The call from the Chief of the Super Secret Service usually came the way bad news always did—hard, fast, and at an hour when decent people were asleep and crooks were just getting warmed up.
Most times, it meant Jonny M. and Boris Pug got dragged out of bed, stuffed into some rusty government tin can with no windows, and shipped halfway around the world. One day it was a rat-infested alley in Istanbul. The next it was Pacoima, which wasn’t much of an improvement. So when a stretch limousine rolled up to the Jonny & Boris Detective Agency shortly after lunch, both detectives knew trouble had graduated to a higher tax bracket. Twenty minutes later they stepped into the Chief’s office.
Boris removed his trademark gray fedora and flicked it toward the hat stand. The hat spun through the air like a silver dollar tossed by fate and landed perfectly on the hook.
“What’s with the limo, Chief?” Boris asked. “You trying to burn through some leftover budget money before the accountants catch on?”
The Chief didn’t smile. That was a bad sign.
“Money won’t matter if you fail this assignment,” the Chief said.
His voice had the weight of a tombstone. Jonny felt a chill crawl up his spine.
Outside the window, Van Nuys baked beneath a hazy afternoon sun. The city looked innocent from up here. It always did. Like a pickpocket attending church. The Chief folded his hands.
“We’ve learned the mob has set its sights on the one object that’s held humanity together for the last thousand years.”
Silence filled the office. Even Boris looked interested.
“If they steal it,” the Chief continued, “the planet will explode from the core outward.”
Jonny blinked. “Holy Jeez. What exactly does this thing do?”
“That’s the problem.”
The Chief crossed to a cabinet and pulled out a dusty bottle of 1945 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. It was the kind of wine that cost more than Jonny’s first three cars combined. He uncorked it.
“We don’t know what it does.”
The Chief poured himself a glass.
“We don’t know what it looks like.”
Another sip.
“We’re not entirely sure where it is.”
Jonny stared. Boris stared. The Chief stared back.
“But we know one thing.”
The room felt colder.
“It is absolutely essential to the survival of every living creature on Earth.”
The Chief drained half the glass.
“For the next forty-eight hours you’re looking at nonstop violence, gunfights, double-crosses, international criminals, violent, kinky sex with a variety of gorgeous women and possibly one dude, and enough trouble to keep a cemetery in business for a decade.”
He leaned forward.
“And if that object isn’t sitting on my desk exactly forty-eight hours from now, humanity is finished.”
The words hung in the air like cigarette smoke.
Boris reached into his coat pocket and produced a cigarette. He realized that he’d picked the wrong week to quit smoking.
“Does this incredibly important object have a name?” he asked.
The Chief turned toward the window. Below, Van Nuys sprawled across the valley like a beautiful mistake. The three men had spent years trying to save it from gangsters, politicians, and real-estate developers. So far they’d had mixed results.
He took another swallow of wine and gazed into the distance. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“The MacGuffin.”