Gabby Greene Knows Whodunit
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Synopsis
The witty and fast-paced follow-up to Errands & Espionage finds a single mom on an undercover adventure with high-stakes—and possible romance—in this spy romcom, perfect for fans of Finlay Donovan Is Killing It.
Release date: January 20, 2026
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 352
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Gabby Greene Knows Whodunit
Sam Tschida
1630 hours (military time because she’s not a baby agent anymore), on the stationary bike going nowhere fast, EOD headquarters
I got this.” Gabby Greene slipped on her bike shoes and strode into the Elite Operatives Division gym like she owned it, but with the awkward gait of someone who had put on their clip-on shoes too far away from the bike. Those things were not made for walking. In a stiff-legged, might-as-well-be-wearing-ski-boots gait, she made it to the exercise bike for some cardio. It was Gabby’s second month of being a field agent for the EOD, making her a Top Gun of the spy world. “Highway to the Danger Zone” might as well be her theme song, which also betrayed her age. Did the younger operatives know that movie?
The Thirty-Eight-Year-Old Female with Two Kids and a Muffin Top division of the espionage world was almost nonexistent, even in 2026. No female president and not too many chubby middle-aged ladies in the field. It was a dog-eat-dog, grab-em-by-the-pussy world out there. If your mascara wasn’t waterproof, don’t bother. Although tubing mascara did seem to be a good alternative. Women were changing the world for the better every day.
Agent Greene had to be able to handle any muscled-up Navy SEAL who came at her. She had kids waiting for her at home, so failure was not an option. It’s not like Lucas was going to brush his teeth if she didn’t remind him, and if Gabby died, Kyle would never put her phone down. She had to be as badass of a mom as she was a spy.
She glanced in the mirror and squared her shoulders. Also, she adjusted her yoga pants.
Gabby, with or without camel toe, was going to have it all, damn it. If she could take down a money laundering ring of the Russian Mafia, she could handle anything. Well, most anything. Things got a little cloudy when it came to Markus, but more like cloudy with a chance of sausage. Dear god, she’d read too many children’s books.
Gabby went dreamy for a moment—the man looked like Regé-Jean Page, the spy version. He’d gone from being her handler to her trainer. Unlike Regé-Jean, Markus showed up for work and for her. Not that Gabby had a chip on her shoulder about Regé-Jean Page quitting Bridgerton or anything.
Gabby set her Stanley on the bike seat and put as much of her hair into a ponytail as would fit. While she was trying to get a few more hairs into the rubber band, the cup crashed to the ground, and the clatter echoed against the concrete walls of the training basement.
“Damn.” She grabbed a newspaper someone had left on the bike’s console and ineffectively dabbed at the spill. “Who Killed Amanda Duvall?”—a headline with a picture of a beautiful young woman caught her attention. Gabby stopped mopping and climbed onto the bike holding the damp newspaper. With her “rolling hills” program selected, she read:
Amanda Duvall, thirty-four, was found dead in her Columbia Heights townhome last Saturday. Ms. Duvall was a political journalist who recently quit the Washington Post to focus on her Substack magazine, ThinkPiece. The cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head. Suicide has not been ruled out.
No one who knows Amanda believes she would have taken her own life. Hours before her death, she registered for a candle-making class the next day. If it was murder, the motive just might be a cover-up. This reporter can’t help but wonder: What was Amanda Duvall investigating?
The program on Gabby’s exercise bike shifted to uphill mode. She stopped reading as she struggled to make it up the pretend hill. The ink was too smeared from her drink to read the rest anyway.
As she “climbed,” Gabby’s thoughts shifted back to Markus, her sexy spy trainer. Her pedaling slowed to almost zero at the thought of introducing him to her kids. She could pedal up a twenty percent incline but not when she was dragging all her worries. With her momentum gone, she couldn’t get the pedals moving again. Kyle was usually a petulant teenage girl, but, for the first time in a long time, there had been a tenuous peace, and one she didn’t want to lose by telling her kids about Markus.
The bike’s screen flashed a notice, “Keep moving. You can do it.”
Of course she could. Prior planning, compartmentalization, communication, contingency plans. She had the skills to balance romance, bad guys, and her kids. No big deal.
Just as she gave another push, a noise near the stairwell drew her attention.
“Carl?” She called the EOD janitor’s name.
But the footsteps sounded more deliberate than Carl’s, and they were coming toward her. “Carl? Is that you?”
A form stepped into the hallway under the glow of the red exit sign, and Gabby’s senses went on high alert.
This was not Carl.
The man took another step forward, and then another, still without any greeting. Markus had told her to be on alert for a double agent in the building while he was training her a couple of weeks ago. He’d explained the danger while she was eating lunch, an Athenian pizza with extra olives and feta. She remembered the pizza being a little dry. The exact danger—she couldn’t recall.
But this looked like trouble. No one with good intentions wore a ski mask, and he was still heading in her direction. With no one else in the gym, there was no calling for help. And her gun was across the mats. There was no shooting her way out of this, unless she played it cool.
As casually as she could, she got off the bike. She tripped a little and laughed at her perceived ineptitude (one of her biggest strengths as an agent). After walking like she was wearing a storm trooper uniform for a few steps, she pulled off her shoes. “It’s impossible to walk in these things,” she said.
Halfway to her gun, the man caught her eye. She gave him a friendly wave.
He grunted a noncommittal reply.
Her heart was hammering in her ears.
