September 17, 1998
WALKING THROUGH THE DARK SIDE of the morning, I approach the back edge of the iron fence, remaining in the shadows. The moon and dim glow of the fixtures attached to the brick cast light on the pitch-black exterior. A guard walks along the perimeter of the fence, his flashlight bouncing with each step he takes. Dropping to the ground, I wait as the ray of light grazes the top of my head. Only after the threat has passed, I rise, but stay low. I can’t risk being exposed. Scanning the dark property, I only see the one guard who passed me—but appearances can be deceiving.
The inside of the building is in complete darkness, except one window.
Third floor, last room on the left.
Moving closer to the incandescent window, I watch. The pair of binoculars I have don’t have night vision and aren’t as strong as I’d like, but I’m close enough to see a figure moving around the room. He’s wearing a suit, and not someone who would be part of a cleaning crew.
As he moves toward the window, I catch dark hair and light blue eyes.
Ethan.
Why would Ethan be here this late—or this early?
Just as I’m about to leave, Ethan moves from the window and the office goes dark. Shit. Scrambling, I try to get to the gate before he comes out, and position myself so I have clear access to the exit without being seen. Just as I get set up, the door opens and Ethan strolls out. His tie is disheveled, but otherwise, he looks as if he’d never left the office. Moving with confidence, he opens the door of a black Mercedes convertible. I don’t remember the dossier mentioning a Benz. As he pulls toward the gate, it opens and I get a good look at the license plate as he turns onto the boulevard, memorizing the numbers.
Nope. That’s not in the dossier either.
A strange feeling creeps up my spine, landing at the nape of my neck. A sense of foreboding falls over me like a heavy blanket. There’s a gnawing in the back of my mind; almost an itch between my shoulders. My gut tells me I’m not as invisible as I’d like to be. Out the corner of my eye, a silhouette of a man rushes toward me. Fuck, I need to move, and now.
Adrenaline shoots through my veins as I turn and sprint in the opposite direction. Rounding the corner, the cool evening air shocks my throat and lungs as I inhale deeper, knowing he’s not too far. Heavy steps pound the asphalt behind me and groans of infuriation confirm my thoughts, motivating me to move faster.
Picking up the pace, I turn down another side street, hoping to out run and out maneuver him. He’s still on my heels, and gaining fast. Running out of options, I make one last turn toward the square, hoping there are people lurking even at this hour.
No such luck.
I duck between the tents erected this afternoon, weaving in and out, trying to confuse him. Stopping flush against one of the tents, I pause, listening for movement. I peek around the side, looking for a shadow, then move between another tent, hoping he went in the opposite direction. Fingers graze my scalp, clutching my ponytail and yanking my head backwards. I twist hard left, my hair slipping out of his grip, and I spring upward. Ignoring the pain radiating from my skull, I turn toward my assailant. We glare at each other, only a few feet separating us.
“Who the fuck are you?” I snarl. “What do you want?”
“What do I want?” he asks, stroking his chin. “Question is, what do you want?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
My eyes take in everything.
The way his breaths come in short pants.
The way his fingers twitch.
How he leans subtly to the left.
“Why were you standing outside the gates of Black Mountain?” he inquires, sidestepping to the left.
“I was out for a run and stopped to catch my breath,” I counter, moving to my right.
“Why are you out so late? It’s not safe for a young, beautiful woman like you to be jogging at night by yourself.” His lips curl into a sneer, and I don’t take his threat lightly.
Now, I’m in a bind.
He’s put me in a position I don’t want to be in, but I have no choice.
I won’t let him blow my cover, and the time for credible excuses is long past.
He needs to be disposed of.
Permanently.
Pulling an asp baton from his back pocket, he moves toward me, flicking his wrist. The baton expands to three times its length, shortening the distance between us. His stance and demeanor suggests he’ll move toward me and swing it right to left. Anticipating his movement, I observe his right shoulder twitch.
