ERICA #2
Jeremiah’s whole body changes the second we clear the doors, a shift so small most people would miss it entirely. “He’s here,” he whispers. “That man.”
Across the ballroom, Hobbs lifts two fingers to his own eyes, then points them at me. Watching you. Is it inappropriate to give him the finger at a black-tie gala? Probably. I settle for a cheeky salute instead.
“Don’t mind him,” I say. “He’s harmless.”
“I know he’s the guy,” Jeremiah says through his teeth, staring down Hobbs from across the room. “Don’t tell me otherwise.”
“Yes, he’s the guy from the museum.”
He turns to me, and his expression is really, really grave. “The guy, Erica. When you were eighteen.”
“Okay, yes. He’s the guy.” No point pretending. “But please don’t make a scene. He’ll be out of our lives soon enough. I’ve got it covered.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ll tell you.” I squeeze his hand once. “I’ll sit down with you and tell you everything. Tomorrow. I promise.”
He studies me a long moment, then nods, like he’s banking it. “Tomorrow.”
I peel off a few minutes later to get some champagne because his coach decided to stop him to talk hockey numbers and my brain completely checked out. And also to meet up with Rue in the back of the room.
She’s already holding two flutes on a tray like she knew I’d need one.
“Talk to me,” I murmur into my glass.
"Looping the hallway cameras for the next forty minutes. Mainframe's asleep," Zoe says briskly in my ear.
“En route to the corridor.” Suri’s voice is brisk and slightly echo-y.
“Ivy’s got Hobbs cornered,” Rue adds, low, watching the room behind her tray.
“Tanya. Turndown service time,” I say. “Go.”
“On my way,” Tanya replies over the comms.
Jeremiah finds me before I’ve finished the champagne, and escorts me to our table.
We have some appetizers and Jeremiah jokes with his teammates sitting with us while I keep my eyes on everything in the room.
How Hobbs is standing like a sentinel beside the Friendship Jewel display, even though there are two museum guards flanking the case.
How Ivy offloaded some politician on him.
Rue, circling the ballroom with a tray in one hand while warming up the other for the switch.
And across the room, the Argentinians hold court four tables over. A tall man, silver at the temples, and a woman with severe blonde hair. They’re visibly snubbing a man who has no clue he’s being ignored. He just keeps talking.
“That’s General Fairfax,” Ivy says behind a napkin so no one sees her lips move.
“He’s retired but still does some shady business with South American diplomats.
Next to him is Congressman Ashcombe, his golfing buddy who also happened to be photographed at a luxury brothel.
I’m holding onto that tidbit for another day. ”
Good ol’ Ivy.
“You keep looking over your shoulder,” Jeremiah says, somewhere between the Beef Wellington bites and caprese skewers.
“Hoping a server comes back with more rolls,” I say.
“Rolls.”
“And the butter. Did you try the butter? Unreal.” I smile at him like bread is the most fascinating subject in Washington, and he laughs, and lets it go, and I go right back to watching the blonde woman over my shoulder.
“Suri’s in position,” Zoe murmurs, so quiet I almost miss it under the clatter of silverware.
“I made the drop. Waiting for the load,” Tanya says a minute later. “Geeze, this uniform is itchy.”
“Remember, you’re keeping that,” Dale chirps in my ear.
“It’s not a cute French maid costume, Dale.”
“I don’t care, honey bunches of oats.”
I can hear Zoe throwing something at Dale in the van.
“Ouch.”
“Keep the comms clear, lover boy.”
Meanwhile, Ginger is somewhere in the hotel running through a set of lip trills, then mutters under her breath, “The lips, the teeth, the tip of the tongue. Red leather, yellow leather.”
“Does Ginger need a microphone?” Rue asks dryly.
“Yes!” I say, too loud, and catch myself half a second too late.
Jeremiah blinks at me. “Yes to what?”
“Yes, I would love to look at the silent auction. Isn’t that what you just said?”
“You’re acting weird.”
I’m already on my feet, pulling him up with me.
The Argentinians sit square in our path to the auction tables, and the congressman is deep in a story about a fishing trip while the silver-haired man leans over to the woman and says something in Spanish. The woman replies back with a snide expression, and takes a sip of wine.
As we pass them, Jeremiah leans close to my ear with an amused whisper. “That’s not Argentine, you know.”
“What?”
“They’re speaking Spanish but with a German accent underneath. Not Rioplatense. Argentines have more of a lilting, almost Italian quality to their accent.” He laughs. “I mean, they’re only talking to each other. Why not just speak German?”
Oh, if he only knew who those people really are.
“Fascinating,” I say, while pretending to be enthralled by the VIP season passes for some New York team. I place a bid anyway.
“Status,” Zoe murmurs in the comms.
“Biometric override’s holding steady,” Suri reports.
