Queen of Spades...on Ice

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“I didn’t off her. I marooned her butt!” Okay, I’m not the prissy sort—not even close, sister, especially on a video call—but I was facing down Chas, and he knew me well enough for that to throw him off-balance.
“That was not the assignment, Colonel Jackie Malloy.” Man, but his dentist was so going to rip him a new one once this conversation was over. His teeth-grinding had passed the conversation’s background noise level, which was not low. A lovely ocean breeze was blowing in my door, so I angled the microphone to pick up more, to annoy Chas. It worked. He audio feed was now molar-by-molar audible.
“You forget. I’m retired. I don’t work for you anymore, Chas.” Though by his expression, I was glad that I was doing this online from an unknown and digitally masked location. Supergirl—my sweet flying home—and I weren’t big fans of being on the grid. It was amusing how little it took to hide her hundred-foot wingspan. Though perhaps not too amusing as I was facing the number two man at the most effective intelligence agency in the world—The Activity. Twenty years of hustling my ass for them before retiring hadn’t earned me immunity from Chas’—
“Where…did…you…maroon…her…butt?” He actually managed a breath between each word. He was either going to hyperventilate or I’d have to find out the name of his breathing meditation master. Probably better not to ask right at this moment.
“That would be telling.” And, as I was never one to ruin a good story—or stay on the line for long with hackers of The Activity’s skill tracing me—I hung up. VPNs barely slowed those guys down, as plenty of bad guys had learned the hard way. However, they were also the ones who’d trained me until I retired two years ago. In the electronic routing battlespace…call it even. Except that was then. Who knew what cool tricks they’d invented since, without sharing with me.
They weren’t the real problem anyway. Bloody Chas! You try to do a guy a favor and look what happened.
I kicked back in my office chair and looked upslope. That was part of Supergirl’s nature. She was a Basler BT-67 conversion of a DC-3. To the Earthbound that meant she had a pair of wheels under the wings and a tiny one under the tail that she dragged about when on the ground, hence called a taildragger. Flying, she danced along level as could be because the sky was where she belonged. On the ground, the only time I ever entered the cabin, Supergirl kept her nose high in the air with pride at what a beauty she was. Which meant that I’d had to build my home on the slant in sections. The cockpit lay only fifty feet away from my desk at the rear of the cabin, but that was ten feet above me.
An itch, the kind I’d long since learned to trust, had me leaning out to fold up the two-step ladder and shut the door against the quiet stretch of Brazilian beach that I’d landed on to not work my tan. Mom’s Bahamian dark had mixed just fine with Dad’s Michigander to give me a permanent Coppertone model finish. The plan was to just SPF 50 up and enjoy the heat and quiet. I’m a heat kinda gal, drop me in the tropics any day. It was a well-deserved respite after where I’d recently deposited Jerrica—the subject of Chas’ current grips against me.

Initial Publication in Thrill Ride Magazine, "Spies": April 1, 2026
Republished: November 1, 2026
Print pages: 74