I saved the world once. Twice, if you count that time in Budapest.

    But that was back in my glory days with The Agency. Back when secrets were stored on microfiche, and guys like me could do our job with a poker face and a whole lotta badass.

    When they gave me my walking papers, they said the old tools were obsolete. And by tools, they meant me.

    No matter how many times I’d saved the damn world.

    Today’s gig? A one-off corporate thing, the kind of boring undercover work I hate. Dressed like a bum, pretending to be asleep in a parking garage, waiting for some business schmuck to reveal the secret soda-pop formula—or, in this case, the key to a computer game. Not exactly world-saving stuff.

    But I gotta admit, this garage is a good location for surveillance. Not much foot traffic and I’ve got a direct view of my target’s seventh-floor office across the street.

    The fancy listening device emits a beep, alerting me to motion in the office. Time to earn my corporate paycheck. The smart-mouthed kid at GlobalTech tried to explain the device when he hired me for this job like I’m too old to understand how a laser mic works.

    “Please adjust your aim,” the device says in a buttery voice.

    I clench my teeth. Bugs didn’t used to talk back. The GlobalTech kid said this gadget has an AI interface to “guide the user.” As if I need guidance from a sweet-talking machine or a pimple-faced executive asshole.

    I shift the mic’s angle. It hits the office window dead center. There’s a chime of approval, and my inner earbuds whisper to life.

    Sounds like my target’s name is Stacy, and she likes her coffee with extra cream. I slump against the Piggly Wiggly shopping cart that completes my disguise. This is gonna be a long day.

    I’m focused on Stacy’s mid-morning meeting. A programming snafu. Lost files. Who’s gonna take the blame? Typical management ass-covering. Still. Something about the conversation bothers me.

    I lose my train of thought when another shopping cart comes squeaking up the ramp. Great, a bona fide homeless person settling in next to me. I wave the guy away. He grumbles and steers between two shiny sports cars, pulls a thin blanket out of his cart, and sits with his back against a concrete pillar. I consider tossing him one of my extra sandwiches, but an argument erupts in Stacy’s office.

    She’s yelling at someone. I squint into my mini binoculars, keeping them hidden from my new neighbor. Doesn’t matter; he’s already snoring. Still, old habits and all.

    That’s when I realize why Stacy’s conversation is bothering me. The stilted phrasing, the off-kilter rhythm. She’s speaking in code. Agency code.

    What kind of mess has GlobalTech gotten me into? This was supposed to be a soda-pop job.

    A muted gunshot reverberates through my earbuds. Sounds like a Walther PPK with a silencer. Two more thumps and Stacy’s chest blooms red. A guy in a blue suit shoves her body aside and paws through the desk. He takes a small silver box and slips it into the inside right pocket of his jacket, then calmly walks out—

    “Proximity alert.”

    Takes me a heartbeat to recognize the honeyed voice of the AI. I duck and roll, putting my cart between me and my attacker. Yeah, of course, it’s the homeless guy, probably working with the shooter. Shoulda known a normal bum wouldn’t push a cart up seven floors when any of the first six was good enough.

    He draws a handgun, but I’ve already kicked my Piggly Wiggly at him. His shot hits the grille of an SUV, setting off the alarm. I make an adrenaline-fueled dive and hit him full force, knocking his feet out from under him. His skull hits the concrete with a wet smack.

    I glance at Stacy’s office. Shooter’s gone, probably headed for the exit on Fourth Street. That’s what I’d do. I slide past a minivan and bolt toward the elevator—but the “Up” arrow on the control panel is already flashing. Security coming up to check on that blaring SUV alarm? Crap. I really don’t wanna run down seven floors of parking ramps.

    Maybe I am too old for this job.

    I’m wheezing like a sack of bees by the time I hit the second-floor parking ramp.

    “Heart rate elevated,” the AI whispers.

    I’d laugh if I could breathe. I stutter-step around the corner and run smack-dab into the shooter. He grunts, like getting body-checked by 180 pounds of flab and attitude is just an inconvenience. Damn kids. He’s still standing, and I’m flat on my ass, so I grab at his feet.

    “What the hell?” he mutters. “You’re not my contact!”

    His contact is cooling under a grocery cart on the seventh floor, and now I kinda wish I’d just waited up there, too. I snag a handful of pant leg and pull the kid off balance, then I’m on him. Two punches, gut, face, and he’s out. The silver box he lifted from Stacy’s desk is right where I expect it.

    “Faraday Drive detected.” The AI sounds eager. No idea what I just grabbed, but I pocket it and huff down the last ramp.

    A limo screeches up, and the asshole kid from GlobalTech leans out. “Get in!”

    I lurch inside the car, and we speed away from the garage.

    The kid takes the Faraday whatsit and sighs, relaxing into the soft leather seat. “I only brought you in to do surveillance, but…this is an important piece of tech. Glad you recovered it so quickly.”

    I consider his convenient arrival, the change in his demeanor. “GlobalTech’s an Agency cover?”

    He nods. “New division. But we value old-school spycraft. Care to join us, Agent?”

    “Say yes,” the AI purrs in my ear.

    Huh. Maybe I am an old tool, but it looks like I still have a few world-saving days ahead of me after all.