Taking a half step and leaning backwards, he misses me. Switching directions, he lunges forward, swinging wild. Arching back again, he comes up empty. The goal is staying three steps ahead of him, like moving pieces around on a chess board and seeing the winning move before your opponent does.
His breathing changes, and a feral smile appears on his lips, his eyes shining with excitement. Seeing I’m a challenge delights him.
Arouses him.
I’ll be the last reason his dick gets hard.
Using more force this time, he swings the baton toward my head. I dodge the strike again, but the whistling of the air cracking around the expanded rod is too close for comfort. The momentum of his swing spins him around, twisting him at the waist. With the same torque, he pivots back, pressing me up against the side of the tent.
This would be a much easier win being in an open space—being able to move around and not get cornered. But I’ll let him place me here.
For now.
Give him a false sense of security.
Watching his eyes, I know where the next strike will land. This is why I’m able to dodge each swing with precision. I’d rather let him grow tired. It’ll make it easier for me in the end.
The fourth swing is aimed at my knees.
Fifth, at my ribs.
I dodge both.
His excitement from earlier evolves into frustration. Narrowing his eyes, he clenches his jaw and tightens his grip. Three more swings. Three more misses. He’s growing desperate and starting to get sloppy.
His eyes dart upward toward my face before he attacks hard. If my head had been where he expected, I’d be unconscious.
Or dead.
As he swings, I crouch down, the baton cutting through the air with fury. The effort behind his strike causes him to spin, leaving the back of his neck wide open. Bracing my feet, I put all my weight behind my elbow and lunge upward.
Depending on where I hit will determine his fate. It’s all about speed and timing. Damage to the spinal cord can result in paralysis or death. If he turns before I reach him and I land on the side of his neck, I’ll knock the wind out of him. Then I can straddle him and twist his neck until I hear—no, feel the crunch.
If my counterattack lands perfectly, it’ll be a critical blow. The skull will separate from the vertebrae, and his head will flop around like a baby learning to sit up. There’s no coming back from that.
My elbow connects to the back of his neck at the cerebellum, making a soft cracking sound. His body goes limp as he crumbles to the ground. Standing over him, I watch the life leave his eyes.
I give it a minute.
Once my adrenaline calms, I check for a pulse.
Nothing.
Satisfied he’s not going to wake up, I check his pockets. In his right back pocket is an ID for Black Mountain with the name Marc Chasin on the front with his photo and a magnetic strip on the back. No doubt it’s what allows him entrance to the building. Staring at the identification card, I think about what it could give me access to . . .
Rummaging through the rest of his pockets, I contemplate why someone from Black Mountain would want me dead. I didn’t see anything aside from Ethan in the building after hours.
I find nothing.
Not a wallet.
Not a family photo.
Nothing.
Once I’m finished searching him, I slither out the opening of the tent. Slinking through the shadows, I check to make sure no one’s around to hear anything, then stroll back toward my apartment with confidence. Whoever finds him in the morning will have no idea how he got there.
Or who killed him.
After taking a quick nap, I go for a morning run, this time avoiding Black Mountain. I didn’t have time last night to think about the events that transpired, but I have plenty of time now. I did, however, send a message to the Company about what happened—minus me killing someone. Even though the Company assured me the connection is secure, I don’t trust it. I merely mentioned I saw Ethan, and gave them the make, model, and plate of the mystery car.
Which still doesn’t explain why someone would want me dead. Yes, I was creeping around the perimeter of the property, but I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
The only other viable explanation is someone knows who I am and why I’m here. It’s essential I tread carefully. If there’s a mole, I need to find out who it is. So much for an easy assignment. Nothing ever goes easy for me.
Freshly showered and dressed in appropriate attire, I drive to Black Mountain in the car the Company set me up with. A plain, dark blue compact. Nothing fancy. I work for a temp agency, after all. Pulling up to the gate, a guard greets me. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, thank you. I’m Deloris Clark. I’m the new temp secretary,” I reply with a smile. “I’m supposed to start today.”
