Over the Edge (Edge Ops #1)

1. Lyric

CHAPTER 1

LYRIC

By the end of my first day on the job, there were three things I knew for certain.

One: Monte Carlo was overrated. It was glossy but superficial, and the casino was no different from any other in the world.

Two: I looked damned good in my dress. The midnight blue silk clung in all the right places. The plunging neckline and the slit to my thigh showed just enough skin to be interesting without being scandalous. I turned heads as I moved through the hotel lobby. Or, rather, Elisa Deveraux did. And while I generally preferred to fade into the background, Elisa loved the spotlight.

And three: Flynn Shepherd was the kind of man who made you want to commit murder. Preferably with something blunt and heavy. Arrogant, overconfident, and too damn attractive for anyone’s good, least of all mine.

But I’ll come back to him.

My earpiece crackled with static.

“Siren, your target’s shifting positions,” Kate Garner said. Also known as Lil Bit or Bitty, she served as the team’s overwatch specialist, responsible for communications and cybersecurity. She was the cool, calming voice in our ears when the shit hit the fan. “I repeat, Broker is moving to the bar. You’re clear to engage.”

I didn’t reply, but adjusted my trajectory, allowing my hips to sway with deliberate sensuality as I crossed into Nico Moreau’s line of sight. As I moved into position, I mentally reeled through everything I knew about him. Arms dealer. Black market broker. He didn’t suffer fools and would put a bullet in my head if he caught even a whisper of my true purpose.

The art of the honey trap was something my predecessor had apparently mastered.

The bitterness in that thought gave me pause. Was it wrong to be jealous of a dead woman?

When I accepted this job in the wake of Maya’s death a month ago, I knew the comparisons between us were inevitable. And the team had every right to be wary of me as the unproven outsider. But I hadn’t expected those comparisons to haunt every briefing, to linger in every sidelong glance. To them—especially team leader Ethan Voss—I wasn’t Lyric Renard, one of the best undercover assets the CIA had ever deployed, with a knack for disappearing into identities and reappearing with secrets no one else could get. Never mind that I’d run five solo extractions, walked out of war zones in heels and blood, and embedded three aliases so deep they’d landed on my own agency’s watchlists.

My resume was solid. My qualifications for this op were the best Edge Ops was going to get on such short notice.

But none of it mattered to a team still grieving the woman I’d replaced.

A woman they all loved and lost.

A woman I’d never even met.

A woman I had no hope in hell of living up to.

Amaya Thomas.

“Champagne, please,” I said to the bartender, positioning myself three stools away from Moreau. Close enough to be noticed, far enough to avoid looking like I was baiting him.

Even though I absolutely was.

Hook.

Line.

As I waited, I sensed rather than saw him approach my left side. The scent hit me first. Expensive cologne with notes of sandalwood and amber.

“Have a drink with me,” a voice said, smooth as aged cognac. He didn’t wait for my answer and told the bartender, “Perrier-Jouet Belle Epoque for the lady and another Macallan 25 for me.”

And sinker.

Gotcha, asshole.

My lips curved into a small smile, but I waited several long seconds before I shifted to face him.

Up close, he radiated a threat the dossier hadn’t captured. He was handsome in that polished, European way. Olive skin, silver-streaked dark hair swept back from sharp features, and eyes so intensely blue they seemed artificial.

“I haven’t accepted your offer yet, monsieur,” I said, my accent flawlessly Parisian.

Moreau’s smile was indulgent. “Elisa Deveraux doesn’t strike me as a woman who turns down the finer things in life.”

I wasn’t surprised Moreau already knew my name. Maya had established an initial contact before her death, and I’d greased those wheels a bit more before arriving in Monaco, using one of my other aliases to seed my new cover identity through the right channels. If Moreau hadn’t researched me before I walked in, I’d have been insulted.

“You have me at a disadvantage.” I accepted the champagne, letting my fingertips brush against his as I took the flute. “You know my name, but I don’t believe I know yours.”

“Nico Moreau.” He extended his hand, and when I placed mine in it, he turned my hand over and pressed his lips to my wrist just above my pulse point. The touch lingered an uncomfortable moment too long, his eyes holding mine.

I wondered if he could feel my skin crawling.

