CHAPTER SEVEN
Deacon hadn’t managed to catch any sleep before the briefing. He was exhausted. He’d been awake all night, and he’d pushed himself through his morning run. And then meeting with Levi had taken more of a toll than he’d thought it would, speaking aloud what had happened to him when he’d been buried alive.
By the time he’d lain down on his bed to catch a quick half hour of sleep, his mind had been spinning with an odd combination of memories he’d rather forget and those of a temperamental redhead whose lips tasted like sugar and sex. He’d finally given up on sleep completely and headed down to the briefing room.
For two years he’d avoided tangling himself with Tess. For good reason. She fascinated him on a level he knew was dangerous for both of them. Dead men didn’t have personal connections. They didn’t have family or lovers or friends. They did the job until their time was up. If they lived to see their last day. The risk of loving someone was too great. If he was captured or killed, then so would she be. He had enough deaths on his conscience without adding any more.
But he was drawn to Tess like a moth to a flame. He found himself lingering in the house when she was around, just to talk with her, and he’d made it a point to help out as much as possible, just on the chance that he could look at her.
She was unlike any woman he’d ever known. She was smart and funny and kind—too kind if you asked him—but there was a sadness at the core of her he wanted to understand. She’d gotten the raw end of the deal when they’d come to Last Stop, and everybody knew it. But she’d kept that stubborn chin pointed high, and she’d done the work without the reward of having the funeral home to call her own.
She may not have been beautiful in a conventional way—her hair was unruly, and freckles covered the bridge of her nose and cheeks—but she smelled of lemons, and she had the clearest green eyes he’d ever seen. He was halfway in love with her, and the only thing holding him back was fear for her safety. Otherwise he would’ve said to hell with rules and contracts. She bewitched him.
And late at night, when his mind and body were relaxed, those eyes would haunt him in his dreams. He’d wake up with the sheets twisted around him and his heart hammering in his chest, the scent of her wrapped around him and his body throbbing with need.
He’d made a mistake in going to rescue her from Levi earlier that morning. He should’ve sent one of the others, but there’d been no time for him to hunt someone down. Levi could’ve killed her before any of the others would have gotten to her. As it was, it had been nothing but luck that Levi had only grabbed her wrist and not her neck. Seeing her in danger had pushed Deacon over the invisible line he’d drawn for himself. It had been too close of a call, and he hadn’t been able to stop himself from kissing her. He’d wanted to do a lot more than that.
When Tess had looked up at him, both fear and irritation in her gaze, he’d been struck dumb. She was no shrinking violet, that was for sure. And the daggers that shot from her eyes when he’d made the first smart-ass comment had him going hard as a rock. He’d always gotten a perverse sense of satisfaction from seeing a woman in full temper. And Tess’s full temper was a sight to behold.
Technically, personal relationships were only frowned upon, not forbidden for Gravediggers. But the penalty was so severe it wasn’t worth testing the waters. Physical releases were easy enough to come by. There was always an available woman, though since he’d set his sights on Tess no other woman had come close to holding his interest.
The worst thing he could do was let anyone know he had a weakness, especially Eve. It was her job to look for those weaknesses. Whether hungry, thirsty, or wounded, it was best to keep it to oneself. And emotional attachments were especially important to keep silent about. In his line of work, weakness was synonymous with unnecessary. Meaning those who were weak didn’t deserve to live.
And Tess was fast becoming a weakness.
Deacon sat at the head of the large conference table, turning slightly so he could watch the surveillance cameras at his back while pretending to read a report. He was preoccupied, and he was vaguely distracted by the good-humored banter from the others at the table. They were all low on sleep and running on exhaustion, but they found their entertainment wherever they could.
They were well secured and protected behind the reinforced steel doors and within the underground rooms. Each of them had their own personal code, plus a fingerprint analysis. They’d installed cameras, not only all over the property, but in strategic locations around town, so they could always see if trouble was coming. And if they got in real trouble, there was the escape tunnel Deacon made it a point of running through every morning. It led all the way to the lake and the private property they owned. It was easy enough to fly in some of their larger supplies and equipment and then haul it underground to the compound. The tunnel was big enough for a full-size vehicle to drive through, though they used four-wheelers that could carry high-capacity loads.
On each door around the compound was a trident, the only indication that Neptune existed. Each of the three points of the trident represented the three directors—the secretary of defense, the assistant attorney general for national defense out of the Justice Department, and the CEO of the largest private weapons manufacturer in the country. They were The Directors, and they had more power than God. And worse, they thought they were gods, making deals, moving chess pieces, and putting lives at risk on a daily basis. But even with the corruption of politics and private enterprise, they were the best hope there was.
