Chapter 2

I’m in! I’m in! Take that, Dagan Zoelner!

Chelsea slid her cell phone into her pocket after sending the text and glanced around before pushing the door to Morrison’s office wider. At this time of the morning, the only staff members in Morrison’s fancy-schmancy Mayfair penthouse were her and Juanita Gonzalez, Morrison’s chef. But Chelsea still felt as if a thousand eyes were peering at her. When the door hinges creaked, she winced.

Toeing out of her kitten heels, she slipped into Morrison’s office. She’d only caught a few glimpses of the room over the past month, but they had been enough to familiarize herself with the layout. His large mahogany desk—and the laptop that was her ultimate target—were over by the west wall. Too bad that in order to get there, she’d have to pass a passed-out Morrison.

The clang of her heart in her chest was so loud, she was surprised the sound didn’t wake the sleeping man as she tiptoed across the room. She missed her shoes quite desperately. The hard marble tiles were cold enough to freeze the tits off a frog—one of her father’s favorite Southern-fried sayings, God rest his soul. And the frostiness seemed to slip through the soles of her feet and up into her body, turning her lungs into two blocks of ice.

Was Dagan right? Was she really not cut out for this kind of work? The fact that the room was spinning seemed to point to yes. Of course, not being able to breathe probably had something to do with her stupid frozen lungs. Damnit!

Tugging on the collar of her blouse, she forced herself to suck in a ragged breath. The air felt hard and sharp, but it was enough to crack the sheet of ice in her chest and make the room stop doing its best impression of a merry-go-round.

Better. She nodded to herself with satisfaction and crept farther into the room. When she passed the red leather sofa, she glanced down at the old man. He was still wearing the tuxedo he had changed into before she left yesterday. The smell of bourbon and cigars wafted up from him in a cloud so thick, she thought if she squinted she might be able to see it.

Apparently, the fund-raiser he’d gone to had turned into quite a party. Then again, everything Morrison was involved in eventually turned into a party. He acted like he was twenty-one, not seventy-one.

Lordy, he even had a mun—that would be a man bun for the untrendy—like he was a hipster or some shit. Which, at his age, was pathetic enough. But the mun was made worse by the fact that his thinning white hair meant the little knot at the back of his head was no bigger than a cherry tomato.

Chelsea could not understand how his stylist let him out into the world looking like that. Then again, when you were a multibillionaire media mogul and a secret underworld crime boss, you did what you wanted and damn the naysayers.

And everyone else, come to think of it.

She took comfort in knowing that once she used the thumb drive sewn into the lining of her blazer to upload the virus, Morrison wouldn’t be damning anyone anymore. His “party boy” persona was just a ruse to cover up the true depths of his depravity. She was certain of this because sometimes, when he thought she wasn’t looking, she saw his lips thin, his eyes narrow, and an ugly look of malice would slide over his face. At those times, she felt she was seeing the true man. Spider…

Morrison’s mouth slid open, and out came a mighty snore that reminded her of her father’s ol’ bluetick coonhound—who’d had the uninspired name of Blue and was now buried beneath the willow in the backyard of her childhood home—and how the dog used to fall asleep on the front porch, snoring loud enough to wake up half the county. Only ol’ Blue had been a good boy. Roper Morrison on the other hand…

The thought hastened her journey across the room. After reaching her destination, she slid a hand inside her blazer and tugged a loose string in the lining. The thread unraveled, revealing the pouch that held the thumb drive.

If she’d thought her heart was racing before, now the damned thing was trying to break the land speed record. Every muscle in her body clenched, and her teeth threatened to explode beneath the pressure of her jaw. Closing her eyes and counting to three, she forced herself to relax and inserted the thumb drive into the USB port on the side of Morrison’s laptop.

Done!

Now, all that was left to do was wait. Wait as the program on the drive automatically booted up Morrison’s computer. Wait as it went through the algorithms necessary to break through the password. Wait as the virus began to upload. Just wait, wait, wwwwwait.

She hadn’t realized she’d curled her hands into tight fists until one of her nails pierced the skin of her palm. Sucking the sting away, she thought of Dagan. No doubt about it, he never got this nervous. He was Mr. Calm-Cool-and-Collected. And if he could see her now, he’d shake his head and say, I told you so.

Well, he could take his I-told-you-so’s and shove them where the sun never shined. John Wayne supposedly said once that true courage was being scared to death and saddling up anyway.