“Do you have any identification?” he grunts. From the scowl on his face, it’s clear he’s having a bad day. Maybe they’re short a guard . . .
“Yes, of course.” Reaching over to the passenger seat, I pull my identification out and hand it to the guard.
“One moment,” he murmurs as he walks back to the booth. I know for a fact no one else saw me last night, so I’m calm for the moment. The guard looks over a clipboard, then frowns. Picking up a phone hanging on the side of the booth, he presses a few numbers. After a beat, his lips start moving, but I can’t hear a word. As he talks, he stares at me.
Still, I’m calm.
Nodding, he places the phone back on the receiver, then walks back toward my car. “Sorry. They haven’t updated our list. Parking is on the right side of the building. You’ll need to check in once you enter the main lobby,” he informs me as he hands me back my ID. “They’ll take your picture for the company ID.”
“Thank you,” I say as he opens the gate.
Pulling through the entrance, I find the employee lot and park in the designated area. The walk to the front entrance isn’t a far one, and I follow his instructions and find the secretary in the main lobby.
“Ms. Clark, yes?” a petite redhead asks as I walk up to the desk.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Julia. Welcome to Black Mountain.” She seems genuine, her smile reaching her eyes, but there’s something off about her. Maybe it’s the red hair. “Let me get your photo taken for your identification, then I’ll take you up to your office,” she advises me as she stands.
“Thank you.”
I follow her to a room behind her desk where a camera on a tri-pod stands facing a white pull-down backdrop. “Please stand on the X and look at the camera.” I do as I’m told, becoming blinded from the flash. Within seconds, a printer in the corner of the room begins to hum and spits out a small plastic identification card.
Taking it from the tray, she walks over to a computer on the other side of the room equipped with a small, rectangular box with a slit down the middle. Julia sits at the computer, typing in my name and new identification number. As she types, she informs me, “I’m adding in your access. All doors are locked at all times, and any time you need to open one, you’ll use this card. You’ll only be allowed access to certain rooms, and we’re notified every time you use it. This is also what you’ll use when you enter in the mornings.”
She finishes typing, then swipes the card through the rectangular box until it beeps. Handing the card to me, she motions to the door. “You need to have your identification on you at all times when you’re in the building.”
“Thank you,” I mutter as we exit the room.
“Let me show you to your new temporary office,” she says as we move toward the elevator. “It’s on the fifth floor.” When the elevator doors open, she migrates to the side and places her identification into a slot under the floor numbers. When the red light turns green, she hits the number five. “You’ll need to do this every time you enter the elevator, unless you’re with one of the executives or Mr. Sawyer, your new boss.”
“Understood,” I answer with a nod. As we advance, I see this might be more of a problem than I originally anticipated. Using my card, they’ll see every move I make, and that’s bad, considering I need to stay under their radar. I wonder if I’ll be able to use Marc’s identification . . . I’ll mention this in my report tonight.
The door pings open to a large, empty room, and Julia directs me to a desk at the far end. It’s large, but miniature compared to the size of the computer on top, which takes up half the surface. Behind my desk is another office with Ethan’s name etched into a brass plate fixed to the wood door.
“Your responsibilities are outlined in the folder on your desk. Any questions, my extension is listed there as well.” With that, she turns and leaves.
“Thanks,” I call out to her as she reaches the elevator. Without turning, she raises her hand in a dismissive wave.
