Mrs. Undercover Access

“Not anymore.” Brenda pulled a sleek phone from her bra. “The Serpent is back. He’s built a new network, and he’s targeting the suburb of Oak Grove for a test run—a dirty bomb hidden in the elementary school. Detonation: 3:00 PM. That’s four hours.”

By 2:15 PM, Ellie was inside the school’s boiler room, dressed in her PTA-appropriate cardigan and sensible slacks. The Serpent’s bomb was beautiful—a work of art nestled inside a stolen custodial cart. But Ellie wasn’t looking for wires or timers.

Then she walked out, pulling the fire alarm on her way. The sprinklers came on. Kids filed out, laughing, thinking it was a drill.

Until the casserole arrived.

She didn’t disarm the bomb. She reprogrammed it. The detonator was wired to a GPS signal—the Serpent’s failsafe. She reversed the polarity, swapped two chips with her tweezers, and set the target to the Serpent’s own safe house, coordinates she’d memorized from his file.

Her husband, Dave, a pleasant but profoundly unobservant accountant, kissed her forehead. “Big day at work, honey. Budget meeting.”

Ellie felt the old cold settle into her bones. The Serpent. She’d spent three years hunting him before she’d “died.” He was a ghost, a myth, a monster who’d murdered her previous partner. Mrs. Undercover

She didn’t cut a wire. She reached into Mia’s art bin, pulled out a tube of glitter glue, and squeezed a glob onto the main circuit board. The clicking stuttered, whined, and died.

Ellie’s eyes flicked to Brenda’s hands. The nails were perfectly manicured, but the cuticles were raw—a sign of recent chemical exposure. Her floral dress was designer, but the shoes were combat-grade boots, resoled for silence. And the casserole dish was giving off a faint, rhythmic click .

She was looking for him .

“Rough day?” he asked.

“Big day here, too,” Ellie said, pouring his coffee. “Mia has a playdate. Leo has a dentist appointment. And I have to figure out why the neighbor’s new ‘gardening shed’ has thermal signatures consistent with a small missile launcher.”

Ellie didn’t flinch. She’d learned that fear was a scent, and predators could smell it. Instead, she pulled a small object from her pocket—a juice box. “Not anymore