.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Durwood thinned his lips. \u201cDo the best we could.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

This response, typical of the soldier he\u2019d once been, was unhelpful.<\/span><\/p>\n

Molly said, \u201cWho takes care of my kids if something happens, if the Blind Mice sniff me out? Would I have to commit actual crimes?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cUnlikely.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c<\/span>Unlikely?<\/span><\/i> I\u2019ll tell you what\u2019s unlikely, getting hired someplace, anyplace, with a felony conviction on your application…\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

As she thundered away, Quaid wondered if Durwood might not have been right in preferring a pro. The few times they\u2019d used Molly McGill before had been secondary: posing as a gate agent during the foiled Delta hijacking, later as an archivist for the American embassy in Rome. They\u2019d only pulled her into Rome because of her language skills\u2014she spoke six fluently.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c…also, I have to say,\u201d she continued, and from the edge in her voice, Quaid knew just where they were headed, \u201cI find it curious that I don\u2019t hear from you for ten months, and then you need my help, and all of a sudden, I matter. All of a sudden, you\u2019re on my doorstep.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI apologize,\u201d Quaid said. \u201cThe Dubai job ran long, then that Guadeloupean resort got hit by a second hurricane. We got busy. I should\u2019ve called.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Molly\u2019s face cooled a shade, and Quaid saw that he hadn\u2019t lost her.<\/span><\/p>\n

Yet.<\/span><\/p>\n

Before either could say more, a heavy <\/span>ker-klack <\/span><\/i>sounded outside.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s the racket?\u201d Quaid asked. He peeked out the window at his and Durwood\u2019s Vanagon, which looked no more beat-up than usual.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s been going on all morning,\u201d Molly said. \u201cI figured it was construction.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Quaid said, \u201cConstruction in <\/span>this <\/span><\/i>economy?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He looked to Durwood.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll check \u2019er out.\u201d The ex-soldier turned for the door. Sue-Ann, heaving herself laboriously off the carpet, scuffled after.<\/span><\/p>\n

Alone now with Molly, Quaid walked several paces in. He doubled his sport coat over his forearm and passed a hand through his hair, using a foyer mirror to confirm the curlicues that graced his temples on his best days.<\/span><\/p>\n

This was where it had to happen. Quaid\u2019s behavior toward Molly had been less than gallant, and that was an issue. Still, there were sound arguments at his disposal. He could play the money angle. He could talk about making the world safer for Molly\u2019s children. He could point out that she was meant for greater things, appealing to her sense of adventure, framing the job as an escape from the hamster wheel and entr\u00e9e to a bright world of heroes and villains.<\/span><\/p>\n

He believed in the job. Now he just needed her to believe too.<\/span><\/p>\n

CHAPTER THREE<\/b><\/p>\n

Durwood walked north. Sue-Ann gimped along after, favoring her bum hip. Paws echoed bootheels like sparrows answering blackbirds. They found their noise at the sixth house on the left.<\/span><\/p>\n

A crew of three men was working outside a small home. Two-story like Molly\u2019s. The owner had tacked an addition onto one side, prefab sunroom. The men were working where the sunroom met the main structure. Dislodging nails, jackhammering between fiberglass and brick.<\/span><\/p>\n

Tossing panels onto a stack.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPardon,\u201d Durwood called. \u201cWho you boys working for?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

One man pointed to his earmuffs. The others paid Durwood no mind whatsoever. Heavyset men. Big stomachs and muscles.<\/span><\/p>\n

Durwood walked closer. \u201cThose corner boards\u2019re getting beat up. Y\u2019all got a permit I could see?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The three continued to ignore him.<\/span><\/p>\n

The addition was poorly done to begin with, the cornice already sagging. Shoddy craftsmanship. That didn\u2019t mean the owners deserved to have it stolen for scrap.<\/span><\/p>\n

The jackhammer was plugged into an outside GFI. Durwood caught its cord with his bootheel.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe hell?\u201d said the operator as his juice cut.<\/span><\/p>\n

Durwood said, \u201cYou\u2019re thieves. You\u2019re stealing fiberglass.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The men denied nothing.<\/span><\/p>\n

One said, \u201cCall the cops. See if they come.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Sue-Ann bared her gums.<\/span><\/p>\n

Durwood said, \u201cI don\u2019t believe we need to involve law enforcement,\u201d and turned back south for the Vanagon.<\/span><\/p>\n

