Chapter 15 #2
Rebel arches a brow. “You made us married?”
“People talk less to couples. Especially the pretty kind.”
Divine snorts. “Try not to kill each other before the hors d’oeuvres.”
“Or rip each other’s clothes off in public.” French jokes.
A few hours later, Rebel finds me in the guest room Allura gave me. It’s the same one I stayed in on the night I met Rebel.
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, suit jacket open, gun laid out beside my tie. The weight of Bones’ voice still lingers in the room. She doesn’t knock. Just steps in, barefoot, the hem of her gown trailing like smoke.
“You clean up well,” she says softly.
“You say that like you’re surprised.”
“I am.” Her lips twitch. “You almost look like a man who sleeps.”
“Only in nightmares.” For a moment, we just stand there in the quiet. Not touching, not speaking, both pretending this is normal.
Then she reaches for my hand, guiding it to her waist. “If we’re going to be fake married, we might as well sell it.”
Her skin is warm against mine, heartbeat steady. I don’t kiss her, don’t need to. The silence does the work.
When she pulls back, she’s all mission again. “You ready?”
“Always.”
She stands before the mirror, fastening the strap of her black gown. It’s backless, cut high on the thigh, the kind of dress that makes breathing optional.
I tug at the collar of my tuxedo, feeling more exposed than I ever did with a weapon in my hand.
She catches me watching her in the reflection. “Problem, Bishop?”
“Yeah. You look like trouble I can’t afford.”
She turns slowly, lips curving. “You say that every time.”
“And it keeps being true.” For a heartbeat, the air between us hums again, like the safehouse all over, except sharper, dressed in danger instead of sheets.
She smirks. “Try not to shoot anyone unless they really deserve it.”
“Define, really.”
“Anyone who touches me.”
“Then it’s gonna be a long night.”
“Focus,” she says finally. “We get in, pull the files, and get out before anyone realizes we’re not who we say we are.”
“Right. Professional.” I nod my head in agreement.
She smirks. “You’re not very good at professional.”
“Neither are you.” I shoot back with a wink.
She slips her hand into mine, nails brushing my knuckles. “Then let’s fake it together.”
The gala is hosted at the Wilshire Regency. The kind of place that glitters like sin in its glass form, with marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and too much perfume trying to mask the stench of wealth.
Rebel’s arm hooks through mine as we cross the lobby. Every pair of eyes follows her. Can’t blame them. She’s lethal, wrapped in elegance.
“Smile,” she murmurs. “We’re rich and bored.”
“Rich and bored,” I echo, forcing a grin.
“You look like you’re casing the joint.”
“I am casing the joint.”
“Try harder.”
A waiter passes with champagne. She takes two flutes, hands me one. “We blend, then break.”
Divine’s voice hums faintly in our earpieces. “The target’s name is Lawrence Gentry, regional banker, board member for Emerge Auditing. His encrypted terminal contains all the master passcodes. Your window’s fifteen minutes once he logs in.”
Rebel nods slightly. “I’ll handle the terminal.”
“I’ll handle anyone watching,” I say.
We move separately once the music swells. Rebel heads toward the side hall near the security offices, me blending with a cluster of donors near the bar. Every instinct screams trap. Too many guards. Too many eyes.
Then I catch a flash of motion. Gentry himself, older, smooth, laughing at some investor’s joke. He slides a keycard into his pocket before heading toward the back hall.
Rebel shadows him, the hem of her gown whispering across marble. She moves like smoke, elegant, precise, and lethal.
Divine murmurs, “You’ve got ten minutes.”
I track Gentry’s bodyguards, two, maybe three. One breaks off to make a call. I drift closer, keeping them in sight.
Then Divine’s tone sharpens. “Hold up. There’s another signal. Someone else is in the system.”
“What do you mean, someone else?” I ask.
“Another user is accessing the same terminal. Unscheduled. External IP.”
Rebel’s voice cuts in, low. “It’s not me.”
“Then who the hell?” The lights flicker. Once. Twice. The sound of laughter covers the hum of security feeds powering down. The gala crowd barely notices. They’re too drunk, too rich, too safe.
But I see the way Gentry stiffens. The way the guards reach for their earpieces.
“Divine,” I hiss. “Talk to me.”
“Someone’s overriding the system. They just locked the primary network. You’re trapped in a live infiltration with a second hacker, and whoever they are, they’re faster.”
“Can you trace them?”
“Not yet. But Carter…”
“What?”
“They’re not working for the Vultures. They’re working against them.”
Rebel’s whisper bleeds static. “Then who the hell are they?”
Before I can answer, Gentry turns the corner, and the barrel of a silenced pistol presses against my spine.
“Funny thing about secrets,” a voice murmurs behind me. “They always come due.”
The crowd keeps laughing. The chandeliers keep glittering. And somewhere down the hall, Rebel’s footsteps stop.