Ms. Longshot
New York City Late April. Present.
I was probably the only undercover agent in history
who'd get fired for removing her prosthesis in an airport and pissing off a French gendarme. But the hyper frog barking at me in French at the security
checkpoint at Charles de Gaulle had far exceeded my
limit of patience when he refused to understand that
my leg was setting off the alarm, not a hidden
weapon.
Ever since the accident, I'd been sensitive about
my leg. So when my cell phone rang shortly after my
flight touched down in New York and I was summoned to tea at the Gotham Rose Club, I was sure
the ax was about to fall and I was going to get booted
out of their secret agency.
The car service dropped me off in front of the
gray cut-stone townhouse that housed the Gotham
Rose Club on Sixty-eighth Street between Park and
Madison on the Upper East Side. I stood outside the
black wrought-iron security grate over the carved
wood front door with its rose design and pretended
to admire the architecture. Mostly I was composing
myself.
Renee Dalton-Sinclair ran the Gotham Rose Club,
an elite, members-only club intended to attract
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