Page 67 of The Santa Claus Con

And then, as if to prove Nathan’s point, Freddie makes a last-minute left turn as the stoplight blinks from yellow to red.

Nathan screeches to a stop as I shout, “No!”

“There goes that.” I snap and turn to Nathan. “I’ve got it. Here’s what we do. You drop me off at the nearest precinct, I’ll borrow a ride from the police, and I’ll follow him.”

He balks. “Alone? No. That’s exactly what Sadistic Santa wants. That’s probably his whole ploy with this, to get you on your own. The last thing we need is for you to be taken.”

“But then we might be able to recruit Liam Neeson to help out.” When Nathan doesn’t laugh, I surrender. “Fine, I won’t follow Fireworks Freddie down dark alleyways, but we need to see what he’s up to. He might stray from his route to gather more supplies.” I gasp. “Or go back to the Plaza to set up for the finale.”

“Then he’ll be eliminated for not delivering his presents on time. You saw how he acted with the card, thinking he’s already bagged the Santa of the Year title.”

And then I remember something.

“The pen!” I bounce in my seat. “He has my pen, remember?” I open the tracking app on my phone.

“Can’t track someone without a warrant,” Nathan says.

As FBI, we’re sworn to follow a code, but that code also doesn’t explicitly cover what to do when a villainous Santa is threatening to blow up Christmas.

“Gray area. He’s the one who stole my pen,” I say. “I’m just trying to find what’s mine.”

The light turns green, and Nathan accelerates, watching the mirrors like he’s watching for tails. “All this hypothesizing is exactly what Sadistic Santa wants,” he says. “Forget the map. We should go in the reverse order. Now that you can keep an eye on Freddie, let’s start in Chinatown instead of Midtown, work our way up to the Snowflake, then finish at Sheep Meadow. We can’t just keep doing what Sadistic Santa tells us to do.”

“Not following the map… that’s more of a jab than a poke,” I say, considering Nathan’s idea, “but it might throw him off.”

Nathan taps the wheel with his thumbs. “And technically, the Con never explicitly said we had to follow the exact route, just that the presents all had to be delivered by the time we get to Sheep Meadow.”

“Given why we’re here, I’m sure they’ll understand. I’ll see if Meyers can get NYPD to block off some streets so we can move faster.” I point ahead of me. “Just keep going down Fifth.”

“And hit traffic?” Nathan disagrees. “Isn’t the West Side Highway faster?”

We pass by Rock Center. It’s been less than a week since the star exploded, yet it feels like so much longer. “At this point, it’s faster to stay on the streets. I literally live here. You don’t think I know my way around it?”

Nathan counters with, “I think people get comfortable with the routes they take and form a bias. I bring fresh eyes to the table.”

“I prefer something more savory, thanks.”

He grins. “You calling my eyes sweet, Payne?”

Nathan’s arms flex, the fabric stretching with the movement, and the curve of his triceps tightens under his extended arms. I know how sturdy those shoulders are, how much weight those biceps can hold. His broad shoulders taper down to his slender waist and the bright red pants that are a betrayal to Nathan’s closet full of black suits.

He’s wearing them for this. For me.

I’m at a loss for how to respond to his blatant teasing. I could joke that his dark brown eyes are sickeningly sweet like the cookies I used to make as a kid for Santa, but that’d be a lie. His eyes are the perfect amount of sweet. They’re a cookie I could eat every day for the rest of my life. Those cookies are off-limits, though, so I shove these thoughts down into the metaphorical cookie jar.

I settle against my seat and ignore his bait, tugging his jacket tighter over me. And then, bringing us back to our navigation differences, I say, “If it wasn’t for that chicken, we would’ve made the boat, and you know it.”

Nathan’s eyebrows quirk like he’s surprised I didn’t serve him a witty comeback on a platter. “We’ll never know for sure,” he says, holding his ground. Then he thaws a little and adds quietly, “But we probably had a better shot than going my way.” He breathes out through his nose and merges back into the middle lane, staying on Fifth Avenue.

I grab the bag of Tail Mix I brought along with me for today and tear it open. “Nathan, can I ask you something?”

“No, I don’t think Liam Neeson is available to help us find Sadistic Santa, and no, I doubt there will be more Taken movies made.” He grabs a handful of the mix and tosses it into his mouth.

“Those were my follow-up questions,” I say, giving him a pointed look, “but what I was going to first ask was… are we terrible at our jobs?”

Nathan pulls his hat down over the tips of his ears. His face is flush red from the cold wind, but he hardly seems bothered. “Why are you asking that?”

I swallow. “This past summer, I had a… snowman.”