“Ah, Monsieur Moreau! So lovely to finally make your acquaintance in person.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mademoiselle Deveraux. I’ve been looking forward to our meeting. But I must say, you’re not what I expected.”

I subtly pulled my hand from his, lifted my glass to my lips, and took a delicate sip of the cool, crisp champagne.

Wow. No wonder this stuff was $2,000 for a bottle. It was exquisite. “Oh? And what exactly were you expecting?”

“Most of the people who take an interest in my auctions are older men with too much money and too little conscience. You’re...” His eyes drifted to my breasts before returning to my face. “Refreshing. You’ve piqued my curiosity. Few women in your position seek military-grade technology. What possessed you to liquidate your family’s art collection and invest in emerging weapons technology?”

I took another sip of champagne. “Business is business, Monsieur Moreau. Art appreciates slowly. Technology—the right technology—yields immediate returns, as you’re very aware of.”

His eyes glinted with approval. “And what returns are you looking for, exactly? You’re already quite wealthy.”

“Security.”

He didn’t respond right away, just studied me with an intensity meant to make me uneasy. But I was ready for it and held his gaze. He’d built an empire by reading people, so I couldn’t flinch, couldn’t let him see anything more than exactly what I wanted him to see.

“Security,” he repeated, tasting the word like it was a sip of the very expensive champagne in my glass. “That’s rarely a problem for someone born with your advantages.”

In my ear, Kate said, “His security chief is running another background check on you right now.”

I smiled. “With the current state of the world, no one is safe, Monsieur Moreau.” I ran a finger along the rim of my glass. “Not even those born with so-called advantages. Money can only protect you so far. What I need is something more... substantial.”

I turned slightly, giving him my profile as I surveyed the casino floor. While he admired the line of my neck, I watched his security. Three men, all with the unmistakable bulge of shoulder holsters beneath their jackets.

Moreau said nothing for several minutes. He just watched me like a cat watches a mouse, and I let him. Finally, he threw back his scotch and stood. “Perhaps we could continue this conversation somewhere more private.”

“Background check complete,” Kate’s voice came through. “You’re clean. He’s taking the bait.”

I raised an eyebrow. “We’ve only just met, Monsieur.”

“Let’s not play coy. You flew to Monte Carlo specifically to meet me.” His certainty was absolute, his tone leaving no room for denial. “If security’s the issue, my suite is discreet, private, and very well protected. And the view of the harbor is spectacular. We can discuss your... investment opportunities there.”

“You’re very confident.”

“Confidence is the currency of our world, Ms. Deveraux.” He signaled for the check. “That, and knowing which risks are worth taking.”

I allowed a moment of consideration to pass as he signed for our drinks, then nodded once. “I’m intrigued enough to hear what you have to offer.”

Moreau stood, buttoning his jacket before offering his arm. I slipped my hand through it, though I would’ve rather stuck my hand in a blender. Everything about this man repulsed me, and it took every ounce of training to maintain the mask of Elisa Deveraux, intrigued potential buyer, rather than Lyric Renard, undercover operative fighting the urge to snap his arm.

“Be careful,” Kate warned in my ear. “His suite will have countermeasures. We’re blind once you’re inside.”

We walked through the casino to the bank of private elevators. He released my arm to press the button, but as the doors opened, his hand dropped to the small of my back, guiding me inside. I allowed the contact, using it to my advantage. The closer he kept me, the easier it would be to place the tracker.

The elevator ride to the penthouse level was silent. Moreau’s security detail—one man, broad-shouldered with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow—stood at parade rest in the corner, his gaze fixed on the middle distance but missing nothing.

“Do you have the merchandise here?” I asked.

Moreau’s eyes flickered to me, his lips curving into a thin smile. “I never bring merchandise to initial meetings.”

“I hope you have something to show me other than the view from your suite, as I have the same view from mine.”

He let the silence stretch for a beat too long. “I assure you, Ms. Deveraux, you won’t be disappointed.”

Oh, gag me. If he planned to unzip more than a drone case, I’d have him on the ground before he could blink. Stiletto to the carotid, mission be damned.

Well, probably not. But the fantasy got me through the elevator ride.

