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February 26, 2015
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Tag slipped in through a side door of the old warehouse where he had trailed what he sincerely hoped were not Arab terrorists, because that’s a whole rat’s nest the publishers would rather not get into, and quite frankly, pissing off a bunch religious extremists is the last thing anyone needs right now. Although, considering the state of print media, maybe any publicity is good publicity, right? Hmm. Tough one.


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CHAPTER 3

Tag Heuer glanced down at his Rolex (this irony was not lost on him; even though it wasn’t mentioned earlier, Tag had conveniently earned an advanced degree in Tactical Weaponry and Irony during his time at Cambridge-On-Oxford)—a watch that probably cost at least$8,000, if not more. It was exactly 3:49 p.m.

Tag slipped in through a side door of the old warehouse where he had trailed what he sincerely hoped were not Arab terrorists, because that’s a whole rat’s nest the publishers would rather not get into, and quite frankly, pissing off a bunch religious extremists is the last thing anyone needs right now. Although, considering the state of print media, maybe any publicity is good publicity, right? Hmm. Tough one.

Anyway, just as Tag thought: The warehouse was filled floor to ceiling with nuclear launch codes. As Tag gasped with surprise, despite the fact that his suspicions had been confirmed, the flashlight he was holding in his teeth clattered to the floor. A stupid mistake, especially since he was only holding a gun and his other hand was free, and also because he is a highly trained secret agent.

“Shit is about to get fucking bananas in this part of the book,” Tag said to himself through gritted teeth as he checked his reflection in a nearby store window to see how his stunningly lifelike Bengal tiger camouflage face paint was holding up in the blistering Monte Carlo sun.

As the terrorists rounded the corner, Tag laid down quickly on his side and began to lick his hands and rub them over his ears, purring loudly, as he imagined a Bengal tiger would. After all, tigers are just big cats, right? So they probably do that sort of thing.

“Vee have you now, Meester Heuer.”

Damn. The camouflage hadn’t worked. Even worse, these guys had non-Australian accents, so you just knew they were really bad. As if to prove this very point, one of them knocked Tag out from behind with the butt of his gun, but not in such a way that anyone could describe it as clichéd.

But before he could finish his next thought—probably something about poison blow darts or grappling hooks or something—a massive explosion ripped through the diamond store he had been watching through a pair of those really cool-looking binoculars with the red lenses.

“Just a reminder: I’m a spy.”

But before he could finish his next thought—probably something about poison blow darts or grappling hooks or something—a massive explosion ripped through the diamond store he had been watching through a pair of those really cool-looking binoculars with the red lenses.

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