As a former CIA operative, I've heard a lot of statements that have chilled me as though I had a foot-long icicle down my throat while sitting naked and wet on an ice floe. (By the way—don't go to Greenland. Ever.) Things like, Open up! It's the police, and we have a flamethrower! and Tell me the code or I'll have to use this pair of pliers on your eyelids. All terrifying under normal circumstances, but throw in the Iranian secret police or a Venezuelan death squad dressed as circus clowns, and they have a smidge more gravitas.

But nothing…nothing compares to what I was just told.

"What do you mean we have to sell cookies?" I asked Kelly with a slight tremble in my voice. "To people? On purpose?"

My best friend and co-leader rolled her eyes. "Girl Scout Cookies. Our troop has to sell them."

"Why on Earth would we want to do that?" I asked, backing up against the kitchen wall. I was starting to regret never having put in hidden panels with weapons around the house. But then Kelly would just laugh at me if I pulled a garrote on her.

"Because it's a fundraiser for us and for the Council." She pointed to the stack of order forms and the colorful brochure showing the prizes the girls get for selling so many boxes. I started flipping through the flier. Tiny pewter owls? Why does a little girl need one tiny pewter owl? Unless the purpose is to melt it down into one tiny, pewter bullet—then it sorta makes sense. And what's with all the sticker books? Diabolical! I can only see a child's access to 101 stickers turning into a nightmare of epic proportions.