As the doors slid open, he stepped aside, gesturing with a flourish. “I don’t usually conduct business from my personal quarters.” His voice was smooth, his smile almost flirtatious, but his eyes were cold. “Consider this an exception.”

“I’m flattered.” I let a touch of genuine Lyric crack through Elisa’s silk. Just enough steel to let him know he didn’t intimidate me.

The suite we stepped into was more palace than penthouse. The Diamond Suite Princess Grace—named for royalty and priced at an outrageous fifty thousand euros a night—boasted a private terrace and infinity pool with panoramic views of the Mediterranean, a dining room that could seat twelve, and rare artwork handpicked by the royal family. It was elegance, weaponized.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the terrace and the ink-black sea beyond, yachts glittering like scattered stars across the water.

In Moreau’s case, I was sure he had.

A man waited by the elevator, stone-faced and coiled for action. Ex-military. Special forces, by the way he tracked me without moving. He nodded once.

“Everything is prepared, sir,” he said in crisp, accented English.

“Thank you, Vidal. We’re not to be disturbed.”

I kept my smile in place, but the knot in my gut pulled tighter at the thought of being alone with him. This man had killed at least three women that I knew of, and probably a lot more that nobody knew of.

And now I was shut in his suite with him, with no extraction plan and no backup.

But that was the job.

And I was damn good at this job.

“Drink?” Moreau peeled away from me with that languid confidence, crossing the suite to a marble-topped sideboard that gleamed beneath the warm spill of chandelier light. “There’s champagne, wine, brandy.” He held up a Baccarat decanter. “Cognac?”

“Whatever you’re having would be lovely.”

“Please, sit. Make yourself comfortable.” He gestured to the plush sofas in a soft dove-gray. The gold-veined table between them was laid out with fruit, cigars, and a chilled bottle of champagne like seduction was just another service offered with the suite. There was also a ruggedized black case that looked out of place among the elegant decor.

It wasn’t Sentinel. It was too small. But maybe it was a prototype or something similar. Either way, I had a pretty good feeling it had come from wherever Moreau was storing his goods for the auction this weekend.

While Moreau’s back was turned, I slipped my hand into my clutch, fingers closing around the micro-sensor tracker. It was no larger than a grain of sand, but powerful enough to transmit through concrete and steel. All I had to do was plant the tracker, get out alive, and let the team follow the signal to wherever Moreau was keeping the Sentinel Mk-IV drone system.

Moreau turned back, a crystal snifter extended.

Dammit. I was too slow.

I let the tracker fall into my clutch and accepted the drink with a smile, our fingers brushing.

“To new ventures,” he said, raising his glass.

“To new ventures.” I clinked my glass against his and took a small sip, tasting notes of vanilla and oak, rich and complex. The cognac would’ve been heavenly under different circumstances.

I settled onto the sofa, crossing my legs slowly. The slit in my dress parted to reveal a calculated glimpse of thigh. Moreau’s eyes followed the movement before he took the seat across from me.

“So.” He swirled his cognac, studying the amber liquid as if it held secrets. “You’re interested in drone technology.”

“I’m interested in power,” I corrected, maintaining eye contact as I took another sip. “Power equals security. These drones are simply a means to that end.”

His smile sharpened with approval. “A refreshingly honest answer.”

“I find honesty expedites business.” I leaned forward, dropping my voice. “The Sentinel system. I’ve heard whispers that it’s... revolutionary.”

Moreau chuckled. “You have excellent sources, Ms. Deveraux. Most people don’t even know it exists.”

“I’m not most people.” I gestured at the black case on the table. “And is that a preview of what you’re offering?”

His gaze flickered to the case, then back to me. “Merely a demonstration model. A taste of what the Sentinel system can achieve.”

“May I?” I reached for the case, but Moreau’s hand shot out, capturing my wrist. His grip was too tight, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me wince.

“Patience, Ms. Deveraux.” His thumb traced slow circles against my pulse point. “First, I need to be certain you’re a serious buyer.”

“I didn’t come all this way for a cocktail and conversation.” I eased my wrist from his grip. “My resources are considerable, as I’m sure your research has confirmed. I’m prepared to offer five million euros as a down payment, which can be immediately transferred to any account of your choice. Consider it a demonstration of my commitment.”

