Chapter 2
Two
The lull of the captain’s voice gently pulls me into consciousness as we descend.
It’s a bright afternoon in Chicago, and I’m thankful again for the sunglasses.
At the curb, I hail a cab and head to the Windscape Hotel.
It takes forty minutes to get there, and then I’m standing in front of an impressively detailed facade with my small luggage hoping the old four-story building has an elevator.
Despite its exterior, inside the Windscape is a classy place.
It has been modernized without erasing the character that speaks to a different era.
It isn’t huge but isn’t too small either.
The boutique hotel has sparkling floors, a ton of woodwork, and what looks like an impressive little restaurant inside.
I cross the beautiful floors of the front lobby to the service desk and check in. As I’d hoped, my careless appearance and modest clothing barely earn me a glance from the concierge—whom, incidentally, is so old he looks like he may drop dead at any moment.
After turning down the offer to assist with my luggage, I’m given the room key and waved toward the elevator.
Once alone, I slip the key card from the little paper sleeve.
On the front is an elegant monogram for the hotel, and on the back is a question, below it an answer.
The text is in cursive that appears to have been written during the manufacturing of the card.
No effort spared, apparently.
The elevator pings, and the doors glide open to a wide hallway.
It’s hard not to admire the details as I head toward my room.
Dark wood floors, polished to a glass-like finish and the warm buttery color of the walls are broken by ornate mirrors hung at even intervals; it makes me feel like I’ve stepped out into the corridors of a palace.
When I cross in front of the first mirror, I discover I look even more careless than I intended. My hair has begun tumbling out of the bun and is sticking out all over, and my lipstick is mostly gone, leaving my lips looking tattered and dry. I can’t believe I walked through the airport like this.
It's almost five when I check my watch, which means I have enough time to sort myself out and complete my other tasks before my colleague arrives around eight. My room is midway down the hall, and I hoist my suitcase on the bed next to a small black case that was already here when I entered.
My first order of business is my hair; it needs a makeover. I call down to the front desk and give the concierge quick directions before hanging up and sweeping the room for bugs.
Standard protocol dictates that I check all the vents, light fixtures, fire extinguisher, smoke alarm, electronics, and telephones.
Once I’m satisfied that no one is listening, I pull out the hotel’s schematics from my file and commit it to memory.
While technology would make things easier, I can’t risk being tracked or hacked.
Every floor of the hotel is laid out the same, so I focus on where the exits and service area accesses are and then glance out the window.
If the need arises, but I’m unable to get out of the room, the best escape will be through the window and across the ledge to the neighboring balcony; otherwise, it is down the hall to the stairs and through the delivery dock at the back.
With due diligence done, I unzip the black case and load the Beretta I requested before placing it in the back of my jeans and pulling my T-shirt over it.
If the wrong person shows up here, I’ve got to be ready.
A second, smaller gun goes down between the cushions of the small couch at the periphery of the room.
My preparations are interrupted by a knock at the door, and my heart leaps. It’s too early.
“Concierge, madam,” someone croaks from the other side of the door.
Looking out the peephole, I relax when I see the same old, near-death gentleman I saw in the lobby earlier. I open the door and take the box from his hand before tipping him generously.
In the bathroom, I place the gun on the counter and then lock myself in and get to work.
***
It’s getting late by the time I emerge with fresh hair.
The red dye gave the existing black a bit more dimension.
It won’t last long—red never does—but it looks fresh, and I don’t feel like such a mess anymore.
The shower helped. Pulling out fresh undergarments, I slip into a black set, and I’m just fastening the bra when there is another knock at the door.
Taking a steady breath, I grab the key card from the bed and flip it over, rechecking the question and answer before tossing it aside and grabbing the gun.
Meeting an operative for the first time is always interesting.
I guess it’s a good sign that he knocked when he could have just used his key and walked right in.
Very polite, even if he is catching me barely dressed either way.