Headquarters space was large and utilitarian. The “deck,” as they called it, was built more like the interior of NASA than like a regular conference room. It was dimly lit, and one entire wall was covered with three large screens. The screens were used for conference calls and team briefings. To either side of the screens were the flags of the allied countries to remind them they were fighting wars that affected all of the nations on a global scale.
On the wall to their right were computer stations, the technology so advanced that not even the Pentagon had the same level of access. Though The Gravediggers were first and foremost a strike force, a lot of their job required the proper intel and investigative work. The back wall was another set of computer monitors, but they were hooked up to the surveillance system. They had cameras everywhere on the grounds, interior and exterior. They used satellite and radar for potential air strikes.
As far as anyone besides the people in the room was concerned, The Gravediggers didn’t exist. They’d all been considered a threat to their governments—rogue agents—and the sanction had gone out for their deaths. That’s when Eve Winter would pay them a visit and tip them off. And then she’d let them make the decision to come with her or die with disgrace.
She was brilliant at what she did. Just as he’d told Levi, Eve would show up like the Angel of Death and make it look like all hell had broken loose while making it appear that each of them had lost the battle. As far as their governments knew, they were dead men—disavowed and dishonorable—though in reality they were anything but. They might have lost the battle, but there was still a war to be won.
Deacon’s eyes skimmed over the report and then cut to the monitor. He couldn’t stop watching her. One of the screens showed Tess and her mother working together in the embalming room. He’d already watched Theodora pocket some of the makeup that had been with the deceased’s belongings and some kind of lapel pin that had been on the burial suit. Theodora was an interesting woman, but he could tell by the line between Tess’s brows that she had a killer of a headache, and she’d about reached her limit with her mother.
Since sleep hadn’t been on the agenda, he’d spent the time reviewing the video from earlier that morning. From when she’d first found Levi. He and his brothers had been left with a choice, and they hadn’t been wise in that choice. Actions had consequences. Always. And anyone who thought otherwise was a fool.
The priority had been getting the van out of sight so The Shadow could repair the area where the bullet had damaged the door. If they hadn’t gotten it out when they had people would have been up and starting their days, and there was no doubt in his mind someone would’ve noticed the bullet hole. People in Last Stop noticed every damned thing.
So they’d had no choice but to make a quick stop and unload Levi’s body. The embalming room had been the closest location that could be kept secure, so they’d moved him quickly, and then Dante and Axel had hauled ass out of town to get the van repaired, while Colin and Elias took the opportunity to catch a couple of hours of sleep.
If she’d stayed asleep as was her normal habit, none of this ever would’ve happened. She wouldn’t have been in danger. And he wouldn’t have kissed her.
He’d watched the video over and over again as she’d struggled with Levi—her fear tempered with determination. She was a sight to behold, and he wanted her. Bad.
He’d only let himself watch a replay of their kiss once before deleting the footage. Lack of privacy had been another factor in him keeping his hands off of Tess over the last couple of years. Thank God she’d never had male company over. He doubted he would have let the man live if he’d had to watch it unfold on the screen. She was imprinted on his soul, and though he hadn’t claimed her, she was his.
He’d thought more than a time or two that he should thank Henry Pottinger for changing his mind about marrying Tess. She’d been mad as hell, but she hadn’t been brokenhearted, which told him right there it was a marriage for a specific purpose instead of a marriage of love. Tess was a woman who craved family. Her own family situation was unique, to say the least, and she wanted to be part of a stable family unit. She was the kind of woman marriage and children meant something to.
Henry’s rejection, in front of a crowd no less, had closed Tess off to the possibility of other men. At least for a while. And that had been just fine with him.
Except now her eyes were wide open, and they were directed at him. It would’ve been so simple to gather her in his arms and devour her. And he wouldn’t have wanted to let her go. Especially once he’d reviewed the video. Because the look on her face had held every bit of desire, and longing, and need that he knew had been reflected on his.
What he had to figure out was how he could have her and deceive The Directors at the same time. They’d never allow him happiness. His life belonged to them. But he wanted Tess and he was determined to have her. No matter how he had to go about it. When he’d worked for the CIA, his life had revolved around the art of deception. Of believing the life and lies he told people about. It was a web of deceit that had been easy to become tangled in. He lied to everyone, even his superiors if the need called for it.
