Kiki Strike

Kiki Strike sat at a small outside table with the gossip section of the New York Post spread out in front of her. An enormous bowl of café au lait held the paper in place as a cold April breeze tried to blow it into the street. A green felt beret sat atop her head at a cocky tilt, and the starched collar of a khaki uniform peeked over the paper.

"You're late," she snapped as I approached, not bothering to look up. "If you're going to work with me, you'll have to learn to be on time."

"Who said we were going to be working together?" I shot back.

"How else do you expect to find the Shadow City?" she asked nonchalantly, licking her finger to turn a page.

"You've found another entrance, haven't you?"

Kiki looked up, her eyes glistening dangerously, like icebergs at sunset.

"We've got a lot to do today," she said, ignoring the question and standing up. She was wearing a Girl Scout uniform, complete with a sash covered entirely—front and back—with badges.

"You're a Girl Scout?" I scoffed. “Aren’t you a little old for that?”

"Maybe, but the Marines wouldn’t take me." She tossed a bag over the table to me. "Guess what," she said. "Today, you're a Girl Scout, too. We're going incognito."