Ten feet from her gun, he said, “Stop where you are, Agent Greene.”
“Really? Are we doing this? I have to get home to the kids. I was already pushing it, trying to get in a workout. I’ll just pretend like I didn’t see you, and we can all go about our business.” She was running at the mouth.
The man reasserted himself. “Don’t take one more step.”
“Are you going to shoot me?” she asked, subtly getting into a fight stance.
After a pause for reflection, he said, “I’d rather a fair fight. No weapons, just you and me on the mat.”
“And I really thought I wouldn’t have to fight anyone for gym space at this time of day.”
He didn’t laugh.
There was no such thing as a fair fight. He was a lot bigger than her, but she had a few advantages. 1) Markus was always telling her she had better leverage. Use your body weight to take down your opponent. If nothing else, she could just hang on to this opponent’s leg toddler-style. From experience, she knew that was very annoying.
2) A lower center of gravity made her harder to knock down. Just like why skid steer loaders carry their buckets low to the ground. Gabby’s life had been nothing but diggers for a while: Luca’s picture books, YouTube videos of digging, and visiting a nearby construction project in her neighborhood until it got weird when one of the workmen thought she was there for him.
At any rate, she had some junk in the trunk, and for once, it was to her advantage. Well, that workman had seemed to like it too.
The masked man barreled toward her, head down. Instead of sidestepping, she braced herself and prepared a defense. He had so much momentum already. All she had to do was change his trajectory and throw him over her shoulder.
Surprise flashed in his eyes when he realized what she was going to attempt. “Nice try, Agent Greene,” he said, respect in his voice.
But that’s all it had been, a try. Before she could come up with her next move, he swept a leg out, taking her feet right out from under her and sending Gabby flying ass over teakettle.
She hit the ground with a thud, and the breath left her lungs in a rush. Before she could roll away, the man was on top of her, using his weight to pin her to the ground. She bucked her hips and tried to sit up to take a swing, but he didn’t budge.
“I thought you were going to make this harder?” he said.
How dare he? She was a force to be reckoned with. There had to be something she could do. She wasn’t strong enough to punch him from the angle she was at, but… if she stretched, she could almost reach her shoe.
It was just out of reach, and he knew it. He laughed. She never should have signed up for this job. People were counting on her. She couldn’t die on a Wednesday at the office.
A bead of sweat dripped down her face as she stretched as far as she could. If only she were an inch taller—or more serious about yoga.
When he laughed at her pathetic effort, he relaxed just enough to let her stretch out a little farther. She snatched her bike shoe with the metal clips and swung it toward him with all the force she could muster. He blocked the attack. Running out of options, she wrapped her thighs around his upper body and squeezed. If he would just hold still for a few seconds.
At this point, the masked man was smashed into her crotch. “Why do you look so surprised?” Gabby said through gritted teeth.
She squeezed harder, smashing his face even closer into her crotch. It was a good move, but the voices started getting louder in her head. Who did she think she was? Could she really kill a man with her thighs? It was the end of the day, and she was already tired from a twenty-minute hill workout on a bike.
“What’s the holdup? Are you going to strangle me or what?”
She wanted to say something quippy before killing him, but all she could think was: She probably smelled like a barn.
Before she could answer, he said, “Squeeze! C’mon, kill me! Any man should be so lucky to die between a woman’s thighs.”
She was done playing along.
“Markus, I can’t. Get your face out of my crotch, please.”
“Gabby, come on.”
“Markus, I’m serious. This role-playing isn’t working. I have to get home.”
She couldn’t pretend it wasn’t Markus anymore.
“Gabby,” he said sharply, “for this to work, you need to participate. You need some real experience before you are out in the field. I want you prepared.”
“I’m trying, but… It’s just—” It was hard to have a serious conversation with a guy whose cheeks were smooshed between her legs.
“Get out of your head, Gabby. Strangle me with your thighs.”
She stared back. Had she just heard that come out of his mouth? Was this a training thing or a sexual tension thing? In the interest of being direct-ish, she said, “This isn’t the way I imagined things going, you know, you between my legs like that.”
“Hmmm.” He looked up at her in a way that made her think she might not smell like an old barn, or, if she did, maybe he was into it. Before he got more playful, she twisted the arm she was still holding in the wrong direction, forcing him to roll onto his back and bringing her with him. She scooted back, settled directly on his stomach.
Her phone buzzed with a text. Markus handed it to her. “Just in case it’s your kids,” he said.
At that little gesture, she melted. He was so thoughtful and unselfish. The barn was his if he wanted it.
“It’s just Justin,” she reported. He had texted: Your boudoir is ready. Get ready for reveal.
Justin had been giving her bedroom a makeover for the past week. She hadn’t been allowed to see it. Was it a sign? Markus between her thighs, her bedroom finally ready to inhabit after a reno…
“Markus—” she started to say. “I don’t know if I can do that thigh move.”
“It’s a classic for a reason, not that I want your thighs wrapped around another guy’s head, but you have strong legs. When it comes down to it, they’re more dangerous than your fists.”
“I just feel like I should shower before we practice that one. There’s this yoni oil that is supposed to make your crotch smell like candy.”
“Gabby!” he said. “This is combat. Do you think dudes are worried if their balls smell?”
Probably not.
“You have to imagine that I’m the bad guy in these exercises, take it one hundred percent seriously.” In a softer voice, he said, “And skip the oil.”
“Is this foreplay or training?” she blurted out. It was unclear.
