Chapter 38
Thirty-Eight
“Little Lies” by Fleetwood Mac pours quietly from my lips as I work to twist the wires together. There is something about their lyrics that makes me feel like they were writing the story of my life rather than their own.
“Almost there?” York’s voice cuts into my song.
“Yes, thirty seconds, and then I’m out of here.”
“Roger.” He breathes harshly, and I pause.
“Is everything all right?”
“Fine,” he hisses.
“Bottlecap, what’s happening?” I push the wires carefully down and replace the housing. It’s taken a bit of getting used to radio convention and using our code names consistently. I’m constantly tempted to call him William.
“Just an unexpected guest,” William says evenly. “It’s taken care of. I see you’re done. Move your little ass out of there now . . . Stay low.”
Looking over my shoulder, I pick William out in the distance on the low roof and stick my tongue out. He chuckles over the radio, and I shift away from the car and kneel, untying and then retying my shoelace.
“I’m inside,” York cuts back in.
Standing, I resume running down the sidewalk with “Little Lies” on my lips again as I check my watch. Cutting it close.
Dealing with the people we’ve been dealing with since arriving in South America, things have gone rather smoothly.
I kept my word, learning enough demolitions to do this job but knowing there is so much more to learn.
I have to make up for killing Carter, though.
I do regret that now. I liked Carter . .
. He was a counterweight in the group and a nice person, I think, despite killing August easily. I’ll probably always regret it.
I jog around the corner, slow to a walk, and then cut across the nearby plaza. The bag I hid is waiting where I left it, and I grab it as I walk past the overgrown bushes and duck into an alley and disappear behind the buildings.
Quickly, I stop and open the bag, slipping on the short white skirt over my shorts and the black shirt over the sports bra, tucking it in as I toe off my runners and socks, swapping them for the heels in the bag.
Once swapped, I pull a book and my purse from the bag and head down to the next narrow alley, tossing the bag into a dumpster as I come back out to the street.
“Strut faster. You’re running late,” William chirps in my ear, and I hold up my hand to an oncoming car as I cross the road. Walking up the other side of the street, I see the café ahead. “Will you be all right?”
“I think I can handle sitting pretty for a little while.”
“Yes, if things go to plan,” York says, sounding winded again. What is he doing?
Shaking off the curiosity as I arrive at the café, I locate my mark and take the table next to him, ordering a latte and pulling out a book.
The accountant has coffee here every morning, and sometimes he uses it to conduct meetings. This morning, however, we are expecting him to be solo. Conveniently, I’ve also been coming here in the mornings this week, so I’m becoming a familiar sight. It’s just a distraction, though; I’m babysitting.
The server drops off my coffee, and I thank him before taking a sip. My eyes rise, finding the accountant, and our gaze pauses on one another. I give a coy smile before setting down my coffee and picking up the book again.
York is currently at the accountant’s office, hacking into the account we’re after.
If only it were as simple as emptying it into our own coffers, but no, the client wants a shitstorm to incite a regime change.
What better way to do that than by framing one crime lord for the theft of the other’s money?
Personally, I think a bank hack is a bit lackluster .
. . but it will be effective. Once they trace the fund transfer back to the accountant here, who works for the rival crime lord, heads will begin rolling.
Street crime will escalate, the government will scramble to deal with it, and the opposition will scream incompetence or no-confidence . . . and so on.
Luckily, I left my conscience in the dust when I became a Raven.
“I’ve got incoming, and I need more time,” York says quickly.
“Balloon popping,” William says, and a moment later, there is a loud blast as the car bomb I set goes off. The café patrons gasp and look around, and I clutch my chest in surprise and look around too, reinforcing my shock. Smoke appears above the line of buildings across the street.
“Good. I’ll be clear in two,” York says.
The accountant gets to his feet, peering across the street as he reaches into his pocket and withdraws a phone.
I didn’t put the bomb too close to his offices, although it is close enough to be a concern, close enough to distract anyone heading into the office to stop and walk down the road a bit to see the commotion.
Still, I can’t have him making any calls.
“I wonder what that was,” I say innocently.
Looking down at me, the accountant smiles reassuringly. “Car accident, likely.”
“Yeah.” I shake my head gently with a smile. “Sorry, I’m not used to things like that . . . I’ve heard it can sometimes be . . . dangerous here.”