Then the band shifts into something slow, and Jeremiah pulls me onto the floor before I can protest.
“I’m a terrible dancer,” I say, laughing all the way.
He spins me under his arm. “You survived on ice skates. This should be a piece of cake.”
He pulls me in close after, one hand warm against my lower back, the other holding mine like it’s something precious, and for one whole song there’s no vault, no earpiece, no man across the room counting the minutes until he can ruin my life.
Just this. His chin against my hair. His heartbeat, steady under my palm.
“I just wanted one dance,” he murmurs. “One thing that’s not about anything else.”
Me too. Gosh, me too. Just this. Just for a little while.
I let myself have it, the whole song, every last bar of it, because I don’t know when I’ll get another one like it.
“Evita’s on the move.” Rue, sharp in my ear.
My whole body goes still. Over Jeremiah’s shoulder, I see the Argentinians rise from their table.
“I see,” I say.
Jeremiah pulls back an inch. “See what?”
“Pee. I really have to pee.”
He kisses my forehead and I excuse myself.
I dodge a waiter, a cluster of hockey bros, and a lady who’s had too much champagne already, and finally clear the doors.
“Ginger. Operation baguette.”
The second I’m through, she’s already in motion, planting herself in the entrance and informing the ma?tre d’, at full volume, that she has never in her life been asked to produce a reservation confirmation. Does he know who her family is? Get her the manager, immediately.
“Keep it up, baguette,” Rue says, amused. “It's working.”
“I’ve got eyes on Evita,” I say.
“Hobbs in pursuit,” Rue adds.
“Right on schedule.” Zoe says.
The whole confrontation with Ginger is escalating. “She actually fainted,” Ivy says.
The perfect distraction. That’s Rue’s cue.
Meanwhile, the Argentinians are twenty feet from the front desk and closing. I catch up to them just short of it.
“There you are!” I say, breathless. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”
The man gives me a look that says he has no idea who I am. “Excuse me?”
“You can’t leave.”
“Why not?”
Think. Think, think, think.
“Because… you won! The door prize. They just announced it. A private yacht tour. You have to come collect it, they’re waiting.”
The woman’s eyebrows lift. For one endless second I think she’s going to walk straight past me. Then she says something clipped to the man in German, no pretense of Spanish left in it at all.
Then Suri’s voice comes through the comms. “Vault door is breached. I’m in.”
“I could kiss you right now, Suri,” I say.
“What?” The blonde woman looks completely scandalized.
“I said… you could miss it right now. Hurry.”
“Oh.” Her lips press together in a wrinkly line.
“Roger that, Suri. Tanya, heading to the rendezvous.”
“Your turndown will be waiting.”
I hear the laptop close and the van door slide. Zoe is on the move.
The German-Argentinian man gives me a hard look.
“We will go,” he says.
I point them toward the red carpet. “Right that way. Ask for Brenda.”
There’s always a Brenda.
“Locked and loaded,” Rue says in a hurried voice. "Over and out."
“She made the switch,” I say. “Baguette, stage two.”
Whatever kind of fainting spell Ginger fabricated is over, followed by lots of French swearing at the poor soul trying to help her.
“I will take my complaint to the front desk,” she says.
I see Hobbs coming around the corner where the German-Argentinians just disappeared. I gotta go.
“Houston, we’ve got a problem.” Suri’s voice cracks through, and it isn’t a joke. “Copy me, Zoe. Do not leave the van.”
“I’ve got Hobbs on my tail.” I’m already moving. “Suri, what’s wrong?”
I can hear Zoe’s footsteps in the corridor and she says, “Talk to me. I’m already halfway to the trade-off point.”
“The vault has an internal mass scale. It’s measuring air displacement. I’ve got an automated lockdown counting down right now.”
“Oh no. The floor’s a scale. Suri, did you step on it?”
“No. My foot’s off the threshold. But the clock is ticking. Ninety seconds.”
“Don’t move,” Zoe cuts in. “Copy me, Suri. Do not step forward, and do not pull that door shut. Alarms auto-engage if it closes.”
“I’m aware,” Suri says, tight. “Standing very, very still.”
I take the first hallway I find, walking briskly but with the look of calm elegance. “Zoe, can you override this?”
“On my way back to the van.”
Then Ginger in her best French accent harasses the front desk.
I take another turn. Hobbs is somewhere behind me, closing in.
“Sixty seconds,” Suri says.
“I’m sprinting,” Zoe pants. “Just hold on.”
“Copy. Engine’s warm,” Dale says, entirely too cheerful.
Then, layered under it, a new voice. “Sir, you can’t park there.”
“I have to wait for my coworker.” Dale’s tone is instantly earnest. “Please, I’ll get written up.”
“Sir, there are no deliveries past ten.”
“Please? Just five more minutes. I’m sure she’ll be back lickety-split.”
Lickety-split?