Free Face Off by Mark Del Franco

eyes. “She’s getting tea . . . and . . . wait . . . a croissant. It’s definitely a croissant. I’m thinking she’s secretly French.”
    Laura pretended to be impressed. “You’re good.”
    He grinned. “Want to know how good?”
    She rolled her eyes and got out of the car. “Let’s go.”
    They both slipped on sunglasses as they strolled up to the shop. The glasses were clichéd government-agent intimidation, but they looked good. Moor shouldered her way slowly out of the shop with her cup of tea in one hand and the croissant in the other.
    Laura held up her badge. “Fallon Moor? Agent Tate, InterSec. This is Agent Sinclair. We’d like to talk to you.”
    Moor froze, her expression hard-edged for a second before slipping into puzzled confusion. “InterSec? What’s that?”
    Laura didn’t need her sensing ability to pick up the obvious subterfuge. “Let’s not play games, Moor. We’re enforcing a Homeland Security warrant. You’ve overstayed your visa.”
    Moor’s eyes began to bulge. Cornering a brownie like this was breaking with routine, especially since Moor was on the run from the law. Laura recognized the first stages of a boggart mania as the panic at being confronted set in. Laura took a casual step to her left to increase the distance between herself and Sinclair. “Let’s keep this calm, Moor.”
    “You must be mistaking me for someone else. It happens to brownies all the time,” she said.
    “Let’s talk about that back at the station,” Sinclair said.
    Moor stepped back with indecision. “You’re making a mistake.”
    “No, you are,” said Laura. Before Moor could react, Laura held her hand out and muttered in Gaelic. A small tangle of essence shot from her palm and settled over Moor. The brownie’s body flexed and pulsed as the boggart mania tried to kick in, then went still as the spell activated. Moor’s eyes glazed dully with sleep.
    “That was simple,” Sinclair said.
    Laura removed the tea and croissant from Moor’s still hands and placed them on the window ledge of the tea shop. “There was no point in prolonging it. She knew the warrant was an excuse.”
    “So, to be clear, we have a legal right to kidnap people, right?” he asked.
    She shot him a mildly exasperated look. “It’s an arrest, Jono. The warrant is real.”
    He splayed his hand against his chest. “That’s a relief. I was afraid without a warrant, we’d get in trouble for spelling the woman into a stupor.”
    She ignored him and muttered in Gaelic again. Moor rose an inch or so off the ground. Laura gestured to Sinclair. “Care to do the honors?”
    Sinclair took Moor’s elbow and coasted her toward the SUV. “This reminds me of our first date.”
    Laura fell into step on the opposite side. “It wasn’t a date.”
    “We had drinks.”
    “We had a fight. Threats were involved,” she said.
    He sighed. “Yeah, it was pretty hot.”
    She shook her head. “You are incorrigible.”
    Sinclair brightened with faux excitement. “Encourageable? I knew you couldn’t resist me.”
    “ And you’re hard of hearing. Another flaw.”
    She opened the rear passenger door of the SUV and helped Sinclair lift Moor onto the backseat. Sinclair leaned inside and buckled Moor in. He pulled out and grinned down at Laura. “Maybe we can talk about me over dinner?”
    She gave him a sweet smile. “That will double your usual audience.”
    He chuckled as they resumed their seats. “Then we can go dancing. I bet you’ll like new music. I can show you some pretty good moves.”
    She rolled her head toward him, then back toward the road ahead. She hated to admit it, but he did amuse her. “I think I’ve seen enough of your moves for one day.”

CHAPTER 8
    STILL GLAMOURED AS Mariel Tate, Laura entered a small, narrow anteroom deep within the Guildhouse. Light from a large window into the next room illuminated Terryn where he stood in the half dark. Without expression, he stared into the other room at Fallon Moor