Chapter Twenty
A perimeter grid search of Alec Oliver’s swank McLean neighborhood hadn’t revealed Spiker or Andy’s truck. She would have been surprised if she had found Spiker strolling up the billionaire’s driveway, but that she’d been compelled to check showed her uncertainty.
Where had he gone, and why? She scanned a manicured cul-de-sac and continued to expand her search—what if he’d gone home?
She cursed her lack of video surveillance.
What had she been trying to prove to herself with her Luddite security of deadbolts and a reliance on creaking floors?
That she was just like everyone else? The ridiculous thing was, Vanka was probably the only person on her block without a video doorbell, talking doormat, or whatever the bloody hell the latest civilian tech was.
She braked at a four-way stop and considered calling Andy. Spiker could’ve returned the truck. He might’ve been locked out on her back deck that very second.
Hope trumpeted the possibility, and she checked the Audi’s mirrors, ready to pull a U-turn—and caught a glimpse of herself, unrecognizable.
She yanked the car to the curb, pulled down the sun visor, and flipped open the interior mirror.
She didn’t like the reflection, and unlike the one in the hanging mirror at her house, Vanka didn’t need focus or a pep talk. She needed him.
Worry and fear sullied her skin. Panic dilated her pupils. An unhealthy flush had made her sweaty. Reactive wishful thinking had been in charge of her search plans. She’d been more like a stricken woman hunting for a cheating partner than a professional locating a highly skilled target.
She flipped the visor up and reversed course.
Two long, rolling blocks later, she spotted a landscaping van and kicked herself for missing this earlier.
It was Sunday. Families were home, and in enclaves like this neighborhood, they didn’t appreciate petrol-guzzling lawnmowers obscuring their multi-million-dollar view.
The van had Virginia plates and vaguely familiar branding. She had no doubt that Andy’s truck was parked somewhere near an industrial lot belonging to this landscaping company. So long as Spiker returned the van to the same parking spot, in the same condition, no one would be the wiser.
Vanka parked the Audi directly behind the van and jumped out. If she missed Spiker because she’d had her head in the clouds, she wouldn’t forgive herself.
“Spiker.” She banged on the tinted windows. “Open up.”
The right door panel swung open. “What are you—” Spiker caught sight of her Audi, and his nostrils flared. “Damn it, Vanka.”
Yes, that was her car, licensed in her name, spotted by dozens of home security cameras on Alec Oliver’s street.
She’d put him in a bind and didn’t care.
There was only so much magic in their bag of tricks, and none of it would erase the trail of evidence that she’d left if a billionaire turned up dead.
“It doesn’t matter. We’re going home.”
“The hell we are.”
She held out her hand. “Let me in.”
The van’s interior stank of sweat and rust. Parts organizers covered both walls.
Most of the labels had been worn away after years of grubby-handed use.
The narrow space that led to the driver’s seat wasn’t meant for two people to have a friendly chat.
It was stifling and stuffy, and Vanka had never been so glad to be trapped in an airless box with Spiker.
“And we were having such a nice weekend…”
He scowled. “Go home, Vanka.”
“Pulling a stunt like this will land us in couples counseling.”
Spiker snorted. “You’ve got jokes, princess?” He shook his head. “Timing’s off.”
“I’m not leaving without you, and obviously, you’ve got to roll because I screwed your cover.”
Sweat glistened over his face, and the hard-set determination in his jaw didn’t waver. He was as emotionally compromised as she had been as she drove the neighborhood, searching for Andy’s truck and a billboard announcing the arrival of a hitman.
Vanka settled in the awkward spot on the van floor and checked her wristwatch. She’d give him a few minutes for the truth to sink in.
“Fucking hell.” He leaned against the organizer and stared at the torn ceiling fabric mended with staples and duct tape.
“That took less time than I expected.” Sweat formed on the back of her neck. She swept her loose hair into a bun. “Good thing, too. I’m baking alive.”
“Something has to give.”
“Sure,” she agreed. “But not the guy’s life.”
Spiker shrugged. “I didn’t say anything about killing Oliver.”
“I don’t think you’re here to give him a stern lecture.”
The corners of his lips quirked. “Maybe something in between.”
Perhaps that was indeed his intention. She only knew how angry he had been and what Spiker was capable of. She’d assumed the worst scenario. Either way, Spiker didn’t need to be there. “Let’s return the van, get Andy’s truck—”
Spiker chuckled. “I didn’t have a plan in mind when that happened.”
“And I don’t want to know the one you have now.”
“What’d Buck say?”
“Hmm,” Vanka hummed. “After you quit? Or after I did?”
His eyebrow arched. “You quit? For me?”
She lifted her shoulders. “For a lot of reasons.”
“I ran through several scenarios, and I didn’t think that would happen.”
“Oh, come on, after what he proposed?”
“Yeah.” Spiker nodded. “You’re a force of nature. Kinda hard to derail.”
All of the reasons she’d stayed on GSI’s payroll came to mind. “Do you trust me?”
“What kind of question is that?” he laughed. “After everything we’ve been through.”
“Come with me.”