He wrapped his arms around her and brought her closer, answering her question.
“Oh.” She relaxed in his arms. As their breath mingled, he ran his hands down her back in a way that was turning her into a pile of mindless goo. With her senses fully obliterated by his magnetism, she brought her lips to his and let her eyelids flutter shut.
It had been a month of absolute torture, holding Markus at arm’s length, but she’d been firm with her boundaries, and he’d respected that she needed some time. He was waiting.
Was waiting. Past tense.
He let out a sigh and kissed her back softly. Not needy or demanding, just perfect. He broke the kiss, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire. “Are you ready to upgrade our coffee date to an actual date?”
Could she do it all? Fully kissed with swollen lips and a need that she couldn’t ignore, it seemed possible. She said, “Yes, let’s have dinner.” But she still needed that boundary. It’s not like she had time for a real relationship. “Maybe we can call it a working dinner?”
Markus rubbed the back of his neck. “I want to respect your boundaries, but I would actually like to date.”
Gabby tensed up. This was so delicate. She wanted Markus, but she couldn’t. Could she? “We could date, if we keep it casual.”
Markus looked disappointed. “Are we really that casual after what we’ve been through together?”
Gabby thought on it. She looked at him. He was right. They weren’t totally casual, but there’s no way they could be totally serious. “What if…” she said thoughtfully, summoning all the power of the cool badass spy she almost was. “What if you were my work wife?”
“Did you just ask me to be your work wife?” Markus smiled, but there was an edge of sadness in it.
“We won’t be regular work wives. More like work wives with benefits.”
“Okay.” He didn’t look totally convinced, but she’d make him see. This could work.
Gabby smiled brightly and pulled up the calendar on her phone. “All right, work wife, I gotta get home, but I’m putting you,” she said with a flirtatious lilt, “on my calendar. How about the Friday after next?”
“Really?” He looked skeptical, probably because he didn’t think she’d follow through.
She gave him a sexy nod. “Oh yeah, we’re going to do it.” In the calendar event, she tapped out the words, Dinner with Work Wife.
Change her call sign to Maverick, because there was a new Top Gun in town.
Gabby glanced at her watch. “Shit. I was supposed to be home already.” Wednesday was spaghetti night and the only night without any activities. She and the kids ate spaghetti, watched a show, and bonded. She slipped on some tennis shoes and collected her things.
“What are you doing tonight?” she asked Markus.
“Meal prep,” he said. “Seven days of chicken and rice. I’m trying a Szechuan chicken recipe.” Markus was the type to meal prep his meal prep.
High heels on the wooden gym floor interrupted their conversation. Their boss, Special Supervisory Agent Valentina Monroe, hurried into the training gym. In addition to being the boss, Valentina also happened to be Markus’s ex-wife. Not intimidating at all, especially since Valentina could make picking up dog poop look sexy. Her boss-lady wardrobe upgrade was all sexy pantsuits, elegant chignons, and classic heels that Gabby had seen her run in. Her whole look said, “Yes, mistress.”
Gabby’s look generally said, “Ma’am, do you need help?” But that was her magic as a spy. No one, and she meant no one, saw her coming.
“You two, my office. Now.”
Gabby glanced at the time again. “Umm, Valentina, I was supposed to be home a while ago—”
Valentina stopped and looked over her shoulder, Miranda Priestley style. “Agent Greene, national security trumps spaghetti night.”
“How did you know that?” Gabby asked, her jaw on the floor.
“I’m a spy. I know everything, and so should you.”
“So this one can’t wait until morning?”
“No,” she said sharply. “It absolutely cannot. I have an assignment. You need to start prepping tonight.”
Damn it. She texted Granny, who was at home with the kids. “Running late.”
Granny responded.
Granny: Get ’em, tiger!
Granny: But can you pick up a plunger on your way home?
Geez. Valentina stopped and adjusted a Louboutin. “I think I have a rock in my shoe.”
Granny: Lucas flushed something.
“Don’t you just hate it when that happens?” Valentina said, frowning at her designer shoe.
“It’s the worst,” Gabby lied. A rock in her Louboutin sounded like a dream.
Valentina was everything Gabby wasn’t. It’s not like Gabby was jealous, mostly confused. How could Markus go from Valentina to her? Was she Markus’s not-quite-midlife crisis? Instead of a Ferrari, he decided to get a middle-aged mom. It was almost unbelievable.
Once they were in her office, Valentina sat behind her desk and waited for Markus and Gabby to settle into the chairs across the desk. “Have you been following the Sheridan Lane story?”
Markus leaned forward in his chair eagerly. “Of course.”
“Where’s that?” Gabby asked.
“Not where. Who,” Valentina said with a click of her pen cap. “Sheridan Lane. You two need to find her.”
1700 hours, should have left work an hour ago, Valentina’s Office
Valentina turned her desktop monitor screen toward Markus and Gabby and pulled up a website. Uncommon Sense was written across the top in large, bold font. Below the title was a candid photo of a middle-aged white woman with startling green eyes and brown, gray-streaked hair. While the woman hadn’t bothered with glamour or even makeup, something about her face drew a person in. It wasn’t her features or style—it was her intelligence.
Valentina gestured to the brunette. “This is Sheridan Lane.”
