Free Game On (The Bod Squad Series Book 1) by Gabra Zackman

voice, slapping her ass in dismissal. “Yes, please send us more cigarettes and restock the bar. That will be all, madame.”
    “ Bien s û r, m onsieur, heureuse de vous aider ,” she said huskily, and left.
    At her exit there were low whistles, laughter, and murmured vulgar comments in various languages. Pierre smiled. “Yes,” he said, lying through his teeth to keep their cover, “I fucked her once. That’s why she gives such good service.” Then he opened the binder in front of him. “All right, gentlemen, shall we return to the maps? Monsieur Palmer will be back shortly.”
    Or so he hoped.
    ‡‡‡
    SUSANNAH SAT IN the back of the falafel truck the Boss had hooked them up with. Lisa Bee was next to her on the computer and headset, and the Boss was busy outfitting the rest of the vehicle for surveillance. Jackson, meanwhile, was running the truck. He had lived in Morocco for a time in his youth and had both excellent French and shawarma skills. When asked about this, Jackson’s only reply was, “I once dated a girl who worked in a sausage factory. Then I dated a girl whose father was the gyro king of Chicago. Street meat has always been my ticket to ride.” No one had any response, not even Lisa Bee, whose father had made his living in smoked fish.
    Jackson had actually spent most of his childhood in Morocco, the son of an American diplomat. He was of Moroccan descent on his father’s side, and Dutch German on his mother’s. The combination gave him a beautiful dark olive tone to his skin, thick brown curly hair, and deep hazel eyes. Of course, no one noticed his eyes—everyone thought they were brown. He was too busy cracking jokes to hold anyone’s eyes for long. But everyone noticed how attractive he was. He was a chick magnet, which made him perfect for being the front man in a falafel truck undercover op.
    Susannah looked at Lisa Bee, who was wearing a wig at the Boss’s insistence and madly typing away at the computer, then her eyes flew to the Boss, who was trying to camouflage a camera in a piece of pita bread. “Guys,” she said, “why do I suddenly feel like we’re in an episode of Scooby-Doo ?”
    “I don’t know,” replied the Boss, clearly at the end of his rope, “and I don’t care. I need more eyes out there, but I don’t trust Jackson not to make this into someone’s lunch.”
    “Maybe that’s exactly what you need,” trilled Lisa Bee, turning around, wearing her earphones as she always did, one in, one out, so she could listen to music while hearing everyone speak. Madonna could be heard faintly coming through the earbuds.
    “What do you mean?” asked Bossman.
    “Well,” she said, “if the cameras are attached to people’s lunches, then we’d have eyes on the street. You just need to make sure they can be ingested.”
    “Humph.” The Boss looked around. “Where’s the manila from Doc Scrubs?”
    Doc Scrubs was a local Baltimore doctor who worked part-time for FTP, figuring out internal as well as external surveillance systems. He worked for Johns Hopkins as a heart surgeon but moonlighted as a creator of intelligence props. He loved to think of himself as a real-life Q from James Bond. Part of his time was spent sewing up people’s hearts, part of his time was spent breaking open ladies’ hearts, and the rest was spent on his true heart’s passion: the creation of new gadgetry to give Bossman, his childhood best friend.
    “Is this it?” asked Susannah, holding up a yellow envelope.
    “Yep. Perfect. Scrubs’s newest invention. Amazing, and his timing can’t be beat. Behold: a camera concealed inside a sucking candy.”
    Lisa Bee whipped her head around. “Who to the what ?”
    “Yes, ladies,” the Boss said, in a low and excited bass thrum, “why Doc Scrubs and I always got into mischief. He’s a genius. A total fucking genius . This was something I received last week but didn’t know what to think of it. Cameras. Embedded in clear hard