Gun-Toting Psychic Babe

*** Book 8 in the Extreme Travel Series: ***

Team Kes travels to Kenya to convince celebrities to stay away from a drought area. When Kes' head is hit by a bad guy, she suddenly knows more than she should by using extreme ESP. A meeting with the president and her boss makes her wish the ESP would just go away, or she could be eliminated.

Excerpt

No one ever said raising kids was easy. To me, it was practically my full-time job. And with three-year old twins, it was double the work. However, Ben, our friend and coworker, was trying to convince me that it was easy while our kids made a wreck of our living room.

"Are you kidding me?" I asked Ben. "There's no way we can leave on another mission. We're just not ready." I leaned up against the doorjamb between the kitchen and the living room, wiping my hands with a dishcloth from doing my never-ending cleaning job.

It was about ten on a Friday morning. We'd just gotten to our second house in Colorado Springs from our newly built main home in Denver for a mini-vacation. James had gone out to get supplies for the weekend, so I was alone with our kids and Ben.

"Yes, you are ready, Kes," Ben argued. "It's been more than three years." He was right. We hadn't been on a CIA mission in three years this past August, and it was already October.

I watched my children, who were up to their regular antics. Andrew drew on the coffee table with a black crayon while Emma pulled the heads off her naked dolls. We were up to our eyeballs in kids and Ben wanted us to go on another mission. Was he crazy?

I had to point out the obvious. "Look at my life and tell me I can leave right now." I pointed to our children, giving him a male visual indicator, or MVI, because men never understood anything unless I pointed it out to them.

Ben laughed at me. "An MVI? You must be serious."

"Serious doesn't even begin to explain it."

I walked over to Andrew and handed him a piece of paper from a huge stack of clean paper lying right beside him. Andrew moved it out of the way and continued drawing on the coffee table. A stray thought of completely covering the coffee table with a roll of paper gave me an idea of how to deal with this child. I made a mental note to do just that. But in the meantime, I took the crayon from him, making him scream at the top of his lungs. Instead of lashing out, I stood beside him instead, just staring at him. If I ignored his screaming, he'd tire of his own noise. If I disciplined him, he just did worse things behind my back for revenge, escalating the entire incident. Picking my battles was key, however, teenage years with him were going to be tough, at best.

Andrew looked up at my expression and stopped crying.

"On the paper," I said. "We don't color on furniture." I put the piece of paper in front of him again.

Andrew took another crayon from the box—a purple one this time—and scribbled on the paper. Once it was full, he resumed coloring on the coffee table again. Ben walked around the coffee table, put a clean piece of paper under the crayon and held it down. He took the child's hand and helped him color on the paper. Andrew's bottom lip quivered and he screamed in horror, throwing a fit.

"No, Andrew," Ben said. "On the paper."

Maybe I should take his artwork and put it in the refrigerator. Then he'd be proud and use the paper. I'd suggest that after Ben left, so I wouldn't have another confrontation.

The child continued to throw a tantrum, when suddenly, the door from the kitchen to the garage flew open. My adorable husband, James, entered with his arms full of grocery bags.

"Daddy!" Emma screamed.

She ran to him and attached herself to his leg. He tried to walk, but it was difficult. Even so, he still laughed at her. I followed James into the kitchen and threw the dishcloth on the counter. Andrew kept screaming, now at a full-fledged temper tantrum, while lying on the floor with fists and feet hitting and kicking. In other words, our place was a madhouse.

"Andrew. Stop it," I said in a firm tone, without turning around. But he didn't listen and continued to scream. I truly wanted to scold him, but never in front of James. He'd been reading too many psych textbooks about how never to discipline a child, yada, yada, yada. I was raised to respect others and never to do anything bad, or there would be major consequences. We had our issues in raising kids, and I was bound and determined to make James see my side, someday. However, not in front of Ben.

"Hi, Ben," James said in almost a shout. "I'll be there in a minute." But he never said a word to Andrew. I was ready to tape the kid's mouth shut, but knew I never would. The sound gave me an instant headache.

"Take your time," Ben said to James, lifting his tone because of Andrew. James put the bags on the counter and we both put groceries away, with Emma still attached to James' leg. He and she were having a great time laughing, while ignoring Ben and Andrew. I looked into the living room, seeing Ben just holding his ears, since Andrew was still throwing a temper tantrum. I nodded at Ben and darted my eyes at James. He nodded in return. He got it. James needed parenting skills, for sure.

"Andrew." I walked into the living room. "Enough. Now, or I count." I'd count to three and then they'd get stuck in the corner while I stood beside them. They hated time out, even for 20 seconds. So, Andrew knew what that meant.

Andrew finally stopped screaming. He stood up, put the purple crayon back in his hand, then proceeded to color all over the coffee table again.

I picked up more plain paper from a huge stack and put it under his crayon. He proceeded to scribble, with most of the crayon going off the paper.

I returned to the kitchen and finished putting the groceries away. Once we stored all the empty bags, James picked up our daughter and gave her a hug, carrying her into the living room. She covered him with kisses, making him grin at her and plant a huge kiss on her cheek.

"Hi, Emma," he said. "I've only been gone 20 minutes, so you can stop that now."

"Hi, Emma." She'd mimicked him, using James' slightly British accent. "I've only been gone 20 minutes, so you can stop that now."

Ben laughed out loud, causing Andrew to stop coloring the now black and purple coffee table. I returned to the living room, hoping and praying these kids wouldn't embarrass me in front of Ben.

Andrew looked up at Emma, who was still in James' arms. "Quit making fun of Daddy," Andrew said, in the same British accent.

"Andrew, stop coloring on the coffee table," she said, switching to French. "Now. You're upsetting Mommy and you know how she gets when she's upset."

Ben did a double take, glanced at our two children, and stared at us with his mouth open. Andrew threw the crayons into the big plastic box full of crayons and moved to play with a truck on the floor. At least he'd put the crayons in the box.

"They know French?" Ben asked, hopping to his feet.

"Oui," James said. "And German and some Spanish. We're working on Russian next."

"Holy smokes, guys, you're making them into natural agents." Ben plopped back into his seat and the sound of a doll screamed. He hopped up and turned to see what had made the noise.

"Mr. Ben, you sat on Jessica," Emma yelled. "Don't do that again or I'll have to get you back."

"Be nice," I warned Emma.

Ben pulled the doll from the couch cushions and handed it to Emma. He checked the seat and plopped back onto the couch. Emma crawled up on his lap and gave him a hug. "I forgive you."

"Thanks, Emma," he said, returning the hug.

"Now, where are Miss Anita and Lady Sarah?" she asked in her British accent. "I do miss them terribly."

Ben bit his lips to stifle his laughter. It was funny, but I wasn't about to give in to them, or they'd know they were cute and would get away with murder, probably.