So…giddyup.

She glanced over at Morrison, happy to see him still out cold and sawing logs. Then a flash on the screen drew her attention to the computer. The virus was in, and the laptop powered down.

It’s done!

A ragged breath leaked out of her, and she gave herself a second to fully appreciate the magnitude of what she’d accomplished. Then she quickly unplugged the drive, slipped it back into its hidey-hole inside her blazer, and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. She texted two words to the group at the flat: Virus loaded. She thought about adding booyah, but ultimately decided against it.

Her teammates would make sure to pass her text on to the Black Knights in Chicago, then they would pack their belongings for a fast retreat across the pond.

I did it! I really did it! Chelsea Duvall, master spy! She liked the sound of that. Now, to get the heck out of Dodge…

She was halfway across the room when Morrison called her name. Her spine snapped to attention one vertebra at a time. Slowly turning to him, she ignored the ice water running through her veins and donned a pleasant smile. “I, uh, I hope you don’t mind, sir.” She adjusted her glasses. “I just came in to check on you. That must have been one heck of a party last night, huh?”

“Come here, Chelsea.” He beckoned her with a flick of his bony fingers.

Despite every instinct telling her to run, she continued to play the part of the dutiful and long-suffering PA. Walking to the edge of the sofa, she gritted her teeth when Morrison’s hot, clammy hand curled around her bare calf.

She knew she should have worn slacks today instead of the pencil skirt that ended just below her knees. “Can I get something for you, sir? Some aspirin? A glass of water, maybe?”

“A little fur from the cat that scratched me.” His voice sounded rusty, but he grinned up at her, waggling his eyebrows. She was convinced the hair on his head had migrated south. His brows were thick and bushy and seemed to march across his forehead like two gray caterpillars. “There’s a bottle of bourbon in my top drawer. Fetch it for me, would you, darling?”

She smiled down at him, despite her clenched jaw. When Christian said dahling in his English accent it was downright swoon-worthy. When Morrison said it? Yup. She had to fight the urge to retch.

“Of course,” she told him, happy for any excuse to escape his marauding hand. His fingers had slowly inched up her leg until they were behind her knee, caressing softly.

Gag a maggot.

Roper Morrison was the lowest, most vulgar man the good Lord ever strung a gut through, and as she hustled over to his desk, Chelsea thought she could still feel his hot, sweaty fingers on her skin. However, a quick glance at his laptop reminded her that all the indignities she’d suffered in his employ were worth it. She’d planted the virus, and Morrison…er…Spider was going down. Booyah!

On second thought, she should have added that to her text message. Who cared if it would have made Dagan point and say, See? What kind of trained field agent texts something like that?

Her. That’s who. The impulse to shoot a fist in the air and indulge in a hip shake was strong. Instead, she satisfied herself with grabbing the bourbon. Her eyes caught on the myriad cheap phones in the drawer. Burner phones. If she didn’t already know that Morrison was a slimy, criminal piece of dog shit, that would have been enough to convince her. He probably had a different phone for every awful venture he was involved in.

Shutting the drawer, she walked back to the sofa and handed him the bottle. The old man reclined against the leather cushions like some sort of over-pampered sultan.

Which makes me what? One of his harem girls? She’d sooner swallow a bag full of rusty nails, thank you very much.

“You really should eat or drink something to restore your electrolytes, sir.” One thing she’d learned was that Morrison liked to be fussed over.

Fussing was an easy enough thing to fake. All she had to do was ask herself, WWMD? What would Mom do? Because her mother, bless her sweet soul, was the queen of doting and fussing.

Morrison waved her off, then twisted the cap on the bottle of booze.

“I’m going to run and fetch something for you anyway,” she lied.

Turning on her heel, she padded out of his office, stopping to toe into her shoes before making her way through the massive penthouse toward the front door. The opulence of the place still got to her. Vintage Limoges vases, gold-leaf detailing on picture frames, the Picasso painting hanging on the dining room wall… Just a few of those pieces sold on the black market would net her a sum bigger than the debts that had made her backstory so believable.

Her daddy would have said that Morrison was shittin’ in high cotton. She said he had more money than any one man should. And oooh, the temptation to grab a few pieces of wealth on her way out was strong. But she was no thief. And besides, the twenty G’s Morrison had already paid her for her first month’s work would go a long way toward reducing her remaining student loans. Once those were paid off, she would use every extra cent she made to pay off the mortgages. And then…then she would finally be able to rest easy, knowing her parents’ house had been saved, knowing their home had been saved.

