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“What about it?” she asks, impatient.

“I was going to quit.”

It’s surreal to say that out loud.

“Quit… missing your targets? Pretending to be better off on your own? Because I know you aren’t going to tell me that you were going to quit being an agent.”

“I was going to quit being an agent. I wanted out.” I press my eyes shut. “I want out.”

Her jaw drops. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

“After the year I had, you would consider it, too,” I say.

She looks at me curiously, but I don’t elaborate. Don’t share that, eleven months ago, I was accused of stealing evidence from a major assignment I gave years of my life to. That every day, every hour, every minute, I have to fight against a false narrative about myself. Because of course there were rumors and interviews and polygraphs and degrading investigations and cold shoulders from squadmates I considered friends.

I don’t get into how rumors spread like wildfire across every aspect of my life. The damage had been done. The reputation I spent years of my life building and working hard for vanished. Leadership questioned every move I’d ever made.

I gesture toward my Santa outfit. “And now there’s this, whatever this is. I just wanted to take time to reevaluate some things. Figure out what I want now. It’s been a long five years.”

Scarlett nods, slowly at first. “Okay, I understand,” she says gently. “You did tell me last year that you were ready for a real vacation. You deserve one.” Her eyes connect with mine. “So this is your last op.”

That takes a few seconds to land. “Yeah. Then I’m done.”

Her voice is kind but firm when she says, “Then let’s make it count.”

We run through laughter a few more times before switching to walking, talking, and other topics in Scarlett’s “Santa 101,” a class that Quantico, or any of my ongoing trainings, definitely didn’t prepare me for… or warn me about.

Forty minutes feel more like forty hours, but we get there.

“We almost forgot the most important part of your costume,” Scarlett says, her eyes widening.

“We have the jacket, pants, boots, hat, beard, and, probably unnecessarily, a toy bag,” I say as she peruses a spinning rack while I hold my disguise. “I think we’re good.”

She shakes her head. “Good? No, you don’t understand. We’re trying to bring joy to people’s lives, not terrify them.” She holds up a pair of white, wrist-length gloves. “Because have you ever seen Santa’s hands?”

Chapter 9

SCARLETT

In past undercover operations, I’ve slept everywhere from the back of a car to a tent to a cot to a fishing boat. I like to think I’m built sturdy and tough, like a tardigrade. A cute, unkillable microscopic organism that can withstand the most severe conditions. But I fear even one night of sleeping on high-thread-count sheets at a five-star hotel might turn me.

As a contestant, Nathan was provided a room at the Plaza Hotel, and the Bureau has secured another one for our makeshift headquarters. I’ll be crashing here tonight since the games start bright and early in the morning.

The hotel is the opposite of the Con HQ. It’s so festive and sparkly with its many lobby trees and presents tucked under them. There are even oversize ornaments and gingerbread villages and a painted backdrop of Santa sitting by a roaring fire with his face cut out so contestants can stick their own faces through it for photos. I add five tallies in the Pro Christmas column. Right now, Christmas is winning big-time.

But before a single game begins, all the Santa Wannabes have been invited to a welcome ceremony. This evening, the Silver and White Snow Ball is being held in the Grand Ballroom. I’m undercover as a server, but instead of the typical black-and-white uniform, the Snow Ball dress code requires that everyone stay on theme. To my long, silver gown, I added my own touch: a snowflake brooch with a hidden camera in the center. Another requirement was masquerade masks, which help keep the illusion of anonymity for the Santa Wannabes. Tonight, everyone’s traded in their red suits for formalwear.

I meander through the crowd with a tray of Espresso-Ho-Ho Martinis that have little candy canes draped over the edges. These Santa Wannabes are going to be amped up tomorrow.

Nelly and Todd are onstage delivering welcoming remarks and thanking sponsors. Upstairs, the agents I hand-selected, Josie Meyers and Troy Bird, are watching this night unfold on their monitors, running surveillance, and coordinating with the off-site team.

For the past two days, we’ve run background checks (and identified someone to swap Nathan with), scoured social media accounts, and gathered intel. Now that everyone’s checked in and provided fingerprints (which are seriously going to make such cute cards), we’re scanning them into the system to build out the suspect list we’ve started from the background checks.

Nathan’s got his list of potential suspects to watch, but I’m on the lookout for a few of my own:

Freddie Lee, a forty-two-year-old former pyrotechnician from Seattle who takes issue with law enforcement.

Louise Barry, a thirty-nine-year-old from Flagstaff who has a third-degree trespassing misdemeanor. She put up a fight during fingerprinting at check-in this morning.