He’d have to lie to them again. And he’d have to lie to her. What he did was classified, and even if he could share it, most people wouldn’t have been able to comprehend the horrors that he dealt with. The taking of life to save others. The deception. When his parents had still been alive, they’d thought he was a schoolteacher.
He scowled as he thought of the other surveillance video he’d watched. The sheriff could be a problem. He’d anticipated Cal’s visit—anticipating the worst was part of his job—but the sheriff’s inquiries were easy enough to deflect. The van was being detailed and the back doors replaced where the bullet had hit. The tires would be replaced with ones with a slightly different tread, and there were no mud samples to collect. All the police had to go on was the rambling story of the criminal who’d been shot, and he was going to want to make himself the victim to lessen the charges. But there was no proof left verifying what he’d said.
What had caught Deacon off guard was when Cal had asked Tess to dinner. It made the muscles in his stomach tighten with dread each time he watched it. If Deacon was a different kind of man, he would’ve backed off and let things take their course between Tess and the sheriff. She deserved someone who could give her the possibility of a long-term relationship. Deacon couldn’t promise her anything except the moment. And he was a real bastard, because it didn’t seem to matter. The moment would have to be enough. Because now that he’d tasted her, he wasn’t turning back.
The trident in the center of the large middle screen flickered and Eve Winter’s face appeared. The others stopped talking and the atmosphere in the room changed.
Eve’s age was indeterminate. She could’ve been twenty or fifty, but Deacon figured she probably fell somewhere in between. None of them knew exactly what her background was. Her name wasn’t one that was well known in any of the agencies—if Eve Winter was even her name at all.
Eve was small of bone and mighty of personality. She was Asian-American, and her features were a delicate mix of the two heritages. Her cheekbones were sharp, and her upper lip was slightly fuller than the lower and slicked in the red lipstick he’d never seen her without. Her hair was dark and rich and hung halfway down her back. But it was her eyes that made people stare. They were an unusual shade of gray, fringed with thick, black lashes. They were beautiful until you looked past the surface to what lay within.
Deacon had always felt a little bit sorry for Eve. And despite the way things were, he knew her burden was the heaviest to carry and the hardest to uphold. The Directors had created Neptune for one specific purpose. And they’d chosen Eve to run the entire organization. The Shadow and The Gravediggers all reported to her, and she was the mastermind behind coordinating the efforts between the two sectors. Her mind was like a computer, and she did nothing without purpose.
She was the person who made the hard decisions most people couldn’t bring themselves to make. Those kinds of decisions—where humanity was forsaken for the greater good—chipped away at a person’s soul until there wasn’t anything left. He often wondered how much of Eve Winter’s soul remained.
“On June twenty-third of this year, five thousand and sixteen people were killed in the bombing at the College World Series in Omaha, Nebraska.” There were no greetings of hello. Just business. Just the mission. “It’s the largest death toll since the 9/11 terror attacks, and it could have been much worse than it was. Not all of the explosives detonated on the side of the stadium where there was a larger concentration of people.”
Her voice was smooth and didn’t hint of any geographical dialect or accent. She could’ve been from Texas or Wisconsin and no one would’ve been the wiser. She’d erased all traces of her past, whatever it might have been. Everyone had a past.
Images popped up on the screens on each side of Eve, and she clicked through several pictures of the destruction and aftermath of the bombing. Deacon had seen most of the images already, but the devastation was still a kick in the gut.
“Men, women, and children,” she said. “Young and old. Families out for the day, many of whom were watching their kids play ball.” All of the players survived, though there were some critical injuries, but the stadium collapsed around the field. Those in the stands and beneath didn’t fare as well.
“An attack of this size has many components and players. It was well orchestrated and organized. But it was practice. We’ve found other practice sessions that had similarities in different parts of the world. As you all know, terrorists generally like to start small and work their way up to their final goal. In an attack of this size, there’s considerable planning and logistical requirements that have to go into each stage of their mission. Not to mention the equipment and weapons.”
Two more pictures came on the screens and she continued. “The picture on your left occurred at an open market in Dubai. The one on the right at a mall in São Paulo. There are several others. Casualties ranged from fifty-five people to just over seven hundred. But it’s the materials used that link these attacks together.”
“I take it the similarities have something to do with the Russian tanker we’ve been keeping an eye on?” Deacon asked, knowing that Eve didn’t give them orders without a purpose in mind, even if she didn’t have all the pieces to the puzzle yet.