She made a left at the half bath with its antique marble pedestal sink and passed the kitchen where Juanita was busy making Morrison’s breakfast. “Bye, Juanita!” she called cheerily. “I’m off to run some errands for Mr. Morrison!”

Juanita absently waved her hand, and Chelsea felt a little kick of excitement. She was almost home free. She’d done it! She’d really done it!

Scurrying across the foyer, she pulled her favorite trench coat from the hall tree. Her hand was on the knob of the front door when it turned inside her grip.

Steven Surry, Morrison’s head of security, burst in so quickly, she stumbled back, dropping her coat. He caught her arm before she could ass-plant, and the expression he wore was the facial equivalent of a thunderstorm. Every hair on her body lifted in warning of a potential lightning strike.

“Where the bloody hell do you think you’re off to, huh?” he demanded.

“I…” Chelsea’s throat was as dry as the fruitcake her father had always made for Christmas. She had to swallow to gather enough spit to try again. “I was going to run some errands, and—”

“What errands would those be?” he cut her off, cocking his head and eyeing her suspiciously.

“M-Mr. Morrison is nursing a hangover. I’m going to buy him some coconut water. It’s packed with electrolytes and—”

Surry held up a hand and she gulped. Audibly. When he heard the noise, his gaze narrowed further. Steven Surry had eyes as dark as the pits of hell and ebony hair that seemed to absorb all light. In another life, one where he wasn’t working for Morrison, Chelsea might have considered him handsome.

“You’re not going anywhere.” Since he still held her arm in a hard grip, it was easy for him to spin her around. With a not-so-gentle nudge, he herded her back through the entryway.

She considered making a break for it. Maybe if she darted around him, she could get out the door. But then what? Wait patiently in the hall while the elevator arrived?

Sure. That’ll work out wonderfully well.

Her other option was the emergency stairwell. But as soon as she ran, Surry would know she was up to something and he would immediately give chase. She harbored no fantasies that she could outmaneuver Surry—who looked like an NFL running back—down twenty flights of stairs.

Nope. Better to retain my cover and wait to see what’s happening.

She didn’t have long to wait. “We’ve had a security breach, and you’re staying with me until I determine whether or not you’re involved,” he grumbled.

Security breach…

Those two words made her gulp again. Surry pulled her to a stop, pinning her with a stony-eyed stare.

Okay, so now she was starting to come around to Dagan’s way of thinking. She really wasn’t cut out for this shit. The fact that she was giving herself away left, right, and center was proof positive.

She had just enough time to reach into the pocket of her blazer and press the volume-up button on her cell for a three-second count before Surry grabbed her hand and extracted her phone. He looked down at the black screen. “What are you up to with this, huh?”

“Nothing,” she lied, her heart pinwheeling inside her chest. The stupid organ banged into her stomach, making her nauseous. “I was just putting my hands in my pockets.”

And hoping I held down that button long enough to activate the distress call.

Ozzie, BKI’s techno-geek extraordinaire, had programmed all of their cell phones with an emergency feature. If they held down the volume-up button for a one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi count, their phones would automatically text a Mayday to the rest of the group. Then the cell would send out its GPS location. Pretty brilliant. Chelsea only hoped she’d used it correctly.

“We’ll see about that.” Surry pocketed her phone before grabbing her arms and tugging her wrists behind her back.

“Hey! What the heckfire do you think you’re doing?” She hoped to cover her terror with bravado, and she was insanely grateful that she’d learned early on in her CIA training to wipe the call and message log on her phone after every call or text, and to make sure to keep her contacts encrypted. “Take your damned hands off me!”

“Please,” Surry scoffed. “After a month with Morrison, no doubt you’re accustomed to a bit of manhandling. I’ll apologize for any ill treatment later. Once I know you’re innocent.”

She’d be waiting the rest of her life for that apology.

Oh, holy friggin’ crap. She should have bolted when she had the chance. Maybe, just maybe, she could have beaten Surry on those stairs. A smart operator might have taken the chance. A brave one certainly would have. But here she was, marching past the kitchen and toward the scene of the crime, all without lifting so much as a pinkie to fight her way free.

She really wasn’t cut out for this. She hated proving Dagan right.

Dagan…

Just the thought of him gave her hope. Because if anyone could get her out of this mess, it was him.