6. Calista
Chapter 6
Calista
F uck Smith. And fuck his stupid event.
This morning after I woke up in his guest room, he told me he wants me to pose as his daughter at some event. What a fucking joke that is when he can’t even keep his hands off me. He didn’t give me any details about where we’re going, why, or who’s going to be there, just that I needed something appropriate to wear.
And then he told me about his own daughter. Nothing beyond her name and age, though. He must’ve been really young when she was born since she’s close to my age.
Dakota’s her name.
My mind flashes back on his map tattoo and curiosity knots my brain. I want to know more but dammit, I hate myself for even letting that thought percolate.
I heave a deep sigh while he leads me through store after store. Shopping’s not one of my favorite things, and the red wig he basically threw at me back in his apartment itches. Red hair should be sexy, but this thing is a pageboy and I think it was made before I was born. What I need is the internet, but he only hands me a burner phone with one number programmed in.
If I could get online, I’d order clothes, make him pay.
The man’s obviously got plenty of money and he didn’t make it on CIA wages.
Also… shopping? Like, what the fuck?
I blow out a breath and stare at my reflection in a shop window and troubled gray-blue eyes look back.
Yes, I need to get back home, but not until my ducks are in a row. Not until I have everything I need and know what I’m up against.
Someone somewhere just might be out to get me or pin shit on me. And with Johnny missing, I…
I’m stuck.
With a Smith-shaped problem.
What he doesn’t know is I’ve got a spare SIM card I can slide into any phone. It has numbers on it I might need so I’ll swap out the cards as soon as I get the chance. It won’t do much, but it’ll make me feel better, give me a little more control.
And I have information, a copy of everything hidden away. Close enough that I can grab it quickly and run if need be.
One of the stores we go to is exclusive and the dresses are beautiful. He steers me toward the dressing rooms. “Strip.”
The word filters in through the red velvet curtain and I glare at the top of his head, clenching my fingers and making no move to do anything he asks. “I’m not your toy.”
“And I’m not fucking in there getting an eyeful,” he says.
He disappears and I switch the cards in the phone. The SIM is simple, a set of emergency numbers I need, like Henry’s CIA HQ and some other contacts. I come up on the name Johnny and run a finger over the screen.
It remains like it’s been for the past week. Silent. No texts.
Nothing from my brother.
I slide the phone away and pace in the small space. Smith is… argh. Smith gets under my skin. I want to label him a disease, a virus. Fast-moving, probably deadly. I already know he’s CIA. And based on some of the things said, he’s about as in the dark as I am. Except that I’m wanted.
This is a government kidnap job. I’ve heard CIA “water cooler gossip” about how they go down. I’d never know otherwise. Those jobs are way above my pay grade. I also have a guillotine blade hanging over me for my past teenage crimes, the type that are harmless but things those in power don’t forgive and forget. I was spared because of my knowledge and skill set, bribed to work for the CIA and offered a chance to have my slate wiped clean if I agreed to their terms.
I broke into unbreakable governmental sites. Left my stupid footprint, a digital graffiti tag. Fourteen-year-olds are idiots.
So are twenty-four-year-olds, judging by the position I’m in. Under some kind of lock and key with a man I inexplicably want and don’t trust.
A man who got into my sealed documents and is willing to throw past crimes in my face.
The curtain yanks back, the rings scraping the top of the metal bar.
Smith steps into the small space as the assistant hangs up a pile of clothes. Then with a longing look at him, she disappears. I roll my eyes.
“I could have been naked.”
He pulls the curtain shut and crowds me against the soft pile of clothes. “Could’ve been, but you’re not. How the fuck did you get to be in the CIA if you can’t follow simple instructions? ”
I poke his chest, trying to push him back, too aware of him, his strength, his presence. The scent of him is earthy and dark, a hint of spice like a desecrated church. Like sin. Dark and boozy and sex and cigarettes.
And that scent coils down in me, stroking over me, down into my pussy and I struggle to drag in breath, keep hold of some semblance of reality.
I’m a fugitive. And his captive.
“It depends on who gives me the instruction,” I say.
He moves in a little closer, his mouth against the column of my throat as he whispers, “I like a challenge. Why does the CIA want you?”
“I don’t know.” I push the words out. It’s true, I don’t. I have my suspicions but I’m not going anywhere near one of their strongholds until I have the cards. “But I don’t answer to you.”
“No,” he says, lifting his head. “You don’t, Calista. But I need you to work with me until I can hand you over.”
“I’m more than capable of heading into the Berlin HQ. I don’t need your help. And I don’t need to help you .”
“You’re mistaking me for someone who gives a fuck. I don’t. But I’m not tasked with that. I’m tasked with a handover in the United States. So?—”
“Do as you say, or you’ll hurt my brother?”
“Something like that, but no. I need what you have. It’ll help your case and possibly save your ass.”
He has the face of a killer. Not the psychos who’ll do anything for the thrill or the payout, but a man who’s killed and will kill again without remorse or regret.
Smith might have a tattoo that represents his daughter, but I’m betting he’d sell his loved ones.
So I need to go along with him until I can make sure Henry’s safe. I’ll be compliant and hide behind the snark until I can make my escape.
“I don’t have anything.” I shove my hands against his chest. He steps back and I know it’s only because he chose to.
Smith doesn’t say anything, but it’s clear from the way he’s studying me that he doesn’t believe a word.