The website didn’t offer any description of Sheridan or her job, other than Uncommon Sense, which Gabby believed simply from her expression. Her gray-streaked hair and button-down shirt said no-nonsense. She looked like the kind of person who wouldn’t even consider visiting a psychic. The website tabs indicated that Sheridan had a podcast and a Substack, but good luck if you wanted to email her because there was no contact section.
Valentina pulled up an MPG file and clicked play. “This is security camera footage taken from Ms. Lane’s street cam yesterday morning.”
Valentina clicked play. In the video, the door opened, and a woman exited the building and turned to lock the door. It was clearly Sheridan in a turtleneck and a fleece vest. After adjusting her purse, she gripped the handle on the rolling luggage and wheeled it toward the street. A man helped her into a waiting car. The license plate was not visible.
“Ms. Lane was expected in Washington three hours after this footage was taken, but she never boarded the plane in Jackson Hole and missed her appointment with the president. There’s been no word from her since.”
Had the woman been wearing a fleece vest to the White House? Gabby was impressed.
“We’re trying to track down the car that picked her up, but as you can see, the license plate is not visible. Neither Uber nor Lyft has been able to identify the person at the wheel as one of their drivers.”
“Why was she meeting the president?” Gabby was on the edge of her seat. Maybe Sheridan Lane was a fundraiser, and all the funds had gone missing, or she was advising the president on environmental practices, and an oil company had intercepted her on the way to deliver the news.
“She’s his psychic, Agent Greene.”
“What?” Gabby tried to wrap her mind around that. “The president has a psychic?” Some of the moms at parent pickup had a psychic. Justin regularly saw a psychic because of course he did, but the president… Shouldn’t he be dealing with facts and figures? Not to mention, shouldn’t a psychic look more like a grown-up Luna Lovegood? Sheridan Lane looked like a federal judge.
Valentina forged on without even looking up. “The president’s psychic—don’t ask questions right now. Save them for the field.”
“What kind of things does he talk about with the psychic?” Gabby had nothing but questions.
“Why do you think we’re worried, Agent Greene?” Valentina asked. “Ms. Lane, or someone with access to her accounts, posted earlier today that she would be taking a social media break for a couple of weeks with a promise to return refreshed and more insightful soon.”
It was a lot to take in all at once. She decided to grab a coffee. “Does anyone else want one?” Gabby asked as she poured a cup from a carafe at a side table.
The way Valentina said no made it sound like Gabby shouldn’t have wanted one either.
All business, Markus asked, “Do we have any ideas where to start looking?”
Gabby mopped up some creamer and looked for a trash can. When she didn’t see one, she left her stir stick and creamer in a shameful pile by the coffee things.
Valentina clicked on another screen, bringing up a globe. Google Maps–style, she zoomed in on a location, a string of islands in the Atlantic Ocean. Gabby’s adrenaline spiked. She’d never been to Europe. She’d never even been to an island other than Catalina, where she’d gone on a school field trip with Kyle, and she’d spent most of her time there taking kids to the bathroom.
“Ms. Lane’s cell phone pinged off a tower near Ponta Delgada on São Miguel Island.” Valentina indicated one of the islands.
Markus exhaled as if that meant something to him.
“Ponta Delgada?” Gabby leaned forward, peering at the map while gripping her coffee like a lover’s hand.
“Ponta Delgada is the capital of the Azores, a chain of islands located a thousand kilometers off Portugal’s coast. It’s not a country, but an autonomous region of Portugal known for its dramatic landscapes and fishing villages,” Valentina explained like she was giving a fifth-grade report on the region. Gabby was familiar with fifth-grade reports. She’d helped Kyle do a last-minute one on Venezuela, capital Caracas, population: twenty-eight million, largest export: crude petroleum.
“The Azores are known as the Hawaii of Europe.”
Well, that sounded nice.
“I assume she’s at Inner-G,” Markus said, looking like he already knew a lot more about this assignment than Gabby did.
Valentina confirmed with a nod. Looking directly at Markus, she said, “Before we do anything, I want you to chat up Genesis and see what you can get out of him. Maybe they’re not hiding anything.”
“Genesis?” Gabby was officially on the last-to-know list. “What am I missing? Can someone catch me up?”
“Inner-G is a yoga and wellness brand run by Genesis and Jasmine Love.” Markus waited for her to recognize the names. “It’s basically goop but run by The Rock and his swimsuit model wife.”
Gabby was all ears.
Markus continued his report. “Inner-G is a known security risk and has been for some time. On the surface, it appears to be nothing but a yoga and wellness retreat, but there are a few red flags, which is why I’ve gotten involved. Number one: the money. Genesis and Jasmine are living well beyond their means. The luxury resort, the yacht, the private jet. Mr. Love claims that all Inner-G’s wealth comes from member tithing, but the numbers don’t add up. Number two: The retreat has been tied to several major leaked news stories. We’re concerned they’re selling member secrets.”
On her last mission, the bad guys had been Russian Mafia. This time it was Hollywood. Talk about leveling up!
Valentina cut in. “Sheridan Lane has spent countless hours in private audience with the president. Whatever secrets she has heard, it’s a matter of national security that they stay in the vault. She’s not the person we want on gossip island.”
Markus rolled his chair back. “Not that I don’t want to go to the Azores, but can we just send the local operatives in to grab her? That’d be quick and easy. Less cost for the taxpayers too.”
Valentina shook her head. “She has too much sensitive information, apparently. The president doesn’t want Sheridan in the hands of foreign intelligence until we get there. He wants our best American field agents on it as soon as possible.”