Looking at the folder on my desk, I take a seat and peruse its contents. According to her note, my responsibilities include:
- Use a word processor
- Audio and copy type
- Write letters
- Deal with telephone and email enquiries, using an email system
- Photocopy and print various documents, sometimes on behalf of other colleagues
- Organize and store paperwork and documents
- Create and maintain filing and other office systems
- Keep diaries and arrange appointments
- Schedule and attend meetings, create agendas and take minutes—shorthand may be required
- Book meeting room and conference facilities
- Liaise with staff in other departments and external contacts
- Order and maintain stationery and equipment
- Organize travel and accommodation for Mr. Sawyer
This woman is efficient, if not excessive. Most of this is redundant, and sounds worse than it is. No matter, I won’t be here long enough to worry about most of the things on this list. As I finish reading the laundry list of demands, the door behind me creaks open. Acting like the good secretary I am, and wanting to impress my new boss, I jump up. “Mr. Sawyer,” I greet with a smile. “I’m Deloris Clark.” His soft blue eyes regard me as I extend my hand. If he weren’t a mark, I could see myself having a fling with him. He’s not super fit, but he’s not fat by any means. Taking my hand, he shakes it, his grip firm yet gentle.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Clark,” he utters, his voice raspy.
“Please, call me Deloris,” I purr. His eyes roam my body from head to toe, stopping at my breasts where I left the top two buttons open.
Clearing my throat, I gain his attention once again. “Is there anything you need me to do for you now?” I ask, a seductive edge to my voice. Adding to the punch, I twirl one of the long, brunette strands hanging loose from my bun. A slight flush creeps across his cheeks. “Uh . . . no, I don’t . . . uh . . . no.”
Too easy.
“If you do, please don’t hesitate to ask.” A quick nod, and he barricades himself back in his office. A soft chuckle escapes my lips as I turn back to my computer.
A few hours pass before he exits his office again. “Ms. Clark, would you place a lunch order?”
“Deloris, please,” I insist, spinning my chair at the sound of his voice. “What would you like?” I lick my lips, and his jaw twitches. My face remains professional, but inside, I’m beaming.
Way too easy.
Moving so he’s standing in front of my desk, he mutters, “Turkey and Swiss on Rye. Order something for yourself as well. The number for the deli is in the desk drawer.”
“Yes, sir,” I answer.
“We have an account with them, and at the end of the week, you’ll settle up,” he informs me. His eyes drift from my lips to my breasts.
“Anything else?” I offer.
“Yes. Have dinner with me tonight.” Standing beside me, he whispers, “Normally it’s not good business to fraternize with the staff, but since you’re a temp . . .”
My eyes are drawn to the subtle bulge of his crotch, and I bite my lip before starting my charade. “Mr. Sawyer, I really need this job,” I pout, playing hard to get. Crossing my legs, I shift just enough for my skirt to ride up my thigh, showing the top of my lace thigh-highs. I knew these would come in handy today. His sharp intake of breath empowers me.
“I’m your boss,” he insists. “The only one who can fire you is me.” Tucking the stray tendril of hair hanging across my cheek, he moves in close, pressing his body against my hip. The slight bulge is a full-blown hard-on now. Before I have a chance to answer, the ding of the elevator stops the game. He takes a few steps back and adjusts himself as the elevator doors open. An older gentleman in an expensive suit exits with two men behind him. By the shape of them, they’re lackeys. “Mr. Greystone, I—”
Mr. Greystone’s hand goes up, essentially cutting off Ethan as he continues to storm forward. “We need to talk. In your office,” he barks, pointing to his door.
“Yes, sir,” he blurts, following the entourage. Once they’ve all entered, he closes the door.
My instincts tell me this is about last night, and I fight the urge to eavesdrop. The last thing I need is to get caught. So, I do as I was originally told and call the deli.
Ten minutes later, the door slams open, and I make like I’m working on something. Mr. Greystone and his lackeys stomp out of Ethan’s office, making a beeline for the elevator. “Take care of it!” he shouts, jabbing the down button over and over. Once the hurricane enters the elevator and the doors close, I peek my head into Ethan’s office. “Mr. Sawyer, do you need anything?” When he doesn’t answer, I move farther into the office.
Compared to the large empty space I reside in, his office is decadent. A grand mahogany desk sits in the center of the room with spacious matching bookcases behind. On the opposite wall is a dark brown leather couch, which is where I find Ethan. “Sir?” I ask, willing a response. If he shuts down, my job will be that much harder.
