Chapter 4
Raine
And this is where my new co-worker and I come in.
“Like I said earlier, there are three phases to this assignment. Phase one is an elimination of the first target,” O says, opening the file and sliding a surveillance photo across the desk towards Soren and me. “This is Lukas Klein, a German-American arms broker.”
I glance at the image of a man with a lean build, everyday face. Nothing special about him. Then again, these black market assholes always look like your friendly neighborhood mailman.
“He’s a major player in weapons deals across the US and Eastern Europe and is extraordinarily private. Underneath it all, he’s a piece of shit. And he’s in orbit with this man.”
Another photo slides across the desk. A middle-aged man in an expensive suit, mid-laugh, whiskey in hand, stares up at me.
“Carson Oden,” O confirms. “Officially? He’s a high-flying hospitality kingpin. Unofficially? Still a businessman, but with a hard-on for the underworld. Arms-dealing enabler, he’s money motivated, driven by greed and power.”
The photos sit side by side on the desk.
“They’re partners, and have been for the last year, but never met face-to-face,” O remarks, holding his index finger in the air.
“But for the first time, they are set to meet to discuss an upcoming weapons deal. That’s our advantage.
You’ll eliminate Lukas before he has a chance to meet Carson.
Then, Soren? You’ll become Lukas. We’ll rebuild his digital profile: passport, biometrics …
Everything down to his fuckin’ Instagram profile, so if Carson looks into you—which he will—everything tracks. Phase one clear?”
Soren studies the photo of Lukas, then sets it down. He nods.
“Good. Phase two unfolds in New York, where you’ll be based.”
O taps the keyboard, and an image of a cartoon black panther with golden claws emerges from a golden triangle.
“Carson owns a chain of exclusive clubs called the Golden Claw. These are members-only clubs, with high-end clientele. Carson does a lot of brokering here. And this is where Carson will meet Lukas.”
“What do these two have to do with PARM-17?”
“Good question.” He slides a third photo across the desk. “Do you recognize this man?”
Hard not to, that smug-ass face is everywhere. Senator Wilson is a media whore, kissing babies, spewing all that America First bullshit.
“Intel confirms it’s Wilson who has access to PARM-17.
He’s an associate of Carson’s and intelligence suggests he’s hired Carson to broker the deal, keeping his hands clean,” O continues.
“This is where you come in, Raine. You’ll work at the Golden Claw.
We need you to get close to Carson, listen and watch everything this prick does: who he talks to, what he drinks, when he eats, sleeps, or takes a fucking dump, I want to know.
It’s imperative Carson doesn’t shop the serum around.
We need it to be offered to Lukas and Lukas only. ”
“What makes you think Carson will have these conversations in front of me?”
“You’ll make it happen,” he states, like it’s the easiest thing in the world for me to do. “He uses the women who work for him to entertain and disarm his guests. If he begins having meetings with people who aren’t Soren, then we need to know who they are so you and Soren can take care of it.”
“Take care of them, you mean,” Soren says darkly.
O blinks before a slight head nod, confirming exactly that.
“When does this start?”
O slides two phone-like devices towards us.
“Lukas has just returned to the US. He’s based in an off-grid cabin outside of Boston.
Coordinates, access, known associates, everything is all here.
” O taps the device. “Review it all, familiarize yourself, and in one week from now, I want this prick dead.”
Picking at my fingernails, my mind races. I have dozens of questions, multiplying by the minute. Like, how the hell did a Senator come into possession of PARM-17? How was this serum created? And why is my new work partner the hottest man alive?
Of course, I’m not going to ask any of those questions. (Especially the last one.) I’m on a “need to know” basis. It’s not my job to know it all, but this one seems dark. Even for me.
“Do I need to be involved in the first phase? I’m sure Soren can take care of one target on his own.”
“Of course he’s capable, but I want you both involved,” O says, with a finality to his tone that gets under my skin.
“It’s a straightforward assassination. The perfect opportunity for you two to learn how each other operates.
Think of it as a bonding experience, a dress rehearsal before the real show starts. ”
My toes curl in my boots at the thought.
“Payment?” Soren asks.
I scoff a smile. Of course he’s about the money.
“Seven figures. Each.”
Soren nods, seemingly pleased. Money doesn’t mean shit to me. Freedom on the other hand … Well, no point in wishing for things that are completely and utterly impossible.
“Any other questions?”
“Yeah,” Soren growls. “Why her?”
My eyes snap to him. “Why her?” I echo, one eyebrow arched and offended as fuck. Out of the myriad of questions he should ask about the Mission Impossible coded assignment, that’s his first question?
Agent O chuckles. “Don’t let her looks fool you. She’s the Angel of Death for a reason.”
“I’m not responsible for her.”
I keep my glare locked on Soren. “Likewise, asshole.”
“Hey!” Agent O slams his palms down on the desk, forcing our attention back to him.
Neither of us flinch. “Check your goddamn egos at the door. Your preferences, your needs, and your wants don’t matter.
If you think for one minute this is a quick in-and-out job, then you are severely underestimating this assignment.
These people do not fuck around. These aren’t low-level criminals.
These guys are high on the food chain. And just because you’re Agency operatives, that doesn’t make you untouchable.
So get over yourselves and remember who the fuck you work for. ”
***
The weight of the mission drags behind me as I shove open the front doors of the Agency’s manor. The sky overhead is the same slate gray as earlier, although the rain has subsided for now. I stomp down the slick stone stairs, not caring if my boots half submerge in a puddle.
Which they totally do.
Sliding on my helmet, I throw a leg over my Ducati, eager to get the hell out of here. Firing up the engine, I straddle my bike and slip my gloves on. All I want is to get away from here as fast as fucking possible. Away from Agent O and Soren’s stupid-ass good looks.
Why me?
The audacity to question me like that. To dislike me on sight. That almost never happens. I’m annoyed at how offended I am. Why do I care about the opinion of an asshole I’ve just met?
Before I can twist the throttle and vanish, I hear the crunch of boots against wet gravel.
“Hey!”
Oh, joy and rapture. Soren and his annoyingly (yet sexy) repulsive (but oh-so-smooth) liquid caramel voice.
He approaches me, stopping behind my bike. I angle my head towards him and lower the visor, putting a barrier between me and his dangerously gorgeous eyes.
“You stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of yours,” he orders. “Angel of Death or not—I don’t babysit no bitch.”
His words rake over my skin, like nails down a blackboard.
B-I-T-C-H?!
I don’t waste a second.
The Ducati’s engine roars loud as I twist the throttle all the way to full tilt.
My fingers dance over both the clutch and the brakes.
I pull them both enough to kick the back wheel into a violent spin.
The sound is an ear-splitting, vicious squeal that causes Soren to squint.
Gravel sprays in all directions as the motorcycle fishtails, creating a fountain of dirt, mud, and rocks which shower onto the dumbass who thinks he’s in control of this conversation.
The look on Soren’s face is everything.
First, surprise, then embarrassment, and lastly, pure rage.
He raises an arm, trying to shield his face from the gravel as I laugh into my helmet, undeniably wicked.
Fighting fire with lighter fluid? Who? Me? Sure.
Nobody calls me a bitch.
Nobody.
With a quick flick of my wrist, I flip him the middle finger. I twist the throttle one last time, and the Ducati surges forward, devouring the road beneath me. I don’t bother to look back.
Now who’s a bitch, bitch?