“Don’t.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I can get myself home without a babysitter. All right?”
“I’m serious. Come on.” She crawled to the door and released the hatch. The bright, baking sunshine rolled over her like a cool breeze as she hopped from the van and beckoned him to join her.
He studied her sweaty face and then relented. “You want me to ask if you trust me?”
“You already know that answer.” She shut the van door. “We’re going for a walk.”
Spiker hesitated. “I don’t get it.”
“You will.” She held out her hand. “Perhaps the pervy billionaire does need a stern lecture.”
“Ha.” He took her hand. “I’ll let you run point.”
Disheveled and overheated from the van, they strolled down the sidewalk and stopped at the grand stone entrance that announced the Chateau de Oliver.
“The purple castle,” Spiker said.
“Now that you mention purple again?” She led them up the driveway. “I can see what you meant.” They crossed the brick courtyard and stepped onto the porch. “Ready?”
He laughed. “Sure.”
Vanka rang the doorbell, which played the tune of a gothic church organ. “That’s a little much.”
“He might not be home?”
Vanka banged on the door. “He is.” She waved at a security camera. “My, my, I bet we look like a hot mess,” she muttered, then called, “We’re here.”
The door swung open. A butler blocked the entrance. “Can I help you?”
“I thought everyone who worked here had a French accent.” She put her foot in the entryway.
Casual weekend flats didn’t have the same door-breaching effect she liked to shoot for when finagling her way inside a home.
Saucy high heels were an absolute necessity, but this afternoon, she wasn’t interested in a showy, surefire arrival.
She wanted more of a scene. After all, if she was going to go out, it would be with a bang.
The butler reached for a panic alarm.
“Hold on.” Vanka gestured to the man’s hand.
“I know what this looks like, but Alec just returned from lunch at Brielle.” She paused as the butler realized that her story matched up with his employer’s schedule.
“He asked that we come over as soon as possible. If you’ll tell him Mr. and Mrs. Fagan are here for a little fun. ”
The butler stepped back, scrutinizing their appearance.
A single pair of expensive shoes rushed from the curving entryway. Those weren’t the footfalls of security. “Here he comes now.”
Alec stormed into view. “What’s the meaning of this?”
The butler stepped aside. Vanka let herself in. Spiker flanked her six. Her smile broadened, and she wiggled her fingers in a wave. “Buck Baer sent us straight over.”
Alec dismissed the butler. “You must be mistaken.”
“I don’t think so.” She sauntered through the white marble space and beelined for the large hall they’d last been in.
“You need to leave,” Alec called, chasing them. “I’ll call the cops.”
“I don’t think so,” she said again.
Spiker fell in by her side and half-laughed, half-muttered, “You’ve lost your mind.”
“No, I simply want to try something new with you.” They reached the closed double doors that opened to the reception hall. “One hundred feet would put us…” She tapped her finger against her lips. “Mr. Fagan,” she addressed Spiker, “feel free to deliver that lecture. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“What the hell is going—”
She sauntered away, giving Alec another finger wriggle.
“Stop!” he demanded.
Thrilled by how quickly Alec connected the dots, she beamed.
Alec lunged. Spiker blocked the attack and quickly restrained the billionaire. Vanka positively floated off the ground, and with more badassery in her bones than she’d given herself credit for, she strutted down the white marble hall as though she’d been crowned queen for the day.
A thirty-meter search radius wasn’t nearly that complicated. After passing into a room within a room, she found herself in an out-of-place study. The stark, shiny white marbles were replaced with thick carpet and solid, unmatched furniture.
“What do we have here?” No single aesthetic or time period dominated the space, though an enormous French empire desk anchored the room.
Slowly, Vanka crossed to the antique piece.
The marble-inlaid desktop and gilt-bronze ormolu scroll-work were worthy of a billionaire’s furniture collection.
She examined the throne-like chair paired with the desk.
Its gilt bronze inlay told a violent story with beautiful, poignant bloodlust that could only be attributed to Ares, the Greek god of war.
Certain that this was the room she had been looking for, Vanka seated herself on Alec’s throne and scrutinized the space.
No mask. In actuality, this room was more understated than she’d initially registered.
Perhaps that was due to the harsh modern whites that she’d left behind on the far side of the door.
Nothing noteworthy stood out. What the bloody hell was the point of this room? Ares and the Spartans—her gaze dropped onto the extravagant arms of the throne and the excessive ormolu of the desk. “Napoleon.”
How appropriate. Vanka smirked. This room was an altar to Alec Oliver’s Napoleon-esque inferiority complex and a thesis-level argument for Spiker’s new money theory.
If she were a tech bro with a confidence problem, she’d want a flashy display of her goods.
Vanka checked the top drawer and saw a single button mounted in a bronze box.
The design mimicked a panic alarm, but that wasn’t a practicality that the tech bro would have in this room.
She set it on the Napoleonic desk, settled against the Ares-inspired throne, and pushed the button.
Sections of a wood-paneled false wall lifted with the slightest whisper.
Lights illuminated Oliver’s collection, and in the center of the space, directly in front of the desk, was the Lacedaemonian Mask.