“You are correct,” she answered. “The Jihadist terrorists call it The Perfect Day. The Russians call it Den’ Sud’by.”
“Day of Destiny,” Dante interjected.
“But it all means the same thing,” Eve went on. “It’s a terrorist’s wet dream. One day where everything falls into place. Where chaos and confusion and death ensue to the point that there aren’t enough first responders, nurses, doctors, or hospital beds for survivors. It’s 9/11 times a thousand.
“Russia has been waiting patiently and biding its time. They’re at a place politically where they have the money, the weapons, and the power. They’ve spent decades living here, setting up communities and infiltrating all areas of the government. They’ve perfected what it means to be American.”
“While many Americans have forgotten what it means to be American,” Dante said, straightening the cuff on his silk dress shirt. “The irony isn’t lost on me.”
“The fact is they’re here,” Elias said. “And once they’ve achieved their Perfect Day, it’s easy enough to shut down electrical grids and put everyone into darkness. To shut down radar and air traffic control. They’d create a society of chaos and anarchy, and we all remember what happens to people when they’re put in those conditions. We all remember Hurricane Katrina. You take away people’s resources and throw them into the worst of the worst conditions and there’s no hope for peace. They turn on each other and it’s every man for himself. The human instinct for survival is strong, and a person will resort to whatever is necessary to make sure they’re the last one standing.”
“Which is one of the reasons this team was assembled,” Eve said. “The College World Series bombing used a new gas called XTNC-50 in its explosives. It was created in a Russian lab, and as of now, there aren’t many documented instances of its use. It’s been thrown around as a threat, but we have yet to see its full potential. It’s more than a hundred times the fatality rate of sarin gas. It takes seconds to kill. And there is no antidote.”
“Is that the common denominator between this practice session and the others?” Deacon asked. “This is the first we’ve heard of the attacks in Dubai and South America. There’s nothing in the intel we were given.”
“An oversight the Department of Defense will hear about,” she said, and Deacon felt sorry for whoever was on the other end of that conversation.
“But yes,” she continued. “XTNC-50 is one of the commonalities. These are terrorists on a suicide mission, and their goal is to send a message and incite worldwide panic. The best way to send the rest of the world into a panic is by putting the United States in a panic. It’s not only domestic destruction with the bombings, it means global economic destruction. And Russia is sitting pretty at the top of the food chain. They love it when the world is in chaos, because they thrive under those conditions. Their money and banking systems aren’t dependent on Wall Street or the World Bank. They’re financed mostly through the Mafiya.
“The explosions went off in timed intervals, and the XTNC-50 gas takes very little time to work. Those who managed to escape the gas and explosions headed toward the exits, but the terrorists used marked first responder vehicles to block exits from the stadium. They were also dressed as first responders, adding to the confusion.
“By blocking the exits they were herding the survivors to exactly where they wanted them to go. They left only one path of escape, and those who took that path were met with another surprise. Snipers waited for them, so as they ran toward the exit it was like a firing squad. Eventually the storm calmed enough for people to realize they were better off staying put, though many succumbed to the gas.”
“Jesus,” Elias said, rubbing a hand over the scruff of his face. “None of that information was released by the Justice Department, and there wasn’t even a whisper in any CIA correspondence. We have their servers under surveillances, and we get flagged with any internal information on the terror attack.”
“They’re on a budget crunch,” Axel said. “Maybe they’re trying to be efficient.”
“And effective,” Eve said. “But like I said, this was practice. Their Perfect Day has been years in the making.”
“What is their idea of the Perfect Day?” Deacon asked.
“That’s what we don’t know and what you’re going to find out,” she said. “These are your targets. Jorgen Yevorovich, Mikhail Petrov, Sergey Egorov, and Ivan Levkin. Egorov is a distant relative of Vladimir Putin. They’re all second- and third-generation Americans. They have businesses and families here. And they’re coordinating the largest single terrorist attack the world has ever seen. Study them. Find them. Leave one of them alive for capture. Kill the others.”
“And the tanker?” he asked.
“That’s part of your mission. At this moment, the tanker you’ve been surveilling is headed toward U.S. waters under the guise of carrying machine parts. It’s also loaded with several crates of XTNC-50 gas. That tanker can’t get anywhere near land. You’ve got to destroy it before it gets in range. You’ll coordinate a HALO jump onto the tanker and take care of any guards. We think Yevorovich and Levkin are on the tanker. Set the explosives and then the Zodiac will be waiting for you to take you to the submarine. You should be well out of range when the explosives sink the tanker.”