I chew on the inside of my mouth. The new passport will get me back home, and then?—
“Stop plotting,” he says, all soft menace, “because I will break all your shit. All of it. People, things, freedoms. Just because you’ll piss me off. Know you can’t get away. I’m excellent at everything I do, and the chase?”
Smith tips up my chin a little too harshly.
“The chase, Calista, is my fucking jam. You’ll either love it or hate it. Depending.”
I swallow over the sudden lump in my throat and try to breathe with the tightness in my chest. “On?”
“On whether it’s a chase for fun or one where you try and get away.” He steps back and opens the curtain. “The only reason I want what you have is to find out exactly how short to keep the leash and who else might be after you. I’m getting you back stateside as tasked, whether you like it or not.”
“I’m not a traitor.”
He remains emotionless. “I’ll be waiting. Show me the outfits.”
I slide down the wall after he leaves as the tight band holding me hostage loosens and my head spins. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
I do, deep and slow, and then I push up, my legs a little shaky.
Toeing lines doesn’t come easy to me. One thing that appealed to me with the CIA is how I could find freedom within the perimeter of rules, how it taught me so much, got me an education on a grand scale.
But this Smith character floors me with his quicksilver rule adjustments, the tightening and releasing of freedoms.
Who am I kidding? He floors me because if he’s on my radar, everything is on the fritz. From common sense to libido. And I don’t understand it. One bit.
I strip down to my underwear and put on the first outfit, a dress that makes me look twelve and wearing my grandmother’s finest. It makes me look completely out of touch. But I hold my head up and stomp out.
His blue gaze shifts from an assistant standing nearby then back to me, and though not one thing changes in his expression, I can almost feel the inner wince.
“Stunning, isn’t it?” he says to the assistant.
I whirl and stomp off. Each outfit’s worse than the last. From skirts to pants to dresses and back again. The casual things make me look like I’ve escaped from the last century and the party clothes, if you can even call them that, are Madison Avenue matron conservative chic.
All wrong, all horrible, and that wince grows more pronounced in the air.
I’m in a twinset with a knee-length boxy skirt when something inside of me snaps. I shove my hands on my hips. “What’s the deal with this event? Are you ever going to give me details? Why do I need to look like a fucking hoity-toity country club grandma? And why are we taking a weird-ass break by going? Aren’t you on a schedule?”
“You’re in some kind of rush to get back to the States and face whatever might be waiting for you there?”
No, I’m definitely not, but I swallow down those words.
I put a hand on either side of him. “I’m not a traitor. I have nothing to fear by going back. ”
“Sometimes it’s the fear you don’t realize that gets you in trouble.”
“Because someone’s after me?”
“Always operate by thinking that way.” He doesn’t answer me and he might not know for sure, but it makes sense.
But I know if I’m too eager and question him more, he’ll dig into everything, dig into me, personally and with gusto. If I’m too unwilling… that’s a can of worms, too. “Why go out, then?”
“Because I have a business reason to attend this event. And If I’m going to keep you safe until the handoff, we need to put on a front and disguise you so nobody asks questions or raises eyebrows.”
“I’m not your daughter.”
“No,” he says, “you’re not. But you’ll play that part. We’re rich, attending the Klein Art fundraiser tonight. Dinner, dancing, and we’ll be seen together.”
“Make a splash and get dismissed that way, in plain sight?”
“This one.” He gestures at what I’m wearing, and it’s a clear command for me to step back, and for some reason I do.
“This outfit?” I frown. “It’s horrible.”
He grins slowly. “I know.
A quiet buzz breaks through the insufferable soft music, the kind designed to be so inoffensive that it offends. He pulls out his phone.
“Get that and some other things.” He hands me a credit card. My eyes drop to the name. JJ Smith. Probably an alias. “I need to take this call.”
With that, Smith gets up and heads for the front entrance. He pushes through the glass doors. I watch him lounge against the window, so self-assured, so infuriatingly cocky in his movements and facial expressions.
For a split second, I think of asking the assistant where the back exit is, but he just spent the last few minutes charming her, so she won’t help me. Instead, I slap down the card on the counter.
He said to get anything I want. “For a fee, can you have some things delivered here?”
Her eyes light up. She knows I mean a private fee for her. “ Ja, das kann ich machen,” she says. “ Was brauchen sie?”
Of course she can do that. And what is it I want? That’s easy. I describe the items to her, each of them in detail, and then I move around the shop, leaving some of the outfits he said to get and choosing some others.
If I’m going, I’m not pretending to be his daughter.
After everything’s paid for and wrapped, and my other purchases arrive, I take the packages and step outside in one of the ghastly dresses he chose.
I expected Smith to be outside the door, but he isn’t. And he’s not on the street.
Heart thumping hard, I find a tiny side street and duck in. My mind works quickly to process scenarios. If I thought I could run, I would. But this dress makes it impossible. I also want my computer and one of the passports. Fake ones can be bought, but I’d need to use his card, which would track me. Besides, they take time to make. And I’m betting the one he got me circumvents all the biometric rules where it’s going to be a problem for me if I use another fake one.
So I do the next best thing. I pull out the burner phone to call my brother when my hand starts to tremble because of what I’m seeing on the screen.
A contact, a hacker from Estonia I’d befriended, sent me a message to contact her. I’m about to call when everything in me goes on full alert.
And Smith grabs my wrist .
“I wanted to see just how stupid you were.” He snatches the phone right out of my hand. “I’m thinking you’re up there with world-class level of stupid. Who does this Estonian number belong to, and what the fuck do you know about the Collectors?”