Gabby sat up a little straighter at the compliment. Was she the best field agent?
Valentina clarified, “Make that our best positioned field agents.”
“How so?” Gabby asked. She didn’t know anyone in Hollywood, and yoga hadn’t wo. . .
I got this.” Gabby Greene slipped on her bike shoes and strode into the Elite Operatives Division gym like she owned it, but with the awkward gait of someone who had put on their clip-on shoes too far away from the bike. Those things were not made for walking. In a stiff-legged, might-as-well-be-wearing-ski-boots gait, she made it to the exercise bike for some cardio. It was Gabby’s second month of being a field agent for the EOD, making her a Top Gun of the spy world. “Highway to the Danger Zone” might as well be her theme song, which also betrayed her age. Did the younger operatives know that movie?
The Thirty-Eight-Year-Old Female with Two Kids and a Muffin Top division of the espionage world was almost nonexistent, even in 2026. No female president and not too many chubby middle-aged ladies in the field. It was a dog-eat-dog, grab-em-by-the-pussy world out there. If your mascara wasn’t waterproof, don’t bother. Although tubing mascara did seem to be a good alternative. Women were changing the world for the better every day.
Agent Greene had to be able to handle any muscled-up Navy SEAL who came at her. She had kids waiting for her at home, so failure was not an option. It’s not like Lucas was going to brush his teeth if she didn’t remind him, and if Gabby died, Kyle would never put her phone down. She had to be as badass of a mom as she was a spy.
She glanced in the mirror and squared her shoulders. Also, she adjusted her yoga pants.
Gabby, with or without camel toe, was going to have it all, damn it. If she could take down a money laundering ring of the Russian Mafia, she could handle anything. Well, most anything. Things got a little cloudy when it came to Markus, but more like cloudy with a chance of sausage. Dear god, she’d read too many children’s books.
Gabby went dreamy for a moment—the man looked like Regé-Jean Page, the spy version. He’d gone from being her handler to her trainer. Unlike Regé-Jean, Markus showed up for work and for her. Not that Gabby had a chip on her shoulder about Regé-Jean Page quitting Bridgerton or anything.
Gabby set her Stanley on the bike seat and put as much of her hair into a ponytail as would fit. While she was trying to get a few more hairs into the rubber band, the cup crashed to the ground, and the clatter echoed against the concrete walls of the training basement.
“Damn.” She grabbed a newspaper someone had left on the bike’s console and ineffectively dabbed at the spill. “Who Killed Amanda Duvall?”—a headline with a picture of a beautiful young woman caught her attention. Gabby stopped mopping and climbed onto the bike holding the damp newspaper. With her “rolling hills” program selected, she read:
Amanda Duvall, thirty-four, was found dead in her Columbia Heights townhome last Saturday. Ms. Duvall was a political journalist who recently quit the Washington Post to focus on her Substack magazine, ThinkPiece. The cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head. Suicide has not been ruled out.
No one who knows Amanda believes she would have taken her own life. Hours before her death, she registered for a candle-making class the next day. If it was murder, the motive just might be a cover-up. This reporter can’t help but wonder: What was Amanda Duvall investigating?
The program on Gabby’s exercise bike shifted to uphill mode. She stopped reading as she struggled to make it up the pretend hill. The ink was too smeared from her drink to read the rest anyway.
As she “climbed,” Gabby’s thoughts shifted back to Markus, her sexy spy trainer. Her pedaling slowed to almost zero at the thought of introducing him to her kids. She could pedal up a twenty percent incline but not when she was dragging all her worries. With her momentum gone, she couldn’t get the pedals moving again. Kyle was usually a petulant teenage girl, but, for the first time in a long time, there had been a tenuous peace, and one she didn’t want to lose by telling her kids about Markus.
The bike’s screen flashed a notice, “Keep moving. You can do it.”
Of course she could. Prior planning, compartmentalization, communication, contingency plans. She had the skills to balance romance, bad guys, and her kids. No big deal.
Just as she gave another push, a noise near the stairwell drew her attention.
“Carl?” She called the EOD janitor’s name.
But the footsteps sounded more deliberate than Carl’s, and they were coming toward her. “Carl? Is that you?”
A form stepped into the hallway under the glow of the red exit sign, and Gabby’s senses went on high alert.
This was not Carl.
The man took another step forward, and then another, still without any greeting. Markus had told her to be on alert for a double agent in the building while he was training her a couple of weeks ago. He’d explained the danger while she was eating lunch, an Athenian pizza with extra olives and feta. She remembered the pizza being a little dry. The exact danger—she couldn’t recall.
But this looked like trouble. No one with good intentions wore a ski mask, and he was still heading in her direction. With no one else in the gym, there was no calling for help. And her gun was across the mats. There was no shooting her way out of this, unless she played it cool.
As casually as she could, she got off the bike. She tripped a little and laughed at her perceived ineptitude (one of her biggest strengths as an agent). After walking like she was wearing a storm trooper uniform for a few steps, she pulled off her shoes. “It’s impossible to walk in these things,” she said.
Halfway to her gun, the man caught her eye. She gave him a friendly wave.
He grunted a noncommittal reply.
Her heart was hammering in her ears.
Ten feet from her gun, he said, “Stop where you are, Agent Greene.”
“Really? Are we doing this? I have to get home to the kids. I was already pushing it, trying to get in a workout. I’ll just pretend like I didn’t see you, and we can all go about our business.” She was running at the mouth.
