The shopkeeper, a man with glasses so thick they looked like bulletproof portholes, slid a catalog across the counter. "You looking for passive surveillance or active infiltration?"
Arthur Pringle was the kind of man who looked like he’d been manufactured by a company that specialized in beige wallpaper. He was forty-two, worked in actuarial risk assessment, and lived a life so predictable you could set a watch by his morning toast. But Arthur had a secret: he was convinced his neighbor, a retired librarian named Mrs. Gable, was a deep-cover operative for a rogue nation. buy spy gear
Arthur sat in his darkened living room, surrounded by thousands of dollars of tech— RF detectors, miniature cameras, and GPS trackers —and felt a wave of profound silliness. The "spy gear" hadn't turned him into a hero; it had turned him into the neighborhood weirdo who wore goggles to look at squirrels. The shopkeeper, a man with glasses so thick