Lifting his head, he regards me, but I don’t think he really sees me. His face is twisted, but after a beat, a fake smile crosses his lips. “Did you order lunch?” he asks, returning his gaze to my breasts. Crisis averted.
“Yes, Mr. Sawyer.”
“Good. Bring it in my office when it’s ready,” he demands as he stands. Straightening his tie, he moves so he’s behind his desk. “We’ll talk more later,” he adds as I scurry out of his office. “Close the door,” he calls out as I cross the threshold.
Sitting at my desk, I think of a way to get the information from his computer so I won’t need to keep pushing my tits in his face. But I need him to leave his office. I also need to find a way to gain access to his office, since my ID card doesn’t access it.
After lunch, Ethan doesn’t leave his office for the rest of the day. Not until right before I’m due to leave. Before I have a chance to let him know my work day is finished, he pops his head out of his office. “So, dinner tonight?”
Before I agree to dinner, which I’m sure will lead back to his apartment, I need to find out about the mystery car and see if anyone’s wise to me. “Mr. Sawyer, I—”
“Call me Ethan.”
“Ethan,” I say with a smile, trying to soften the blow. “Today was my first day and I’m really tired. I’d love to have dinner with you, just not tonight. Can we do it another time? I’m still trying to get my bearings around this beautiful town.”
Pressing his lips together, he lets my question linger in the air like a thick fog. After some thought, he cracks a smile. “Of course.” His answer fills me with relief. Smiling, I nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he adds, then goes back into his office.
Packing up my things, I stride toward the elevator. I need to mentally prepare for the dinner that will end with me in his bed if I can’t get the information I need by then.
After I stop for a quick dinner, I park the car and scuffle to my apartment. I’m exhausted. I don’t know how people can sit behind a desk doing menial work all day. Upon entering my pad, I go right to the computer. I need to know if anything’s panned out my efforts from last night. Kicking off my shoes, I flop down in the cushioned office chair. I enter the password and the beast springs to life.
Checking my email, I find a message from the Company. After several roadblocks, they were able to trace the license plate to an offshore account tied to Al-Qaeda extremists—the insane terrorists Black Mountain’s dealing arms to. So, Ethan is driving a car owned by terrorists. This is bad news for Ethan, whether he knows it or not.
Tapping my cheek with my index finger, I consider the way Mr. Greystone stormed into Ethan’s office this morning, and it gets me wondering. How convenient it was that he’d come in all pissy after one of his guards went missing. It could have nothing to do with it, but I’m not convinced. I hadn’t heard anything about it all day, but my gut is never wrong. One sure way to find out is some reconnaissance with some old timers. A get-to-know-you session to see if I can find out any dirt. There’s nothing better than sitting with a bunch of gossiping hens while drinking coffee.
Logging off, I stand and hobble to the bathroom to wash up. I’m not used to wearing three-inch heels, and my feet are killing me. As I’m washing the makeup off my face, an odd sensation overtakes me. Turning off the water, I stand still and strain my ears.
Fuck.
My gun is in the black bag in the living room—thirty feet from where I stand. I left the door open a crack, and ease toward my only exit. Again, I listen. Peering out the opening, I glance around. My view is obscured by the door, and I can only get a glimpse of a small part of the living room. The black bag taunts me on the table beside the couch.
Like ripping off a Band-Aid, I decide to chance it and exit the bathroom. The second I swing open the door and rush over the threshold, a hand grabs my shoulder and spins me around. Catching a glimpse of the male stranger in my apartment, all I can make of the blur in front of me is that he’s tall and big. His huge hand takes hold of my trachea and my feet lift from the ground. My hands immediately fly to his, trying to pry his fingers from around my throat. Clamping his thumb and index finger tighter around my windpipe, he growls through gritted teeth, “Stupid, nosy bitch! You should have minded your own fucking business.”