The man reasserted himself. “Don’t take one more step.”
“Are you going to shoot me?” she asked, subtly getting into a fight stance.
After a pause for reflection, he said, “I’d rather a fair fight. No weapons, just you and me on the mat.”
“And I really thought I wouldn’t have to fight anyone for gym space at this time of day.”
He didn’t laugh.
There was no such thing as a fair fight. He was a lot bigger than her, but she had a few advantages. 1) Markus was always telling her she had better leverage. Use your body weight to take down your opponent. If nothing else, she could just hang on to this opponent’s leg toddler-style. From experience, she knew that was very annoying.
2) A lower center of gravity made her harder to knock down. Just like why skid steer loaders carry their buckets low to the ground. Gabby’s life had been nothing but diggers for a while: Luca’s picture books, YouTube videos of digging, and visiting a nearby construction project in her neighborhood until it got weird when one of the workmen thought she was there for him.
At any rate, she had some junk in the trunk, and for once, it was to her advantage. Well, that workman had seemed to like it too.
The masked man barreled toward her, head down. Instead of sidestepping, she braced herself and prepared a defense. He had so much momentum already. All she had to do was change his trajectory and throw him over her shoulder.
Surprise flashed in his eyes when he realized what she was going to attempt. “Nice try, Agent Greene,” he said, respect in his voice.
But that’s all it had been, a try. Before she could come up with her next move, he swept a leg out, taking her feet right out from under her and sending Gabby flying ass over teakettle.
She hit the ground with a thud, and the breath left her lungs in a rush. Before she could roll away, the man was on top of her, using his weight to pin her to the ground. She bucked her hips and tried to sit up to take a swing, but he didn’t budge.
“I thought you were going to make this harder?” he said.
How dare he? She was a force to be reckoned with. There had to be something she could do. She wasn’t strong enough to punch him from the angle she was at, but… if she stretched, she could almost reach her shoe.
It was just out of reach, and he knew it. He laughed. She never should have signed up for this job. People were counting on her. She couldn’t die on a Wednesday at the office.
A bead of sweat dripped down her face as she stretched as far as she could. If only she were an inch taller—or more serious about yoga.
When he laughed at her pathetic effort, he relaxed just enough to let her stretch out a little farther. She snatched her bike shoe with the metal clips and swung it toward him with all the force she could muster. He blocked the attack. Running out of options, she wrapped her thighs around his upper body and squeezed. If he would just hold still for a few seconds.
At this point, the masked man was smashed into her crotch. “Why do you look so surprised?” Gabby said through gritted teeth.
She squeezed harder, smashing his face even closer into her crotch. It was a good move, but the voices started getting louder in her head. Who did she think she was? Could she really kill a man with her thighs? It was the end of the day, and she was already tired from a twenty-minute hill workout on a bike.
“What’s the holdup? Are you going to strangle me or what?”
She wanted to say something quippy before killing him, but all she could think was: She probably smelled like a barn.
Before she could answer, he said, “Squeeze! C’mon, kill me! Any man should be so lucky to die between a woman’s thighs.”
She was done playing along.
“Markus, I can’t. Get your face out of my crotch, please.”
“Gabby, come on.”
“Markus, I’m serious. This role-playing isn’t working. I have to get home.”
She couldn’t pretend it wasn’t Markus anymore.
“Gabby,” he said sharply, “for this to work, you need to participate. You need some real experience before you are out in the field. I want you prepared.”
“I’m trying, but… It’s just—” It was hard to have a serious conversation with a guy whose cheeks were smooshed between her legs.
“Get out of your head, Gabby. Strangle me with your thighs.”
She stared back. Had she just heard that come out of his mouth? Was this a training thing or a sexual tension thing? In the interest of being direct-ish, she said, “This isn’t the way I imagined things going, you know, you between my legs like that.”
“Hmmm.” He looked up at her in a way that made her think she might not smell like an old barn, or, if she did, maybe he was into it. Before he got more playful, she twisted the arm she was still holding in the wrong direction, forcing him to roll onto his back and bringing her with him. She scooted back, settled directly on his stomach.
Her phone buzzed with a text. Markus handed it to her. “Just in case it’s your kids,” he said.
At that little gesture, she melted. He was so thoughtful and unselfish. The barn was his if he wanted it.
“It’s just Justin,” she reported. He had texted: Your boudoir is ready. Get ready for reveal.
Justin had been giving her bedroom a makeover for the past week. She hadn’t been allowed to see it. Was it a sign? Markus between her thighs, her bedroom finally ready to inhabit after a reno…
“Markus—” she started to say. “I don’t know if I can do that thigh move.”
“It’s a classic for a reason, not that I want your thighs wrapped around another guy’s head, but you have strong legs. When it comes down to it, they’re more dangerous than your fists.”
“I just feel like I should shower before we practice that one. There’s this yoni oil that is supposed to make your crotch smell like candy.”
“Gabby!” he said. “This is combat. Do you think dudes are worried if their balls smell?”
Probably not.
“You have to imagine that I’m the bad guy in these exercises, take it one hundred percent seriously.” In a softer voice, he said, “And skip the oil.”
“Is this foreplay or training?” she blurted out. It was unclear.
He wrapped his arms around her and brought her closer, answering her question.
“Oh.” She relaxed in his arms. As their breath mingled, he ran his hands down her back in a way that was turning her into a pile of mindless goo. With her senses fully obliterated by his magnetism, she brought her lips to his and let her eyelids flutter shut.