“How much time do we have before the tanker hits U.S. waters?” Axel asked.
“A week. You’ll find schematics and other pertinent information in your inboxes.” The screens on either side of her face cleared and she looked at each of them. “How is the new recruit?”
“He’s awake and in holding,” Deacon said. “He’s stable enough. He remembers you and signing the agreement, but there’s still some memory loss and disorientation. He was under longer than I’d have liked, so it might take him a couple of extra days to adjust.”
“Good,” she said. “We need him now. Go ahead and administer the psych evaluation.”
Deacon raised his brows. “That thing is brutal. An hour ago he could barely stand by himself.”
“Then give him until noon.” Her smile wasn’t a friendly one. “Moving on: I’ve been alerted that there could be some pressure from local law enforcement. Something about an armed robber identifying the transport van.”
“We’ve got it under control,” he said. There was no point in asking how she knew about the situation. She knew everything. “There’s nothing to substantiate their claims, and the van is being serviced. I’d say the biggest issue is Tess at this point. She’s got it in her head that she wants to resign and move out of Last Stop.”
“Tell her no,” Eve said, her eyes narrowing.
Deacon almost grinned. He’d done just that, but he didn’t think Eve would appreciate the humor.
“What’s the big deal if she decides to go?” Elias asked. “She got shafted on this deal and we all know it.”
“Tess is useful,” Eve said. “It’s by no coincidence that we chose Last Stop for Gravediggers HQ. We scouted locations for several years and put chess pieces into motion long before anyone was brought on board. This is a prime location. We’re close enough to the city that we’ve got major resources available, and we’re in a central location so we can be anywhere in a matter of a few hours. This town is perfect because of the soil. Every town around us for a hundred miles is mostly built on limestone. Do you know how hard it is to dig tunnels and passageways through limestone?”
“Pretty hard?” Elias asked sarcastically, drawing a chuckle from Dante and Axel.
“How is Tess useful?” Deacon asked, going back to her original statement. He’d gotten a cold chill down his spine the moment Eve uttered her name.
Eve’s gaze lasered in on his, and he wondered just exactly what she saw there. “She’s what we needed for a solid cover. I watched her for a couple of years, found out what her goals and plans were. Checked her background and her family life. I knew if we came in and bought the funeral home out from under her that she’d stay if we asked her. She doesn’t have the courage to pick up and start somewhere new. And she’s a direct connection to keeping us plugged in without being in the middle of things.
“She also has indirect ties to the Russian Mafiya. The Mafiya is a closed community. They still speak ‘Old Russian’ that dates back to the time of the tsars. It’s like a foreign language within their own country. She speaks the language, and there are possibilities her grandmother could still be connected in some ways. No doubt she knows things. We’ve had her monitored for years. Tess too, just in case Tatiana ever feels the need to absolve her conscience to her granddaughter. We’ve not had reason to pull her in for questioning on the past at this point, but we’ll see where this particular mission takes us. They treat her like an outsider, but Tess belongs here. She’s too entrenched. She’ll never leave this place.”
“And yet I’ve heard her tell two people she’s leaving,” Deacon said.
“Then give her a reason to stay,” she told him flatly. Her tone was nonnegotiable. “I don’t care how you have to do it. Threaten her. Seduce her. Give her a purpose. She’s a mousy bookworm who spends more time with dead people than with the living. Make her feel needed and important. She speaks that particular dialect of Russian better than any of us could hope to. She may not realize it, but she was raised with the same traditions, information, and survival skills that the Mafiya passes on to their families. Hell, bring her in on the mission and give her a job on a need-to-know basis. Do whatever it takes.”
“Mousy” was the last word he’d have used to describe Tess. “Fiery,” “passionate,” “hardheaded,” and “opinionated” would have come long before he ever thought the word “mousy.” It looked like Eve didn’t know everything after all.
“And what happens if she has more courage than you give her credit for and down the road she decides to leave anyway?” Deacon asked.
“Then we’ll take care of her.”
“That’s cold,” Colin said.
Eve’s glare cut to him and her gaze was glacial. “It’s reality. If we bring her in and tell her classified information, her contract would be much like yours. The only thing that can separate you from The Gravediggers is death. Or if you term out.”
She added the second part as an afterthought, and Deacon felt like he had a pretty good answer to his wondering whether or not she’d actually release them from their bonds to go back out into the world as civilians.
“We’re not an assassination squad,” Dante said.