My feet dangle inches above the floor, and his grip ceases any flow of oxygen into my body. Gasping, I pull with all my strength to rid his fingers from my much-needed air, to no avail. With every ounce of energy I have, I kick my right foot square into his crotch. He grunts, his grip loosening just enough for me to twist out of his hold.
I fall to the floor and roll to the left, struggling to get air into my deprived body. As I scramble out of Huge Hand’s reach, I watch as he doubles over, grabbing his balls. “You’ll pay for that, bitch,” he gasps, pain bleeding through his words. Good. I hope I made him sterile—not that he’ll leave this room alive.
My first thoughts are to lunge for my gun, but he’s in between me and the couch. I’ll never make it in time. As I stand, he regains his balance and charges toward me. Raising his right arm, he swings wildly. I swerve out of the way and grab his wrist, arcing it behind his back, and scythe my elbow into his ribs. He spins, trying to throw a punch with his left this time, but I slide out of his reach again.
“This is too big for you. You can’t stop the unstoppable,” he growls, his face contorting into a maniacal smile.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I hiss, mentally preparing for his next move.
“There’s too much at stake to let a little girl get in the way.” Inwardly, I smile. I was trained at the farm, by much larger and stronger men than this chump. If he thinks I’m going down, he’s in for a surprise
I’ll show him little girl.
He lunges, and I anticipate his direction, moving the opposite way. I’m still nowhere near my gun, and realize I’ll need to take this guy down the old-fashioned way. Chuckling, he reaches out to grab me. As his arm comes barreling toward my midsection, I block it with my right, pulling it toward my body as I place my left hand on his right shoulder. Using my legs, I sweep his right foot out from under him, forcing Huge Hands to fall backward. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
As he lay there stunned, I throat punch him. His hands fly to his neck as he struggles to breathe. Flipping him over, I straddle his body, grab the sides of his head, and twist. Violently. The sound of his vertebrae cracking confirms what I was attempting.
Broken neck.
Side stepping, I’m now able to reach my gun. Yanking it out of the black bag, I slide the chamber to load, and point.
It doesn’t matter. His body is still, the life fading from his eyes. He’s not getting up. Ever again.
Fuck.
In less than twenty-four hours someone’s tried to kill me.
Twice.
There’s no way I was seen last night, so someone is feeding Black Mountain information about me. Someone from inside the Company. No one else knows I’m here, or what I’m doing.
Bending over the body growing cold on my floor, I turn him over. Just like last night, I check his pockets. And just like last night, the only thing in his pockets is an ID card with the name Nathan Snow. With bodies piling up, it’s time to inform my bosses.
Taking out the burner phone, I dial a number I promised I wouldn’t call unless there was an emergency.
For security reasons, they won’t answer the phone. Instead, you’re directed to an operator. Depending on the phone number calling in, the operator will answer in different ways. Depending on the situation, I’m instructed to answer her question in a variety of ways. How I answer will be how he or she knows who to direct me to. It’s complicated, but that’s how we keep the line secure.
“Good evening, Sentinel Logistics, how may I direct your call?” a soft, feminine voice recites into my ear.
“Yes, I have a package I need to deliver.” This is code for I’m in deep shit.
“Where is the package being delivered?” she replies.
“The south side.” This lets her know I need to speak to my handler.
“I have an availability in an hour, will that work?” she proposes.
“Yes, that will be fine.”
“We’ll see you then,” she advises, and the line goes dead.
Sighing, I flop down on the couch. I have a meeting with my handler in an hour. The pre-arranged rendezvous is near the square, surrounded by innocent bystanders at a local bar. After the day I’ve had, I can use a drink.
Leaving the corpse lying on the floor, I pull a hoodie over my head, tuck my gun in the back of my jeans, and head out. It’s a cool night, but comfortable. Sitting outside won’t be conspicuous.