It had been a month of absolute torture, holding Markus at arm’s length, but she’d been firm with her boundaries, and he’d respected that she needed some time. He was waiting.
Was waiting. Past tense.
He let out a sigh and kissed her back softly. Not needy or demanding, just perfect. He broke the kiss, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire. “Are you ready to upgrade our coffee date to an actual date?”
Could she do it all? Fully kissed with swollen lips and a need that she couldn’t ignore, it seemed possible. She said, “Yes, let’s have dinner.” But she still needed that boundary. It’s not like she had time for a real relationship. “Maybe we can call it a working dinner?”
Markus rubbed the back of his neck. “I want to respect your boundaries, but I would actually like to date.”
Gabby tensed up. This was so delicate. She wanted Markus, but she couldn’t. Could she? “We could date, if we keep it casual.”
Markus looked disappointed. “Are we really that casual after what we’ve been through together?”
Gabby thought on it. She looked at him. He was right. They weren’t totally casual, but there’s no way they could be totally serious. “What if…” she said thoughtfully, summoning all the power of the cool badass spy she almost was. “What if you were my work wife?”
“Did you just ask me to be your work wife?” Markus smiled, but there was an edge of sadness in it.
“We won’t be regular work wives. More like work wives with benefits.”
“Okay.” He didn’t look totally convinced, but she’d make him see. This could work.
Gabby smiled brightly and pulled up the calendar on her phone. “All right, work wife, I gotta get home, but I’m putting you,” she said with a flirtatious lilt, “on my calendar. How about the Friday after next?”
“Really?” He looked skeptical, probably because he didn’t think she’d follow through.
She gave him a sexy nod. “Oh yeah, we’re going to do it.” In the calendar event, she tapped out the words, Dinner with Work Wife.
Change her call sign to Maverick, because there was a new Top Gun in town.
Gabby glanced at her watch. “Shit. I was supposed to be home already.” Wednesday was spaghetti night and the only night without any activities. She and the kids ate spaghetti, watched a show, and bonded. She slipped on some tennis shoes and collected her things.
“What are you doing tonight?” she asked Markus.
“Meal prep,” he said. “Seven days of chicken and rice. I’m trying a Szechuan chicken recipe.” Markus was the type to meal prep his meal prep.
High heels on the wooden gym floor interrupted their conversation. Their boss, Special Supervisory Agent Valentina Monroe, hurried into the training gym. In addition to being the boss, Valentina also happened to be Markus’s ex-wife. Not intimidating at all, especially since Valentina could make picking up dog poop look sexy. Her boss-lady wardrobe upgrade was all sexy pantsuits, elegant chignons, and classic heels that Gabby had seen her run in. Her whole look said, “Yes, mistress.”
Gabby’s look generally said, “Ma’am, do you need help?” But that was her magic as a spy. No one, and she meant no one, saw her coming.
“You two, my office. Now.”
Gabby glanced at the time again. “Umm, Valentina, I was supposed to be home a while ago—”
Valentina stopped and looked over her shoulder, Miranda Priestley style. “Agent Greene, national security trumps spaghetti night.”
“How did you know that?” Gabby asked, her jaw on the floor.
“I’m a spy. I know everything, and so should you.”
“So this one can’t wait until morning?”
“No,” she said sharply. “It absolutely cannot. I have an assignment. You need to start prepping tonight.”
Damn it. She texted Granny, who was at home with the kids. “Running late.”
Granny responded.
Granny: Get ’em, tiger!
Granny: But can you pick up a plunger on your way home?
Geez. Valentina stopped and adjusted a Louboutin. “I think I have a rock in my shoe.”
Granny: Lucas flushed something.
“Don’t you just hate it when that happens?” Valentina said, frowning at her designer shoe.
“It’s the worst,” Gabby lied. A rock in her Louboutin sounded like a dream.
Valentina was everything Gabby wasn’t. It’s not like Gabby was jealous, mostly confused. How could Markus go from Valentina to her? Was she Markus’s not-quite-midlife crisis? Instead of a Ferrari, he decided to get a middle-aged mom. It was almost unbelievable.
Once they were in her office, Valentina sat behind her desk and waited for Markus and Gabby to settle into the chairs across the desk. “Have you been following the Sheridan Lane story?”
Markus leaned forward in his chair eagerly. “Of course.”
“Where’s that?” Gabby asked.
“Not where. Who,” Valentina said with a click of her pen cap. “Sheridan Lane. You two need to find her.”
1700 hours, should have left work an hour ago, Valentina’s Office
Valentina turned her desktop monitor screen toward Markus and Gabby and pulled up a website. Uncommon Sense was written across the top in large, bold font. Below the title was a candid photo of a middle-aged white woman with startling green eyes and brown, gray-streaked hair. While the woman hadn’t bothered with glamour or even makeup, something about her face drew a person in. It wasn’t her features or style—it was her intelligence.
Valentina gestured to the brunette. “This is Sheridan Lane.”
The website didn’t offer any description of Sheridan or her job, other than Uncommon Sense, which Gabby believed simply from her expression. Her gray-streaked hair and button-down shirt said no-nonsense. She looked like the kind of person who wouldn’t even consider visiting a psychic. The website tabs indicated that Sheridan had a podcast and a Substack, but good luck if you wanted to email her because there was no contact section.
Valentina pulled up an MPG file and clicked play. “This is security camera footage taken from Ms. Lane’s street cam yesterday morning.”