“You’re what you’re told to be,” she countered. “Don’t act as if your armor isn’t tarnished, Dante. You’ve somehow managed to seamlessly meld your life before death and this one. It’s because I allow it and nothing more.”
Deacon stared at Dante, but the other man’s face was unreadable. They all knew Dante took his trips from time to time, but they never knew where he went or what he did. But the information was curious, and though he would’ve said he could trust Dante with his life, now he wasn’t so sure. There was no place for secrets like that in the brotherhood.
“There are bigger things at stake than a Russian mortician,” Eve said. “We either use her or dispose of her. End of story. Don’t forget why you’re here. And don’t forget I don’t need your permission to do what I think is best. It’s my mercy that allows Tess Sherman to continue as she is. Just as it’s my mercy that allows you to be here.”
“Our countries betrayed us,” Axel said, the anger in his voice palpable. Of all of them, he’d lost the most.
“Some of you, yes. And some of you betrayed yourselves. It doesn’t matter. You didn’t follow orders and you had to die. End of story,” she said with a shrug.
“We’re not puppets,” Deacon said. “And none of us will condone cold-blooded murder of the innocent. We’ve all walked in the gray areas. But we have a moral compass. Just because the pencil pusher at the top doesn’t have one doesn’t mean that we have to lose our sense of right and wrong.”
“It’s a moot point,” she said. “Your countries considered you traitors. Maybe you should’ve followed orders for the greater good. Now you’ll never know. In the end, the legacy you’ve left behind is that of a traitor.”
“And yet it’s us you wanted for this team,” Colin said. “Knowing we’ll disobey orders if we feel it’s necessary.”
“Do you think you’re irreplaceable?” she asked coolly, arching a brow. “Do you really think that The Gravediggers’ inception began when I brought Deacon back as the first of you? Ten years is how long this project has taken to get where we want it to be. And we’re not there yet. Do you think there weren’t others before you? That we haven’t put millions of dollars into finding the perfect candidates. To test and discard them?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Axel asked.
“It means you are an experiment, plain and simple. And the alpha team of this particular experiment didn’t work out the way it should have. They were terminated. Once we changed the selection criteria and focus, we got better candidates. You. But everyone is replaceable. You, me, The Directors,” she said. “Everyone.”
Deacon froze, as did the others. He’d had no knowledge of others who’d come before him and failed. It was a sobering thought. The crux of it was that if he wasn’t here, living on the mercy of Eve Winters, he’d be dead anyway.
“The Gravediggers were created for one purpose—they are a strike force that puts an end to domestic terrorism. Period. Terrorism is a moneymaking business and our lawmakers know this. Terrorism feeds billion-dollar weapons contracts, and global fear allows these contractors to push the lobbyists’ agendas through.
“It’s taken years of research and resources, and billions of dollars to fund this brainchild. You’ve been selected from a global database of the most skilled agents in the world. This is not a United States problem. It’s a worldwide problem. The United States is the center. Nothing can shut down global economics and trade faster than a terror attack on U.S. soil.
“I don’t have to tell you what a well-strategized terror attack can do. The Perfect Day is about hitting us where we’d hurt the most and doing the most damage. Schools, commerce buildings, media outlets, the United Nations building, Wall Street, Silicon Valley, and banks. Their goal is to shut everything down. Once it’s shut down, it’ll be that much easier to do the same in other countries, one after the other.
“To be successful at this we have to focus our energy on what’s around us. You have access to all agency databases. It’s something none of the other agencies have. And our technology is able to match and discard possibilities with impressive accuracy. We are able to move without restriction, and we eliminate problems without having to gain permission or cut through red tape. We have autonomy where all other agencies have their hands tied. But there are sacrifices that must be made and consequences if the rules aren’t followed.”
“We’re at your mercy,” Colin said, the bitterness in his voice thick.
“Yes,” she said, and then she looked back at Deacon, her face unreadable. “Bring Tess in. At this point in the game she’s a possible asset, and we still don’t know if her family has potential Mafiya information that could be of use. I don’t care what you have to do to convince her to stay. Just do it. And if we discover we don’t need her, then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
The good news was that he no longer had to think of a way to deceive The Directors into letting him pursue Tess. The bad news was she was now on their radar. The fault was partly his. Eve had seen something in the way he’d talked about Tess, and she’d pissed him off by saying Tess’s life would be forfeit if things went south. He’d given Eve a weapon to hold against him.
They’d be lucky if they all came out of it alive by the end.