Walking toward the square, I stop at a local deli and pick up the Rapid City Journal, tucking it under my armpit. Jogging to cross the street, I enter the Firehouse Brewing Company and order a draft beer. Once paid, I move to the outside seating area. Even though it’s crowded, there are several empty tables. Finding a seat closest to the back of the room, I position myself against the wall, throw the newspaper on the table next to me, and wait.
Within ten minutes, an older woman stands in front of the chair across from me. She’s thin, but fit.
A perfect spook.
Now, for security purposes, besides the visual parole, we have an oral one as well—a prepared speech. Anyone can say they’re someone, but we in the CIA like proof.
“Excuse me, do you happen to know what time the busses run?” she asks, picking up the newspaper.
“Yes. The next one is in fifteen minutes. Why don’t you take a seat while you wait?” I offer, taking a sip of my beer.
Once the words are past my lips, she pulls out the chair. “Thank you,” she replies as she sits. With my voice lowered, I immediately go into defensive mode. “Have I been compromised?” I demand, almost slamming the pint down on the table.
“No, why would you think that?” she asks, confused. Placing her elbows on the table, she covers one hand over the other.
“Two different men from Black Mountain security have tried to kill me in the past twenty-four hours, and one is lying dead in my apartment.”
“Well, this poses a problem, doesn’t it?” she says, matter-of-fact as she rests her chin on her fingers.
“No one knows I’m here, except Daniel and director Hayden,” I argue. Her lips twist in discomfort. “And I didn’t blow my cover if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I didn’t say you did,” she answers way too quickly for my comfort. There’s something I’m not being told, and I don’t like being kept in the dark. “What?” I ask, forceful.
She pauses, dealing with some internal struggle. Sighing, she drops her arms. “Something’s happened within Black Mountain,” she admits.
“I kinda figured. Mr. Greystone came storming into Ethan’s office today.” Leaning closer, I add, “I was going to write that in an email, but I was momentarily distracted.”
“You look good for evading death twice,” she quips.
“Amateurs.” I take a long sip of my beer.
“I’m guessing it has something to do with one of the men who tried to kill you.”
“Well, there’s one still on my living room floor,” I remind her.
“I’ll take care of it. Stay here and have an extra beer after I leave. Give me twenty minutes before you head back.”
“I still don’t understand how they knew,” I mutter, resigned. “I mean, the first time I was surveying the building. Ethan was in his office, and it was well after three in the morning. That’s how I got the license plate I sent in. I was careful, but someone saw me, and I’m absolutely positive no one else did.”
“They found his body this morning,” she divulges.
“I heard nothing about it at work today, not even a whisper.” I should’ve eavesdropped when Mr. Greystone showed up. Tipping my head, I throw back the rest of my pint.
“And you won’t,” she points out. “That information is only privy to the people at the top.”
She looks calm, but her eyes give her away. They’re crinkled at the corners. She’s thinking—hard. “Do you think they’re spooked?” I wonder aloud. “My gut’s telling me they know I’m here.”
“Maybe,” she answers, squinting her eyes. Moving closer, she mutters almost under her breath, “You need to get that information off Ethan’s computer quick.”
“He asked me to dinner tonight, but I pushed it off,” I inform her.
Her mouth sets in a hard line. “You should have gone tonight,” she points out, sighing.
“I told him another evening. I needed to play hard to get.”
“Yeah, well you better hope he doesn’t get suspicious,” she murmurs. “If what your gut is telling you is true, you’re not safe.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I assure her, “just focus on finding out if there’s a mole. I’ll get the information I need from Ethan, one way or another.”
Standing, she places her palms flat on the table. “Don’t trust anyone,” she forewarns me. “Not even me. That’s how people get themselves killed. Keep your focus, and do your job.” With that, she turns and walks away.
I go inside and order another beer. Giving myself at least the twenty minutes, plus another ten minutes, I saunter back to my apartment, finding it dead body free when I get there.
I’ve had enough of tonight.
Stripping out of my clothes, I crawl under the sheets and fall into a restless sleep.