Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
“I’m going to need your trust tonight.” He hands me the garment bag. “You won’t have a weapon because of security measures. We’ll be relying on Will to watch our backs and intervene if necessary.”
“The idea of him watching me through a scope all night isn’t the reassurance you think it is.” I accept the bag and head into the washroom to get ready.
I pin my hair back in a twist and curl the little tendrils that won’t stay put. After putting in the colored contact lenses, I sculpt and contour my face until I barely recognize myself and finish the look with fake lashes and a glossy nude lip.
When I unzip the garment bag and find the dress I bought in it, a swell of emotion hits me again, and I rub at my chest. Why is he doing this? He really didn’t like the idea of me wearing this.
Once the satin dress is on and my heels are fastened, I step out into the apartment to find him, half-expecting him to be upset when he realizes he handed me the wrong dress.
But he isn’t upset. He’s waiting by the kitchen with a drink in his hand wearing an immaculate tux that has been tailored to his frame. From the crisp white shirt to the precisely set bowtie, down to the cufflinks that catch the light as he sips his whiskey, he looks perfect.
I keep my head up when he exhales loudly, and a muscle in his jaw feathers as he sets his glass down.
“I got you something.” He picks up a small glass bottle from the counter and flips it upside down before removing the glass stopper. He presses it below my ear.
The scent is light, fresh, faintly floral. It reminds me of something that I can’t put my finger on. “What’s this called?”
“Paradise.”
“Hm. It’s familiar . . .” He sets it back on the counter and picks up a black box and hands it to me. “What’s this for?”
“Open it.”
Inside I find two matching, wide gold bangles that he lifts and slides over each of my hands. They cover the nearly healed cuts around my wrists that I’d completely forgotten about. I stare at them momentarily, daunted by his attention to detail while also feeling grateful for it.
“Time to go.”
I grab my small clutch without a word and avoid his eyes again as we head out. I need to keep my head clear tonight, and we’re already off to a bad start.
We drive about thirty minutes and pull into Arlington Cemetery, where he parks the car and guides me through the parking lot. A town car pulls in, stopping us midway, and he pulls the door open for me.
The town car takes us over the Potomac. After a bit of a delay in traffic, he’s helping me out of the car, and we’re making our way to the Lincoln Monument. The air is chill, and I shiver without a coat.
At the checkpoint, security waves metal detecting wands over us that beep on my bracelets and York’s watch, but after they check his invitation, we’re waved through without issue.
Climbing all the stairs warms me up a bit, and we melt into the crowd at the top.
There are waiters in white coats sailing through the throngs easily, delivering and collecting drinks as the who’s who of DC mills about the historic monument.
With my arm through his, York leads me into the monument, where the dance floor is staged and no expense has been spared, from the flower arrangements to the champagne and caviar.
Tents are set up below the steps outside in case the weather turns, and the black fabric billowing down the wall behind Lincoln features the Agency’s emblem in an odd Third Reich kind of way.
My skin pimples slightly at the sight of it, and I look around as I sip champagne.
The place is crowded enough that I am not obvious.
Everyone is finely dressed in glittering fabrics and expensive tuxedos, so we fit in, but I haven’t caught sight of Russel yet.
Jazz begins playing, and people move to the dance floor, but York folds us into the onlookers, trailing me behind him as he prowls for his target.
A few minutes later, I’m tugging him to a gentle halt as I set my glass on a passing tray, and he does the same.
I lead him to the dance floor, and he follows warily but sweeps me into his frame without hesitation once we hit the floor. We begin moving through the crowd, and I don’t know why I’m at all surprised that he can dance.
“The Director is at the top of the stairs.” I brush my nose against his, and he turns us, looking past me.
“Good.” He nods and turns me back the other way. “I need a drink.”
We finish the dance, twirling across the floor toward the bar and clapping when the song ends. Lacing his fingers with mine, he leads me off the floor. The bartender readies a glass of champagne as we approach, which I accept, but York waves the bartender off and turns to face me.
“You look lovely,” he murmurs. “Truly.”
My cheeks burn, and I look down at my glass for a second. “I thought you hated this dress.”
“No, I hate everyone looking at your ass in it.”
“I’m going home with you.”
“Are you?” His brows don’t rise as he leans closer and kisses the spot beside my mouth. “Forgive me.”
I pull back, confused, and he strides past me.
When I turn to follow him, I end up face-to-face with Russel Wainwright instead. Caught off guard, we both stare at each other for a moment before he grabs my arm and drags me out onto the dance floor.
“Bold,” he grits out as he tugs me into him.
The Director is an unassuming man. Thick blond hair that is graying at the temples is thrust back from a lightly weathered face that houses mossy-green eyes.
Somewhere in his early fifties, Russel stands a few inches taller than me, and although he isn’t overweight, he’s soft.
The congenial exterior hides a criminal mind and the morals of a cockroach .
. . although it never bothered me before he wanted me dead.
“I didn’t realize you had such big balls,” he breathes out as he locks my frame, and a waltz begins. “Fuck, I could have you shot out back right now.”
“I could threaten the same.”
“Please,” he scoffs. “You are in way over your head.”
“You would be too if I painted you a traitor . . . oh, wait a second,” I hiss. “You are one.”
“Yes, but my position on the totem pole ensures you burn before I do.”
“Fire catches,” I exhale, collecting myself and trying to let the feelings go.
We take a turn around the room, and it isn’t long before I notice our position is being closed in on. I’m not sure how he signaled them, but several suits are now waiting discreetly at the edge of the dance floor.
“I’m the best you have,” I say softly and look into his eyes. “I’ve been loyal, effective, prolific . . . Why would you do this to me?”