Crime like this\u2014callous, brash\u2014was a sign of the times.  People were sore about this \u201cnew economy,\u201d how well the rich were making out. Groups like the Blind Mice thought it gave them a right to practice lawlessness.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/span><\/p>\n

Lawlessness, Durwood knew, was like a plague. Left unchecked, it spread. Even now, besides this sunroom dismantling, Durwood saw a half dozen offenses in plain sight. Low-stakes gambling on a porch. Coaxials looped across half the neighborhood roofs: cable splicing. A Rottweiler roaming off leash.<\/span><\/p>\n

Each stuck in Durwood\u2019s craw.<\/span><\/p>\n

He walked a half block to the Vanagon. He hunted around inside, boots clattering the bare metal floor. Pushed aside Stinger missiles in titanium casings. Squinted past crates of frag grenades in the bulkhead he\u2019d jiggered himself from ponderosa pine.<\/span><\/p>\n

Here she was\u2014a pressurized tin of black ops epoxy. Set quick enough to repel a flash air strike, strong enough to hold a bridge. Durwood had purchased it for the Dubai job. According to his supplier, Yakov, the stuff smelled like cinnamon when it dried. Something to do with chemistry.<\/span><\/p>\n

Durwood removed the tin from its box and brushed off the pink Styrofoam packing Yakov favored. Then allowed Sue a moment to ease herself down to the curb before they started back north.<\/span><\/p>\n

Passing Molly\u2019s house, Durwood glimpsed her through the living room window. She was listening to Quaid, fingers pressed to her forehead.<\/span><\/p>\n

Quaid was lying. Which was nothing new, Quaid stretching the truth to a woman. But these lies involved Molly\u2019s safety. Fact was, they knew very little of the Blind Mice. Their capabilities, their willingness to harm innocents. The leader, Josiah, was a reckless troublemaker. He spewed his nonsense on Twitter, announcing targets ahead of time, talking about his own penis.<\/span><\/p>\n

The heavyset men were back at it. One on the roof. The other two around back of the sunroom, digging up the slab.<\/span><\/p>\n

Durwood set down the epoxy. The men glanced over but kept jackhammering. They would not be the first, nor last, to underestimate this son of an Appalachian coal miner.<\/span><\/p>\n

The air compressor was set up on the lawn. Durwood found the main pressure valve and cranked its throat full open.<\/span><\/p>\n

The man on the roof had his ratchet come roaring out of his hands. He slid down the grade, nose rubbing vinyl shingles, and landed in petunias.<\/span><\/p>\n

Back on his feet, the man swore.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMind your language,\u201d Durwood said. \u201cThere\u2019s families in the neighborhood.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The other two hustled over, shovels at their shoulders. The widest of the three circled to Durwood\u2019s backside.<\/span><\/p>\n

Sue-Ann coiled her old bones to strike. Ugliness roiled Durwood\u2019s gut.<\/span><\/p>\n

Big Man punched first. Durwood caught his fist, torqued his arm behind his back. The next man swung his shovel. Durwood charged underneath and speared his chest. The man wheezed sharply, his lung likely punctured.<\/span><\/p>\n

The third man got hold of Durwood\u2019s bootheel, smashed his elbow into the hollow of Durwood\u2019s knee. Durwood scissored the opposite leg across the man\u2019s throat. He gritted his teeth and clenched. He felt the man\u2019s Adam\u2019s apple wriggling between his legs. A black core in Durwood yearned to squeeze.<\/span><\/p>\n

He resisted.<\/span><\/p>\n

The hostiles came again, and Durwood whipped them again. Automatically, in a series of beats as natural to him as chirping to a katydid. The men\u2019s faces changed from angry to scared to incredulous. Finally, they stayed down.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNow y\u2019all are helping fix that sunroom.\u201d Durwood nodded to the epoxy tin. \u201cMix six to one, then paste \u2019er on quick.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Luckily, he\u2019d caught the thieves early, and the repair was uncomplicated. Clamp, glue, drill. The epoxy should increase the R-value on the sunroom ten, fifteen, units. Good for a few bucks off the gas bill in winter, anyhow.<\/span><\/p>\n

Durwood did much of the work himself. He enjoyed the panels\u2019 weight, the strength of a well-formed joint. His muscles felt free and easy as if he were home ridding the sorghum fields of johnsongrass.<\/span><\/p>\n

