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handed each person a packet emblazoned with an insignia. He had been working on an image for the Bod Squad—he had settled on superhero-like facsimiles of all the members standing behind a large shield with the letters BS on it. Underneath the image were the words “Bod Squad. Because You Need Fierce Protection.” Everyone chuckled when they saw it except the Boss, who simply said, “Nice work, Jackson. Now it looks like we’re selling deodorant.”
    The packet was comprehensive. It held photos of Susannah’s father and all of his last known locations and associates. Included were maps and surveillance shots of the meetings he’d had all over the world, and a breakdown of all his disguises, aliases, and favorite haunts.
    Jackson cleared his throat. “So you can see there’s a lot of information. Mahmoud will meet us on the ground in Tangier and take us back to his villa, which will serve as HQ. He’ll run point on this. I’ll take over at times. Don’t worry,” he said, cutting a quick look to the Boss, “he knows who’s really in charge.”
    “At least someone does,” the Boss scoffed, shifting in his chair.
    “Oh we all know you’re in charge,” Jackson said mildly. “We just don’t listen to you.”
    “Okay, boys,” Susannah cut them off at the pass, gulping down the remains of her Dewar’s and soda. “You’re both pretty. Jackie, can you give us more information? What’s really going on here?”
    Jackson turned to Susannah, his dark hazel eyes sympathetic. He took a quick look at Lisa Bee for inspiration, and she winked and gave that sexy little quirk with the corner of her lips. No doubt she was playing her Madonna albums on a running loop. Madonna was her idol, her motivator, her personal sound track, her comfort. He knew this because he had made it his mission to learn everything about her. And everything Madonna had ever sung, to boot.
    In truth, he was having a hard time keeping it together whenever she was near. What started as a fun rapport between colleagues had turned into a deep friendship, and Jackson had been wishing for a long time that it could be more. But there was no way that was possible. Was there? She saw him as a player, he knew that, and pretending that sex was all he was about was his go-to cover for his real feelings. It was also his cover for the dual work he was doing stateside and in Morocco. The two names he had were more than a difference of ID cards: He had two sides to his personality that he exploited in the different places he worked. In Morocco he was in control, in command, a sharp and calculating agent. Here in the States he played at being a cool jokey hipster who always had a different chick on his arm. Both were parts of him, sure, but an aspect of his jocular nature in the States was a cover: Seen as a chill hipster, he was able to go under the radar, to blend in with a whole other group of people to get leads and information. Only Mahmoud knew that his stateside persona concealed a massive strength.
    He’d been content to play charming but inconsequential because it gave him access; he’d never thought it would be a problem to be considered good with the ladies. And wit was always an asset. But he often wondered if he’d ever be involved in anything real. Just his luck, he’d finally found the lady of his dreams, and she thought he was interested in nothing more than a casual fling. But there was nothing casual about his feelings for her, oh, no . For her it would be all of him or nothing. She was a romantic, and she was looking for a knight in shining armor. And he wanted to be the man she dreamed of.
    How could he prove himself? It was all he thought about. This was new for him; he’d never had a relationship with someone who was a friend first. Because he’d never let anyone see the real man inside. Lisa Bee had seen a lot of his true self, and that was a big deal to him. In fact, that was the most important part: She was one of the best friends