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They were told only to use the weapons in case of a real threat. That meant no using them on innocent civilians.

(Alice had been sorely tempted to ask where Jehovah's Witnesses fell on the scale. She relished the idea of greeting one of them at the door with a fully-armed MP5K.)

As usual, her bosses had been thorough.

"Looks like we get the fun job," Spence said, entering the bedroom and taking a seat in the massive easy chair.

"Fun. Right."

"What, you don't like lounging around the nicest mansion in the state doing nothing for three months?"

"Not really. I didn't take this job to sit on my ass."

Spence leaned back. The chair unfolded, the bottom springing upward to prop his feet. "Too bad, it's a nice ass."

Turning toward him, she gave him a glare.

He grinned. "Sorry, couldn't help but notice. Besides, with any luck, this'll be a stepping stone—maybe working for the big bosses or the commandoes."

Alice snorted. "The thug squad? No thanks."

"They're not thugs, Alice." Spence actually sounded outraged at her characterization.

"Maybe not, but they've got delusions of grandeur. I mean, c'mon, the head thug calls himself 'One.' This isn't the fucking CIA—we're a private corporation. We don't need to go around with stupid James Bond code-names. Why can't he just use a real name?"

"Shot in the dark here, but—maybe for security?"

"Hardy har har." She walked over to the makeup table. All her favorite brands were represented. "Then he can call himself 'Fred' or 'Bill'." She smiled. "Or 'Percival'."

This time he glared at her. "Hardy har har."

The smile became a full grin. She decided that, if she was stuck with mansion duty, at least it was with someone she was starting to like. Security Division was well-stocked with assholes—including the self-styled "One"—so she was grateful for this, at least.

"Anyhow, I can't stand that kind of pretentious bullshit. I got enough of that crap in Treasury."

He blinked. "You were in Treasury? Secret Service?"

"No. I should've been, but I was missing a vital qualification."

"Oh?"

Giving Spence a smirk, she said, "A penis."

"Come on, in this day and age?"

Alice barked a laugh. "All being in this day and age means is that they need to come up with better excuses to keep us out. I passed every damn test they threw at me, I outfought, outshot, and outsmarted all the men at my level. The women they did promote were all less qualified than me, but they also—" She hesitated.

"They also what?" Spence prompted.

Trying not to sound too catty, Alice said, "Well, let's just say you wouldn't be complimenting any of them on what a nice ass they had."

"Ah. Woof woof."

"Something like that," Alice said, thinking that men were all crude at heart no matter what. "They kept me investigating counterfeiters while the guys I came up with got to go to the White House."

"So you came here?"

"Yeah." She sighed and sat down on the large bed. The mattress was firm, but giving, and felt like one of those fancy Swedish ones that didn't have coil springs but some kind of foam thing. "The work isn't much of an improvement—especially this little bullshit assignment—but at least I'm paid better."

"Got that right." Spence grinned. "Well, for what it's worth, I've heard a lot of good things about you."

"From who?" Alice asked with a frown.

"Everybody I asked. 'Ass-Kicking Alice,' they called you."

She rolled her eyes, having hoped that that particular nickname would have died out by now. It had, after all, been five years since the training exercise when she had put their training officer—One's predecessor, a man named Martinez—in the hospital with a single well-placed kick to the shin. But it seemed they were just limiting themselves to saying it behind her back.

Turning her gaze at her new partner, she asked, "So what's your story?"

"What makes you think I have a story?"

"I've been here five years, Spence. Everyone in Security has a story. For one thing, someone who works here but also sculpts has to have a story."

At that, Spence