Savage Little Lies

PROLOGUE

Callum

Marcus is sweating through a five-thousand-dollar Tom Ford suit.

It’s a tragedy, really. The suit, not the man.

I sit across from him in the dimly lit study of his Manhattan penthouse, perfectly still, watching a drop of perspiration slide down his temple. The room smells of expensive scotch, old paper, and pure, unadulterated panic.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my silver Zippo lighter. I don’t ignite it. I just flip the lid open with my thumb.

Clack.

Marcus flinches. He grips his crystal glass so tight his knuckles turn white. The ice cubes rattle against the rim, giving away the tremor in his hands.

"She took the drive," Marcus says, his voice entirely too loud for the quiet room. He clears his throat, trying to regain a fraction of the authority he usually pretends to have. "Last night. Right out from under my security team."

I close the lighter. Snap.

"And you waited twenty-four hours to call me." I don’t phrase it as a question. I keep my voice pitched low, forcing him to lean forward to hear me.

"We thought it was a glitch in the server," Marcus stammers, wiping his upper lip with the back of his hand. "By the time my tech guys realized the firewall had been breached, she was already gone. The physical backup drive from the vault. Gone."

I lean back into the leather armchair, letting the silence stretch. People like Marcus hate silence. They try to fill it with excuses, lies, and money. I just let them drown in it for a minute or two. It makes the negotiation much easier.

"Who is she?" I finally ask.

Marcus frantically slides a manila folder across the heavy mahogany desk. I don't reach for it immediately. I let it sit there between us, a physical representation of his incompetence. Finally, I pick it up and flip it open.

A glossy surveillance photo stares back at me.

I pause.

Usually, the targets in these folders look like hardened corporate spies, rival cartel members, or disgraced politicians.

The woman in the photograph looks like a nuisance.

She’s walking down a crowded sidewalk, holding a massive iced coffee. Her dark hair is pulled up in a messy clip, half of it falling out around her face. She’s wearing an oversized vintage band t-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans. But what catches my attention isn't her clothes. It’s her face.

She’s looking directly up at the street camera. And she’s smirking.

It’s a sharp, arrogant, entirely reckless smirk. She knew the camera was there. She knew she was being recorded. She just didn’t care.

"Gemma Hayes," Marcus says, reading her name like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "Twenty-five. Freelance data recovery specialist. Which is a polite way of saying she’s a dirty hacker who steals corporate secrets for the highest bidder."

"She doesn't look like a professional," I note, tracing the edge of the photograph.

"She bypassed military-grade encryption in under twelve minutes, Callum. She’s a professional.

" Marcus leans across the desk, the smell of his nervous sweat overpowering his expensive cologne.

"That drive has ledgers. Offshore accounts.

Names of people who will skin me alive if those files go public. It cannot get out."

"It won't." I close the folder. "Do you want the drive back, or do you want her gone?"

Marcus swallows hard. He looks at his scotch, then at me. "Both. The drive comes back to me. The girl doesn't breathe another word to anyone. Ever."

A clean sweep. Standard protocol for a mess of this size.

"My fee just doubled," I tell him, slipping the folder into the inside pocket of my jacket.

"Done," Marcus agrees instantly. He doesn't even try to haggle. That tells me exactly how terrified he is of the names on that drive. "Just find her. Before she decrypts the secondary files."

I stand up, buttoning my suit jacket with slow, deliberate movements. "I’ll have the drive on your desk by tomorrow night."

"And the girl?"

I pause at the door, glancing back at the sweating billionaire. I think of that arrogant smirk caught on the surveillance camera. A chaotic, loud little problem waiting to be solved.

"Gemma Hayes won't be an issue," I say smoothly. "Consider her handled."

I step out of the office and into the quiet hallway. I pull the Zippo from my pocket again, flipping it open and closed as I walk toward the elevator.

Clack. Snap.

It will take me exactly twelve hours to track her down, retrieve the hardware, and put a bullet in her head.

Just another contract.