Never Say Spy by Diane Henders Page A

judgement on my part.  If you want to file a complaint and initiate an inquiry, I’ll provide you with the contact information for my commanding officer.”
    I gazed from one man to the other, my anger draining away.  Their faces were both impassive, but something about their silent tension made me think of soldiers fighting a losing battle, too proud to give up.  I shuddered violently.
    “I think... I’d like to get the whole story first,” I said.  “Somewhere warm, with food.”  I wrapped my arms around my trembling body.
    Kane took in my shivering, dishevelled appearance.  “All right.  The diner on the corner is open all night.”  He ushered me to a shiny black Expedition.  “Meet us there,” he commanded Hellhound, who nodded silently and limped toward his Harley.
    “What, no POS Suburban?” I joked, trying to lighten the mood.
    “Another team member needed it for surveillance,” he responded expressionlessly.  “This is my vehicle.”
    Inside the SUV, he cranked up the heat before taking out his cell phone to dial.
    “This is Kane.  What’s the status on the break-in?”  He listened for a few minutes.  “I have her.  Wrap it up and head out.  We’ll coordinate reports in the morning.”  He disconnected and put the vehicle in gear.
    “The uniforms went over your house.”  He spoke without looking at me, focused on the road.  “The back door had been jimmied.  Your bedroom door was kicked in, and the window was open.  They combed the area on foot and with HAWCS, the police helicopter, but they didn’t find anyone suspicious.  They didn’t find any witnesses tonight, but they’ll go back and canvass your neighbours tomorrow to find out if anyone heard or saw anything.”
    “The window was open because that’s how I went out,” I said.
    “From three storeys up.”
    “Yeah, I went over the roof down onto the back deck.”
    He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face.  “I’ll get a complete statement from you at the diner.”  We rode the rest of the way in silence.
    When we arrived at the restaurant, Kane motioned for me to precede him to a table.  I chose one at the back, close to an exit, and sat down with my back to the wall, giving the room my habitual once-over.  Kane slid into the chair beside me and we sat silently scanning the room until Hellhound appeared a few minutes later.
    “Hadta take a leak,” he informed us when he reached the table.  He appraised the two remaining seats with obvious dismay.  “Sure, take the good seats,” he groused.  When neither Kane nor I volunteered to give up our positions, the burly biker squeezed into one of the chairs facing us.
    “Watch my back,” he urged Kane.  He winked at me and smiled, but I could tell he was serious.
    “Always do,” Kane replied.
    The waitress arrived, and Kane and Hellhound both ordered coffee.  I was ravenous, so I went for huevos rancheros with home fries, a cup of hot chocolate, and a glass of milk.
    “Ya gonna eat that shit at this time a’ the night?” Hellhound demanded, his gravelly voice rising incredulously.  “That shit’ll rot your gut.”
    “You’re getting old,” Kane ribbed him.
    “I’m gettin’ smart,” Hellhound rejoined.
    They fell silent again as the drinks arrived, the momentary levity having done nothing to decrease the tension.
    When the waitress departed, I turned to Kane.  “So what happened?”
    Kane rubbed his forehead as if it ached.  His short hair was tousled, and his chin bore a heavy growth of stubble.  The restaurant’s harsh lighting accentuated the lines around his eyes and mouth, making him look as tired as I felt.  God, I must look like the hag from hell.
    “As soon as you hung up, I talked to the 911 dispatcher,” he said.  “I told him you wouldn’t be going back to the house, and that I had set up a meeting place with you.  But I live deep in the south end of town, and I knew it would take me fifteen or twenty minutes to get