“Intelligence is a shifting landscape, Tripoli. Sometimes we have to sacrifice things to stay on top. You know that.” We stop dancing, and he cups my face. “A real patriot knows the cost of service.”
My eyes search his, stunned. “The things I know will bury you.”
“I know.” He gestures with his hand over my shoulder.
The shuffling of heavy footfalls is interrupted by a zipping sound before something warm splashes across my back, and Russel spins me around, pinning me to his chest. Screaming and shouting erupt as I stare at the two agents on the floor before us.
Puddles of blood seep out beneath them as partygoers dart for safety.
“On me!” Russel shouts, and more agents come forward.
Two more drop as they cross in front of Lincoln’s effigy. The others stop, hovering at the edges of the shooter's perceived sights as Russel uses me to shield himself and shuffles back.
“Sir!” Someone shouts over the commotion from behind us. “This way!”
I’m dragged backward, my heels slipping and twisting on the floor as we move through the interior of the monument, dodging panicked guests until we reach the far end.
There’s a close, loud bang that makes me startle, and Russel freezes. The telltale sound of a body slumping to the floor makes me glance over my shoulder, but the sprawled-out legs of whoever was behind us is all I can see.
There is a soft, teasing whistle, and my head snaps forward. York is standing in front of me with his gun leveled on us.
“Who the fuck are you?” Russel bites out as he grabs me by the jaw.
“The king sends his love.” York’s eyes shift to mine. “Careful, dove.”
My breath catches, and I drop like a deadweight as the gun goes off.
Russel’s hand slips from my face, and I stumble forward into York, who pushes me behind him as gunfire erupts anew within the stone walls.
My eyes fall to Russel as I’m pulled past him, but the zip and whine of high-velocity rounds begin again and force me to press into the wall and focus.
Bullets and screaming, blood spatter, and people on the floor turn my breath shallow as my eyes dart from body to body, and York continues taking out agent after agent.
Fumbling, fingers twitching, I undo the buckles on my shoes and kick them off before slipping away from York and running the rest of the way down the room.
At the end of it, I hop off the ledge and drop down to the lower lawn.
The road that rings the monument is only a hundred yards away, so I dart from the trees, pulling my dress up as I make a break for it.
The sound of distant sirens pulls my attention to the left, and then something bites into my arm so sharply I scream out as I twist and fall to my back on the damp grass. There are no stars visible in the light-polluted night sky above.
“Fuck,” I groan and reach for my arm. My fingers retract warm and slick with blood as I hold them in front of my face. “What the hell . . .”
A gun cocks, and I tilt my head as someone materializes out of the dark. “William?”
An explosion goes off, and my eyes widen at the plume of smoke and debris that goes up near the reflecting pool.
Everything is falling apart.
“You,” he grunts, and I blink, reaching for my arm again. “Fucking snakes, all of you.”
“You,” I say back, and look back up at the night sky, stunned. “It was you, wasn’t it? You’re the one that was working with Babylon in Venice.”
“Will.” York’s voice cuts through air before William can answer. “Back off.”
“Patriotism,” I murmur Williams earlier sentiment to myself and exhale deeply as another piece of the puzzle slots into place.
“You’re all British,” I surmise and hiss as I squeeze my arm, afraid to look at it.
If he’s the one that was working with Babylon, then he has to be British. “That makes more sense . . .”
“Carter said she would figure it out,” August’s voice chimes in, but from farther away.
“Double agents,” I whisper to myself and stare back up at the sky.
That means they’re all immigrants with citizenship who never lost loyalty and ties to Britain, either plants or sleepers .
. . or they’re Americans who were turned, but that seems less likely.
Fuck, I wonder if anyone at the Agency knows there are British sleepers in America .
. . That is some newsworthy information.
“Why the fuck is the Agency stealing British intel?” William grinds out, moving his trained muzzle closer.
When I glance at York, his gun is trained on William’s back, and I exhale.
“We’re stealing everyone’s intel,” I groan. “We’re even watching our own.”
“Will!” York shouts. “I’ve already dealt with this. Stand down!”
“We have to go now, or we won’t get out,” August urges from the sidelines as the sirens grow louder.
William drops his muzzle. “I’m not fucking done with you.”
Grabbing me, he yanks me up, and I choke on a scream as my injured arm flails.
York snaps, punching William with the gun still in his fist.
“That’s it,” August cuts in and grabs me around the waist.
I’m hurried across the back lawn by August and out to the ring road, cutting through a sparsely treed boulevard until we come upon the black town car again. August lets me go to hop in the driver’s seat as the three of us clamber into the back.
“Get out of here quickly, or we won’t get Carter before the roads are blocked,” William says, peering out the window.
“Don’t fucking tell me shit,” August snaps. “You’re the one that went off-script and screwed the timings.”
“I can’t believe you fucking shot her,” York growls as he takes my arm carefully.
“Don’t.” I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut. “Leave it, please.”
August takes us on the exterior ring, swinging down a narrow road where we stop, and the passenger door opens and closes before we continue.
We drive around the long way to avoid the roads being systematically closed as authorities set up a perimeter around the monument.
Taking the highway bridge across the river this time, it takes longer to get back to Arlington, but the traffic isn’t bad, and we avoid coming across any of the barricades.
By the time we reach the cemetery, I’m pressed heavily against York, shivering.
“Ditch this car,” York tells them as he opens the door and grabs onto me. “I’ll see you at the rendezvous.”
I get myself out slowly with his help, and he slings his jacket around my shoulders before helping me into his car. Shortly after, we’re speeding down back roads in the middle of the night while I consider if my time with him is officially up.