Chapter 4

Danielle

“I don’t care what it is you think you’ve found this time, Robinson. Get your ass back to New York on the next available flight, or so help me god—”

“But this is human trafficking!” I interrupt. “This is a massive story, Claire! And I can’t simply turn away from people in danger when I’m in a position to help out. You know that.”

My editor, Claire, sighs. “You know I’m just worried about you. You’re going to get yourself killed one of these days.”

I laugh at the cheery thought.

“Well, we’ve all gotta die eventually. May as well do something worthwhile in the meantime, right? And besides, I have access to the best personal protection in Europe, who yours truly will most definitely be hiring to keep me safe and sound.”

“And who might that be? Sounds incredibly suspicious.”

“Ah, if I told you, I’d have to kill you. And something tells me you don’t wanna die quite yet, Claire.”

There’s a pause from Claire, and I know I’ve won.

“See what you can dig up over the next seventy two hours. If you have nothing, then you’re coming home.”

I blow a kiss at my phone. “Much obliged, Miss Greatest-Editor-in-the-World.”

Claire sighs. “I’m going to regret this.”

And with that, I’ve secured my permission to get on with my life’s work.

Really, it’s sometimes a little too easy to convince people to let me do what I want. But as is the case with these things, there’s still one person in my past who wasn’t convinced to let me do what I want, no matter what I said or did.

And that’s the person I need to hire as my bodyguard.

Well, I always have loved a challenge.

Fucking Janus O’Connell and then sneaking off in the dead of night may make him a little less inclined to help me, though.

I probably shouldn’t have done that—no, I know I shouldn’t have done that—but damn if it wasn’t worth it. I haven’t connected with any man as much as I did with Janus in the three years since we parted ways. And I’d be lying if I didn’t think about the way he screwed me a little too often over the past three years, too.

I feel butterflies in my stomach merely thinking about seeing the man again.

My time with Janus in Sudan had been thrilling, exotic, and dangerous—everything I could hope for from an investigative stint abroad.

And I’ll be honest: I wasn’t expecting my translator/bodyguard to be a sexy, roguish Brit with an accent to die for with the deepest blue eyes I had ever seen.

How was I supposed to fight my attraction against a man like that?

I chuckle slightly, for clearly, I couldn’t fight my attraction to him. Hence the fucking.

I dwell on the entirely pleasant memory as I search my clean and spacious Grecian hotel room for an errant piece of paper that I know I shouldn’t have just lying around but have misplaced anyway.

I find the note hidden under my mattress, the folds of the paper so creased that they threaten to rip apart. I’ve looked at the number scrawled across it too many times to count.

The number I need to call if I ever find myself needing Janus O’Connell again.

It’s not a direct connection to him, of course, but the person whose number this belongs to can give me just enough information for me to find the man in question himself.

I don’t know what my contact looks like, or even their name. I don’t even know if they’re a man or a woman. But we help each other out when needs be, and they definitely owe me a favor.

Which is convenient for me—almost as if I had arranged it that way.

I take my phone out and text them my request instead, remembering that my contact strictly doesn’t do calls.

The longest five minutes of my life so far pass by as I impatiently wait for a response.

I call room service, ordering dinner to eat on the balcony—the sun has already set, but Athens is unseasonably warm for early April right now, and the heat still lingers in the evening air.

When my phone buzzes, alerting me to a response from my contact, I almost jump out of my skin. The text message I receive contains a website address, so I slide onto my bed and open my laptop from where it had previously lain forgotten on my pillow.

The website seems to be some kind of search engine; curious, I type in ‘Janus O’Connell.’

I receive zero hits.

Zero.

Frowning, I consider what else to try, and then I feel a grin spread wide on my face.

Of course.

I type in ‘The Jackal’ and find what I’m looking for. It’s another link—this time in the dark web.

It’s in this way—through constantly following links, encrypted web pages, and nuggets of information that I learn of Janus’ current location in Berlin.

I smile in satisfaction.

“You’re not so difficult to find as you led me to believe, Mr. O’Connell,” I say aloud, just as a gentle knocking on my door alerts me to the arrival of my dinner.

Thanking the waiter for the food, I transfer it over to the little table on my balcony before relieving the minibar of a small bottle of Merlot to pair with the steaming pot of Moussaka I ordered.

I relish the food and wine as the night-time chill permeates the air. I look out over the city, determined and resolute. I’ll uncover the trafficking ring in Athens for sure.

The streets will be a little safer for me having come here.

It sounds narcissistic, and I guess a small part of the whole investigative reporter spiel always will be. But for the vast majority of the time, I do this job because I want to help people and topple those who would harm others.

There’s no denying the thrill of the job, though. It’s what made my time in South Sudan so electric.

But Janus didn’t think I could handle it. And he didn’t know me, not really, so how can I blame him for wanting me to get out of the country before the danger escalated?

I’ll be sure to truly reinforce how important my job is to me when we reunite. And we will reunite—I’ll make damn sure of that.

And I’ll resist that insanely suave British charm of his this time. Business is business, after all, and I need him as a translator and as a bodyguard, just as I did before.

I mean, I speak passable Greek, but I need someone fluent to properly get to the bottom of this. And male. And persuasive.

The Jackal fits all of the above criteria. I definitely do not want to see him again just because I can’t get that one night of reckless abandonment out of my head.

Definitely not.

Realizing that I’ve long since finished my tiny bottle of wine, I head back to the minibar for another. I can’t do anything else until I get in contact with Janus, after all.

So, here’s hoping that happens well within the seventy two hours my editor has given me.

Bringing my second glass of wine over to my bed, I lie against the pillows as I mindlessly browse the internet, looking for photos of my mysterious male companion.

It’s a fruitless task, but it whiles the time away. But eventually, I shut my laptop down and place it on the bedside table. Even an investigative reporter gets bored of looking for something that doesn’t exist.

I sigh, sliding down the sheets to lie motionless on the bed, staring up at the bare, white ceiling, thinking of Janus.

He’s still in my thoughts as I feel myself drifting off to sleep, wondering what we’ll both say when we see each other again.

It’s sure to be awkward, but for the sake of the Greek populace, I’m fairly certain I can put up with a little awkwardness.

And even though I don’t necessarily want to admit it, I’m dying to know if Janus and I still have that same, insane connection.

All the men since him have been boring. So endlessly, endlessly boring. It’s not too much to hope for some excitement in the romance department, as well as in my career, right?

But those thoughts can wait for the morning.