Most of them are anal, paranoid, and suspicious. It comes with the territory and keeps them alive, I’m sure, but it’s the ones that are awkward or new to the field that I dislike. It makes my job harder, and I never know what I am going to get until we meet.
Opening the door, I step back behind it as a shield and don’t look at him initially. One of my hands is gripping the door and the other is gripping the gun pointed at the back of the door.
“Why does the black cat cross the road at night?”
“It is the night watch of those who lurk in the shadows,” he says calmly through his thick British accent.
He stops in the center of the room with his back to me, and his shoulders relax. A gun I can’t see clicks as the safety is put back on, so I do the same before closing and locking the door.
I’ve never been greenlit to shoot a colleague before, which makes me wonder just how vital this mission of his is, and what it’s really going to require of me. My mouth waters at the possible information I might discover here.
He throws his bag onto the bed and then casually turns to face me as I empty the bullet from the chamber of my gun and set the piece on the console. When our eyes meet, the expression of feigned boredom I had planned to give him shifts to curiosity.
He’s not what I expected.
The generalized description I received doesn’t match.
He’s not balding, his hair is trimmed down to the scalp, and he’s about six foot one, with piercing blue eyes and a day or two of stubble across his jaw.
Mid to late thirties, he is not the usual operative I encounter because there isn’t anything average about him.
The hungry appraisal on his face as he lifts his hand to rub his jaw is hard to ignore, but then again, I am in nothing but a bra and underwear.
His eyes don’t linger long though, and he turns away, shrugging off his suit jacket.
I measure him up as he gets situated, noticing that he’s quite fit as he rolls up his sleeves and clocks me from the corner of his eye.
“Did I interrupt something?” He gestures toward me. “Or is answering the door naked a custom?”
“More like an unfortunate happenstance,” I say smoothly. “You’re early. I was in the middle of getting dressed.”
“Happenstance or not, I wouldn’t say it’s unfortunate,” he says in a low tone as he averts his gaze and removes his shoes.
The way his accent caresses words should be a crime, and when his tongue strokes his lower lip, I find myself wetting my own in response.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Yes, sex has happened on the job before, but it’s most often to fool someone who gets a little too close to uncovering the lie trying to be sold.
I can’t say any of those times have been noteworthy, and they certainly weren’t born of desire, that’s for sure.
Spies and agents are far more pedestrian-looking than you’d expect, which helps them blend in, and pretty much ensures I don’t find them at all attractive.
This guy though . . . he’s not pedestrian at all. In fact, if he talks much more, that accent and gravelly tone will get the better of me.
He walks over to the minibar in the corner and begins fixing himself a drink, and I decide I need to stop standing here half-dressed.
“Would you like something?” He gestures at the bar.
“Hm, no,” I say a little hoarsely, which draws his attention. “I think I’m just going to continue getting dressed,” I add more softly, controlling my tone.
Inhaling the aroma from his glass of whiskey, he closes his eyes, and I move to grab the dress I laid out on the back of the chair beside him.
Pulling it over my head, he swallows a mouthful loudly, letting out a grumbled breath that makes the hair on my arms stand as I pull the dress down over my ass.
“Dinner?” I turn to find him standing right in front of me.
“Starved,” he says slowly as his eyes shift down and then flick back up when he takes another sip.
Stepping away, I open my suitcase and pull out my heels.
He sets the glass down and begins putting his own shoes back on.
I adjust the simple black dress, which is an appropriate length and doesn’t reveal too much cleavage, although the thin straps leave my shoulders bare.
I’m supposed to be his “wife,” not a hooker .
. . although there is a very good chance that in a couple of hours, I’m going to be acting like he paid for me with the way my heart is starting to race.
In this case, it wouldn’t be a bad thing. Perk of the job, really.
The sound of tsking breaks into my thoughts, and my attention moves to him to find his eyes on the shawl in my hand. “Now, why would you do that?”
I drop it robotically, which he follows with a sound of approval as he slides his jacket back on. This one is particular. It’s common, and it tends to indicate a high success rate, so I don’t let the bossiness bother me.