13. CARSON

I almost never use the blinds on the floor-to-ceiling windows that wrap around my penthouse, but now I hit the button to activate them as soon as I walk in the door. Someone would need a telescope to spy on me at this height, but I’m not going to take any chances.

I take a seat in the center of the twelve-seat sectional couch that sits right in the center of the living room, and spread the contents of the case onto the low, wide block of solid walnut that serves as the coffee table. Even with the blinds down, I make sure the only light in the apartment is the soft LED glow from the post-modern lamp next to the sofa.

The contents are less than I would have expected: a tablet, a few papers and an old-fashioned brass skeleton key.

The papers are a dossier on my quarry. She’s thirty, the same age as me. The military college she graduated from is somewhere on the southeastern seaboard. That narrows it down.

Red Dress said the quarry graduated at the top of her class. A year early, to boot. Much better than my two years at Harvard before I dropped out.

That should narrow it down even more.

My heart is racing. This woman is turning me on more than any has in recent memory, and I don’t even know what she looks like, let alone her name.

Her file says she’s worked with two distinct government agencies – it doesn’t specify which, but I assume it’s some exotic combination of Army Intelligence, the NSA and/or the CIA. She’s been an analyst and an active field agent.

I don’t know much about this kind of stuff but I do know those two jobs rarely align. They take a totally separate set of skills: one is a thinker, the other is a doer.

This lady is both. Brains and brawn. Just like me.

An involuntary grin creeps across my face.

There’s precious little other information: a list of places she frequents, her neighborhood (Midtown), a few more background details. She’s from a military family, like me. Hopefully that will help me get inside her head.

I pick up the tablet and hit the power button. The screen remains black but suddenly a line of green text appears across it, a hallmark of dark web sites. It’s like being in The Matrix.

Enter account details.

This is it. I use the browser to call up my slush fund and watch as the sum of $20 million disappears into the ether.

As soon as that’s done, a new line appears.

Transfer verified.

The screen goes black again and suddenly it’s filled with a video of Red Dress smiling at me. She looks exactly the same as she did the night we met at the Regent. Did she meet all the competitors wearing the same outfit? Or did she film a different video for each of us?

I don’t know, and I can’t figure out which I’d find more strange.

“Congratulations on joining the Chase,” she says, ignoring my dilemma. “I trust you currently have in your possession a case containing both a dossier on your quarry and your key.”

She holds up a key that’s identical to the one sitting on my table. I wonder again how many of these are now floating around New York.

“Allow me to reiterate the rules of the Chase,” she says. “You are not to speak of it to anyone. Your pursuit of the quarry cannot draw attention to you in any way. Any attempt to circumvent this rule will be dealt with accordingly.”

I assume that means I can’t take out an ad in The Times saying “Hey, quarry, I’ll pay you a bonus if you come to my apartment and let me give you my key.”

The thought of being dealt with accordingly gives me pause, though. How much power do these guys have that they can make veiled threats to a gang of billionaires?

I think about the giant that disappeared on the street outside the Boom Boom Room and realize I probably don’t want to find out.

“As you know, the quarry will be monitored by us at all times,” she continues. “Any actions deemed inappropriate will be dealt with accordingly.”

No cheating. Gotcha.

“Finally, the Chase will end when the quarry is caught by a contestant. All remaining contestants will be informed by an untraceable text message that simply says ‘over.’”

You won’t be on that damn recipient list, I tell myself.

“In the event the quarry avoids capture for the full term of the Chase, the prize will be auctioned off among the remaining contestants.”

Wait, what? Red Dress never said anything about that at the Regent. So no matter what the quarry does, she’s giving up her virginity to one of the competitors.

I lean into the low back of the sofa and run a hand over my chin. I don’t think I like this development. I just assumed I was going to win – I still do – so it didn’t really matter that she was losing her cherry. Her first time would be with a guy who, all false modesty aside, is built like a statue and has spent the last ten years learning every bedroom trick in the book.

It’s disturbing to think that she might end up underneath some bloated old toad, or worse, an entitled bastard who thinks it’s perfectly fine to hit women, just because they were the highest bidder.

Red Dress smiles at me from the tablet screen one last time.

“I wish you luck. Let the Chase begin.”

The screen goes blank, and as soon as it does, more text flashes across the screen: Rewriting hard drive.

Might as well say erasing all evidence.

Ten seconds later it powers down, now a blank slate, and I have to resist the urge not to smash it against the table. I don’t like being duped like this, but I’m already in. I can’t turn back now, and not because of the money. That doesn’t matter.

What does matter is the quarry. There’s no way in hell I’m going to let someone else get their hands on her. The stakes of the Chase have suddenly gone up exponentially.

“I’m coming for you,” I whisper to the room. “I hope you’re ready.”