“Money is only part of the equation.” Moreau leaned back, studying me with those predator’s eyes. “I need to know your intentions.”

I laughed softly. “I thought arms dealers preferred not to ask such questions.”

“Most don’t.” He moved to sit next to me, too close, our shoulders brushing. His fingers trailed over my shoulder. “But, as I said downstairs, you’re not like most of my clientele. I’m intrigued by you, Ms. Deveraux. A beautiful woman with seemingly unlimited resources suddenly appearing in my world with an interest in my most coveted technology?” He tilted his head slightly. “One might wonder if there’s more to your story.”

I maintained my composure, letting a hint of impatience cross my features. “I assure you, my story is quite straightforward. I have wealth that needs protecting in a world that is growing increasingly hostile toward people of our… social class.”

“Ah, the pitchforks are coming for the wealthy,” Moreau said with a knowing smile. “Is that what keeps you up at night?”

“What keeps me up is the knowledge that wealth alone isn’t enough anymore. The rules are changing. Political winds shift overnight. What was protected yesterday is vulnerable today.” I gestured toward the case. “I need capabilities, not just capital.”

His expression shifted, a hint of respect flickering across his features. He reached for the case, fingers hovering over the latches. “The Sentinel system represents the next evolution in targeted operations. Undetectable by conventional radar. Facial recognition at five thousand feet. Payloads customized to mission parameters.”

The lid swung open, revealing a velvet-lined interior. A miniature drone nestled inside, no larger than a hummingbird. Its metallic surface gleamed with an iridescent sheen under the chandelier light.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Moreau’s voice dropped to a near whisper as he lifted the tiny device. “Imagine targeting a single individual in a crowd of thousands. No collateral damage. No witnesses. No second chances. One of these is deadly. But a swarm…” His eyes gleamed in a way that made my skin crawl. “A swarm can take down governments.”

My pulse quickened. This wasn’t just a technological marvel. It was a nightmare made of metal and circuitry. The tiny device looked innocuous, but could reshape global politics from the shadows.

No wonder Edge refused to abort this op, even after the operative who built this cover died.

I leaned closer, making sure my neckline gaped open, giving him a view of my lacy bra. I didn’t have to fake my interest. “How many in a swarm?”

“The standard deployment is twelve, but the system can coordinate up to fifty individual units simultaneously.” Moreau’s eyes lingered on my chest. “Each one capable of delivering a customized payload: toxins, explosives, or...” he paused for effect, “...something more elegant.”

“Such as?”

“Imagine a microfilament thinner than a human hair, but stronger than titanium. One that slices through carotid arteries with surgical precision. Death appears natural. A stroke, perhaps. Or a heart attack.” His fingers brushed my neck, following the path of my carotid artery. “No one would ever know.”

I suppressed a shudder, maintaining my facade of fascination. “And the range?”

“Twenty kilometers, with complete autonomy. Once programmed, they don’t need remote operation. They find their target, execute, and return.” He placed the miniature drone back in its case. “Or self-destruct, leaving no evidence.”

“May I hold it?” I made my voice breathless, as if all this talk of death and destruction was turning me on.

“Another time,” he said, closing the case with a decisive click. “This is merely a prototype. The full system is... elsewhere.”

Perfect. I moistened my lips, deliberately drawing his attention. His eyes tracked the movement, as I’d intended.

“You’ve gone to considerable trouble to meet me, Ms. Deveraux,” he said, moving closer. His thigh pressed against mine, warm through the thin silk of my dress. “I wonder what else you might be willing to do to secure this technology.”

I let my lashes lower, a coy smile playing at my lips. “I’m willing to negotiate, of course.”

His hand settled on my knee, fingers sliding beneath the slit of my dress. “The auction isn’t until Saturday. Perhaps we could spend the intervening days... getting to know each other better.”

“Perhaps.” I leaned toward him slightly, even as I fought the urge to break his fingers one by one. “But first, I need to see the merchandise.”

“Then would you be interested in a private showing on my yacht tonight?”

That wasn’t part of the plan. I was supposed to plant the tracker now, but if the real goods were on the yacht...

I opened my mouth to reply?—

The terrace doors exploded inward.