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shove it.”
    “She’s from South Korea.”
    Charlene looks up at the ceiling—as if she’s addressing God—as if she’s asking “Why me?”
    My inability to focus on the imperative element must get under her skin. For the first time ever, she lets go of the zebra-bag shield long enough to hold her hands out to me. She pleads angrily, “You can’t let her get away with it.”
    “It pisses me off too, but why does it matter?” This question is about as close to an admission of responsibility as I can get. By acknowledging the fact that Dallas stole my thunder isn’t cool, I’m opening the door just a crack to let Charlene know that she’s right. I don’t want to do it, but man, I’m stumped. If she knows, she knows.
    “It’s not right, that’s all.”
    “Charlene?”
    “What?”
    “What’s the real reason?”
    Charlene glances over her shoulder. The other ten members of SASS are down at the lanes, arguing over whether Tara (or maybe it’s Mara) stepped over the line. Charlie Delta is so red in the face, I think I can see a vein bulging from here.
    Dallas cackles with laughter.
    Charlene turns back to me with a scrunched up nose, almost like she’s snarling, and says, “Because she’s a no-talent ass clown, and you’re one of the best in the business. I can’t stand the fact that she’s got all those other schmucks wrapped around her little finger, and they worship her like she’s some kind of…”
    “Superhero?” It’s hard to ignore the irony.
    “Whatever. If I didn’t think she would run and snitch on me to the suits running DPS, I’d expose every dirty little secret she has.”
    My hand goes up in the air, and I unintentionally use a ketchup-coated French fry to accentuate my surprise. It wobbles limply between my thumb and forefinger when I say, “Hang on, what did you say?”
    “That I’d love to expose every little—”
    “No, the part about DPS. You’re talking about the DPS?” I’ve been working with Agents Lisa Kelly and Deke Carter for about four weeks. I thought they were invisible…to everybody.
    Charlene snatches up her handbag again and resumes using it as a protective shield. She tries to backpedal. “I-I-I didn’t say anything about—you have ketchup running down your fingers.”
    Indeed I do, but more important things are hanging out there like the most pregnant oops in the history of mankind. “You said DPS, Charlene. Direct Protection Services?”
    Only when she nods do I finally drop the fry and wipe the ketchup off my hand.
    “Who’s your handler there? And is that how you know about my work in the Maldives?”
    Charlene shrugs. I’ve quickly gone from lovesick teenager to highly paranoid, distrustful, elite superhero assassin Leo Craft. It’s amazing how three little letters can change an entire scenario.
    I repeat, “How do you know about DPS?” While I wait on her to make up her mind about answering, I breathe deeply, cycling through my options. Not one of them is good. They all lead to a fade-to-black that I don’t enjoy.
    Charlene’s hand snaps out to grab a fry and draws it back in. She nibbles on the crusty end and says, “I’m getting soft.”
    That tender spot for her winks to life again like a distant star poking through the darkness. It takes a lot to admit that, especially among the ego-driven culture we inhabit. I feel the muscles in my face relax. My leg stops jackhammering the floor, and I lean up onto the table with my elbows. “I can see why. That Don Donner thing must be tough.”
    Charlene points her chin at the lanes. The arguments are over, and the thunderous bowling has resumed. “It’s because of her.”
    “Dallas?”
    “When DPS dropped her and took me on, she flipped out.”
    “Hold up. Dallas worked for DPS, too?”
    “Yeah. And she’s the one that revealed my identity to CNC and Don Donner.”
    “Are you absolutely positive ?” I ask, but I already know the answer. If Charlene knew this to be true, Dallas