Done, he let the thieves go.<\/span><\/p>\n

He turned back south toward Molly\u2019s house. Sue-Ann scrabbled alongside.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, ole girl?\u201d he said. \u201cLet\u2019s see how Quaid made out.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

CHAPTER FOUR<\/b><\/p>\n

I stood on my front porch watching the Vanagon rumble down Sycamore. My toes tingled, my heart was tossing itself against the walls of my chest, and I was pretty sure my nose had gone berserk. How else could I be smelling <\/span>cinnamon<\/span><\/i>?<\/span><\/p>\n

Quaid Rafferty\u2019s last words played over and over in my head: <\/span>We need you.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

For twenty minutes, after Durwood had taken his dog to investigate <\/span>ker-klacks<\/span><\/i>, Quaid had given me the hard sell. The money would be big-time. I had the perfect skills for the assignment: guts, grace under fire, that youthful je ne sais quoi. Wasn\u2019t I always saying I ought to be putting my psychology skills to better use? Well, here it was: understanding these young people\u2019s outrage would be a major component of the job.<\/span><\/p>\n

Some people will anticipate your words and mumble along. Quaid did something similar but with feelings, cringing at my credit issues, brightening with whole-face joy at Karen\u2019s reading progress\u2014which I was afraid would suffer if I got busy and didn\u2019t keep up her nightly practice.<\/span><\/p>\n

He was pitching me, yes. But he genuinely cared what was happening in my life.<\/span><\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t know how to think about Quaid, how to even fix him in my brain. He and Durwood were so far outside any normal frame of reference. <\/span>Were they even real? Did I imagine them?<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

Their biographies were epic. Quaid the twice-elected (once-impeached) governor of Massachusetts who now battled villains across the globe and lived at Caesars Palace. Durwood a legend of the Marine Corps, discharged after defying his commanding officer and wiping out an entire Qaeda cell to avenge the death of his wife.<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019d met them during my own unreal adventure\u2014the end of my second marriage, which had unraveled in tragedy in the backwoods of West Virginia.<\/span><\/p>\n

They\u2019d recruited me for three missions since. Each was like a huge, brilliant dream\u2014the kind that\u2019s so vital and packed with life that you hang on after you wake up, clutching backward into sleep to stay inside.<\/span><\/p>\n

Granny said, \u201cThat man\u2019s trouble. If you have any sense in that stubborn head of yours, you\u2019ll steer clear.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I stepped back into the living room, the Vanagon long gone, and allowed my eyes to close. Granny didn\u2019t know the half of it. She had huffed off to watch her judge shows on TV before the guys had even mentioned the Blind Mice.<\/span><\/p>\n

No, she meant a more conventional trouble.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve learned,\u201d I said. \u201cIf I take this job, it won\u2019t be for romance. I\u2019d be doing it for me. For the family.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

As if cued by the word \u201cfamily,\u201d a peal of laughter sounded upstairs.<\/span><\/p>\n

Children!<\/span><\/p>\n

My eyes zoomed to the clock. It was 8:20. Zach would be lucky to make first hour, let alone homeroom. In a single swipe, I scooped up the Prius keys and both jackets. My purse whorled off my shoulder like some supermom prop.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLeaving now!\u201d I called up the stairwell. \u201cHere we go, kids\u2014laces tied, backpacks zipped.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Zach trudged down, leaning his weight into the rail. Karen followed with sunny-careful steps. I sped through the last items on my list\u2014tossed a towel over the grape juice, sloshed water onto the roast, considered my appearance in the microwave door, and just frowned, beyond caring.<\/span><\/p>\n

Halfway across the porch, Granny\u2019s fingers closed around my wrist.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPromise me,\u201d she said, \u201cthat you will not associate with Quaid Rafferty. Promise me you won\u2019t have one single thing to do with that lowlife.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I looked past her to the kitchen, where the cat was kinking herself to retch Eggo Waffle onto the linoleum.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Granny.\u201d I patted her hand, freeing myself. \u201cIt\u2019s something I have to do.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Excerpt from Anarchy of the Mice<\/i> by Jeff Bond. Copyright 2020 by Jeff Bond. Reproduced with permission from Jeff Bond. All rights reserved.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Tour Participants:<\/h1>\n

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