Valentina clicked play. In the video, the door opened, and a woman exited the building and turned to lock the door. It was clearly Sheridan in a turtleneck and a fleece vest. After adjusting her purse, she gripped the handle on the rolling luggage and wheeled it toward the street. A man helped her into a waiting car. The license plate was not visible.
“Ms. Lane was expected in Washington three hours after this footage was taken, but she never boarded the plane in Jackson Hole and missed her appointment with the president. There’s been no word from her since.”
Had the woman been wearing a fleece vest to the White House? Gabby was impressed.
“We’re trying to track down the car that picked her up, but as you can see, the license plate is not visible. Neither Uber nor Lyft has been able to identify the person at the wheel as one of their drivers.”
“Why was she meeting the president?” Gabby was on the edge of her seat. Maybe Sheridan Lane was a fundraiser, and all the funds had gone missing, or she was advising the president on environmental practices, and an oil company had intercepted her on the way to deliver the news.
“She’s his psychic, Agent Greene.”
“What?” Gabby tried to wrap her mind around that. “The president has a psychic?” Some of the moms at parent pickup had a psychic. Justin regularly saw a psychic because of course he did, but the president… Shouldn’t he be dealing with facts and figures? Not to mention, shouldn’t a psychic look more like a grown-up Luna Lovegood? Sheridan Lane looked like a federal judge.
Valentina forged on without even looking up. “The president’s psychic—don’t ask questions right now. Save them for the field.”
“What kind of things does he talk about with the psychic?” Gabby had nothing but questions.
“Why do you think we’re worried, Agent Greene?” Valentina asked. “Ms. Lane, or someone with access to her accounts, posted earlier today that she would be taking a social media break for a couple of weeks with a promise to return refreshed and more insightful soon.”
It was a lot to take in all at once. She decided to grab a coffee. “Does anyone else want one?” Gabby asked as she poured a cup from a carafe at a side table.
The way Valentina said no made it sound like Gabby shouldn’t have wanted one either.
All business, Markus asked, “Do we have any ideas where to start looking?”
Gabby mopped up some creamer and looked for a trash can. When she didn’t see one, she left her stir stick and creamer in a shameful pile by the coffee things.
Valentina clicked on another screen, bringing up a globe. Google Maps–style, she zoomed in on a location, a string of islands in the Atlantic Ocean. Gabby’s adrenaline spiked. She’d never been to Europe. She’d never even been to an island other than Catalina, where she’d gone on a school field trip with Kyle, and she’d spent most of her time there taking kids to the bathroom.
“Ms. Lane’s cell phone pinged off a tower near Ponta Delgada on São Miguel Island.” Valentina indicated one of the islands.
Markus exhaled as if that meant something to him.
“Ponta Delgada?” Gabby leaned forward, peering at the map while gripping her coffee like a lover’s hand.
“Ponta Delgada is the capital of the Azores, a chain of islands located a thousand kilometers off Portugal’s coast. It’s not a country, but an autonomous region of Portugal known for its dramatic landscapes and fishing villages,” Valentina explained like she was giving a fifth-grade report on the region. Gabby was familiar with fifth-grade reports. She’d helped Kyle do a last-minute one on Venezuela, capital Caracas, population: twenty-eight million, largest export: crude petroleum.
“The Azores are known as the Hawaii of Europe.”
Well, that sounded nice.
“I assume she’s at Inner-G,” Markus said, looking like he already knew a lot more about this assignment than Gabby did.
Valentina confirmed with a nod. Looking directly at Markus, she said, “Before we do anything, I want you to chat up Genesis and see what you can get out of him. Maybe they’re not hiding anything.”
“Genesis?” Gabby was officially on the last-to-know list. “What am I missing? Can someone catch me up?”
“Inner-G is a yoga and wellness brand run by Genesis and Jasmine Love.” Markus waited for her to recognize the names. “It’s basically goop but run by The Rock and his swimsuit model wife.”
Gabby was all ears.
Markus continued his report. “Inner-G is a known security risk and has been for some time. On the surface, it appears to be nothing but a yoga and wellness retreat, but there are a few red flags, which is why I’ve gotten involved. Number one: the money. Genesis and Jasmine are living well beyond their means. The luxury resort, the yacht, the private jet. Mr. Love claims that all Inner-G’s wealth comes from member tithing, but the numbers don’t add up. Number two: The retreat has been tied to several major leaked news stories. We’re concerned they’re selling member secrets.”
On her last mission, the bad guys had been Russian Mafia. This time it was Hollywood. Talk about leveling up!
Valentina cut in. “Sheridan Lane has spent countless hours in private audience with the president. Whatever secrets she has heard, it’s a matter of national security that they stay in the vault. She’s not the person we want on gossip island.”
Markus rolled his chair back. “Not that I don’t want to go to the Azores, but can we just send the local operatives in to grab her? That’d be quick and easy. Less cost for the taxpayers too.”
Valentina shook her head. “She has too much sensitive information, apparently. The president doesn’t want Sheridan in the hands of foreign intelligence until we get there. He wants our best American field agents on it as soon as possible.”
Gabby sat up a little straighter at the compliment. Was she the best field agent?
Valentina clarified, “Make that our best positioned field agents.”
“How so?” Gabby asked. She didn’t know anyone in Hollywood, and yoga hadn’t wo. . .
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Gabby Greene Knows Whodunit
Sam Tschida
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