Page 80 of Fuse

Or the fact that it has to be endured with a nonstop loop of French profanities in the background?

Or the fact that answering nature’s it-won’t-wait call is a hell of a lot harder to finish on a time limit than picking a lock, cracking a safe, or stealing through a garden under full moonlight?

The fact that we haven’t done any of those things yet, even after sneaking inside a mansion that should have its own zip code, isn’t the point.

Or maybe it’s exactly the point—because I’m sure that if the Sneaky Spy Shit instruction manual really existed, all that other stuff would obviously be included, complete with pretty chapter headings, detailed line drawings, and even a few step-by-step instructions.

What they wouldn’t include is what Angie, Wade, and I have figured out minus the manual. Thanks to our friendly neighborhood tech hunk, who hacked the city’s database and downloaded the mansion’s blueprints during the drive down from the ridge, we easily found the laundry room. After that, Angie became the mission’s stud operative. Her ability to size up a person at first glance, as well as her knowledge of the secret dressing room behind the laundry racks, got our camos successfully stowed and our new personas in place: executive housekeepers for Angelique and me and sous chef’s whites for Wade. I even lent some confidence-building tips, courtesy of too many PR courses to count, helping us act like said “official” staffers in walking past two sets of security guards just to find one damn bathroom.

Relatively speaking.

If this palace inside a palace is really a bathroom, then I’m the goddess Aphrodite and all this luxury shouldn’t be making my eyes pop out of my head. But I continue to bulge my gaze at the pool-sized tub, multi-head shower, and toilet stall in which two thoroughbred stallions could easily fit—which, of course, makes it impossible to even think once I’ve plunked down for the “business” I’ve insisted on getting in here for.

Holy shit, shit, shit.

“Mon dieu. Any chance of hurrying things along, darling? S’il vous plait?”

I toss a glower at Angelique through the mullioned glass partition. “Make you a deal,” I growl back. “I’ll attempt to get this done tout suite, and you let go of the pee whisperer duties, okay?”

“Hmmph.” She stops and stamps now. Even through the textured glass, I watch her long blond waves fall back into perfect place. “You would prefer I trade places with Wade? I am sure he would like to get out of pretending he is still on his way to the kitchen.”

“Are you freaking kidding?”

She has to be freaking kidding. But when there’s no answer from the other side of the wall, I wonder if she’s gone and utilized her mighty French girl balls to make good on the threat. And that yikes me out even more than having to take care of business in this marble sepulcher of a bathroom.

But this bathroom, and the concept of Wade’s presence in it, shouldn’t even be making my list of qualms about what we decided to come here to do. Qualms that began the second Wade hacked into the mansion’s security system, rebooted this place’s gazillion super-secret cameras, and showed the feeds to Angie and me. Qualms that were amplified when I saw Faline through those cold lenses. Not because of the doubts about killing her—because there have never been any doubts, nor are there now—but because I don’t have those misgivings. Not a single damn one. A revelation, of course, that does cause me doubts.

Ugh.

I never considered killing another person prior to a few hours ago. Is it possible to be so certain that I’m ready to do this…now? Shouldn’t I be on some kind of spirit quest, debating about this? Taking a figurative, if not literal, hike into the woods to talk to the Big Spirit in the Sky about this?

Remarkably—or again, maybe not—all those quandaries are resolved when I return to a single word.

Faline.

Since talking with Angie back at the ridge, I know the enemy better than ever. She’s a years-in-the-making psychopath. A damaged creature, genuinely convinced that she’s been ordained by the universe to mess with the lives—and deaths—of others. Her thinking’s as whacked as images in carnival mirrors, but those mirrors have become her reality. She’s dived fully into the glass, creating her own demented court and kingdom from all the broken shards.

And dragging her bleeding army through the carnage behind her.

It’s time for Queen Faline to fall.

Before she turns my man into her casualty.

A purpose I’m able to reclaim in full as Angie’s heavy sigh fills the bathroom. Oh, thank God. I’ve been granted a pass on the Wade retrieval threat, and taking care of business is finally easy.

“Let’s get out of here,” I mutter once I’ve smoothed my “borrowed” uniform back into place—only to be hauled back by the woman now grabbing my elbow and spewing a string of disgruntled French. But just when I think she’s about to give me a lecture about letting nerves drive me to chug a whole liter of water between the ridge and here, she jerks up her head. Then swings around a stare with anxiety that visibly matches my pre-mission water-chugging levels. “Angie? What the—”

But then I hear it too. No. Not “it.” Her. The queen of the crazies herself, heels clunking louder and louder in the long, tiled hallway.

“Merde!” Angie rasps, instantly whumping the air with the force of her stress. Her energy bears a similar jolt to Reece’s, but instead of flashing lightning, hers is like the whoosh of a comet. Brilliant and blinding, leaving only faint trails behind, until once more flashing the atmosphere.

The cycle keeps up as she whips out her phone and taps in a two-digit text. Before she hits Send, I know what the message means. It’s the emergencies-only code she’s preestablished with Wade.

I definitely think this qualifies as an emergency.

Faline’s bootsteps come with an accompaniment now. She’s rattling off orders to her minions. I can’t make out anything specific, soon realizing it’s because she’s speaking fluid Spanish. Every few seconds, there’s a soft, “Sí, maestra,” in a quiet male tone, interjected between her orders.

“Holy shit,” I blurt.