Dropping the phone back into his pocket, he retakes his seat. “Sometimes, yes. Did you just move here?”
“No, work trip.”
“What do you do?”
“Finance, venture capitalist-type stuff.”
“Really?” He leans back in his chair. “Looking for investors?”
“Maybe.” I pick up my coffee. “The project is hush-hush—Patents are still pending.”
“Ah.” He smiles slightly.
“York is clear. Vault is to move to position two. Bottlecap is falling back to position three,” William directs us.
“Well, things to do.” I slide my chair back and grab the book. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“I’d like that.” The accountant nods and watches as I walk off the patio and head down the street.
I’ll likely never see him again. Chances are he’ll be dead in a few days once the theft gets traced back to him. Today, I just needed to ensure he didn’t head to his offices before York could complete the hack. It’s nice when things go smoothly.
But now we need to really sell the narrative, which calls for a few key bodies to drop. The money has been stolen. Now we need to cripple the cashflow on the streets to ensure it looks like one criminal enterprise is moving against the other in no uncertain terms.
My heel clicks on the sidewalk are drowned out by a couple of police cars that speed by with their sirens wailing.
“Bottlecap in position three.” William’s voice crackles in my ear. “Vault, check in.”
“Vault approaching position two. Standby,” I reply.
Vault. That’s the code name they gave me, and they didn’t take any arguments against it. It’s fine. I am a vault; it just sounds boring. Could be worse though—I could go by Bottlecap.
With a smirk, I approach the building notorious for drug activity. It’s surprisingly discreet in appearance, but there is a lot of activity in and out of it, and according to the city records, it’s a derelict transport company. Very busy place for having gone under thirty years ago.
It's funny how lazy some criminals are . . . and how corrupt city officials and police can be in places like this. I climb the steps and ring the bell beside the secured door. I don’t have a meeting scheduled, and no one is expecting me, but that’s fine.
I don’t need to get in; I need them to come out.
“Vault in position for handoff,” I whisper, slipping my hand into my purse.
The door opens, and a man in a suit regards me solemnly. I pull the envelope, thick with cash, out of my purse. The name scrawled across the front belongs to the man who rides the big desk inside—I don’t even know what he looks like.
The man in the doorway weighs the thick little envelope in his hand with a nod, and I leave without saying a word. Down the steps, I continue on my path, eager to get out of the way. One thing that is reliable here is no one is going to say no to a wad of money.
“Package delivered. Vault falling back to exfil.”
“Roger,” William replies. “Awaiting bottleneck.”
It’s hard to say when they’ll open the envelope.
I assume it won’t take long. The incendiary device inside will give a nice pop and burn anything within a few feet of it.
It’s hard to pack much of a punch in an envelope between bills, but the goal isn’t to blow the place up—it’s to cause a fire and empty it out.
“Here they come,” William says, and I hear the zip of a sniper’s bullet behind me.
Increasing my pace, I take the next corner and keep moving as the sound of his rifle recoiling repeatedly in my ear makes me want to pull the earbud out. William will take out every person that exits the place, and we have to hope we get the few valuable ones among them.
“Four down. York, confirm you are at exfil,” William says, bullets and shouts still audible from where I am.
“York?” William says again, and I stop in my tracks. “York?”
“Focus. I’ll check on York.”
Hurrying as best I can in heels, I flag down a cab and direct it to the docks where we’re all supposed to meet. I don’t see York when I get out, and I walk a bit, thinking he might have gotten hurt and couldn’t get all the way to the designated spot, but nothing. I don’t see any trace of him.
“York isn’t here.” I try to keep the panic from my voice. “I repeat, York is MIA.”
“Fall back,” William orders. “Follow protocol.”
“I . . .” My eyes sweep along the docks again, and a numbness begins to settle in my mind. “Come get me,” I whisper.
This was a bad idea. Them. This team. It’s impossible to be objective and detached, to operate like a robotic soldier when I am so very obviously attached. I’ve lost my edge.
“Coming,” William says, sounding displeased, but my throat clogs with emotion knowing he’s coming because I asked.
I pull the comms from my ear and pinch the bridge of my nose.
Worry begins to consume me, and I slink into an alley and slump against the wall. These men are getting to me.
I’m not sure how long I’m in my fog of uncertainty and regret when I hear William’s low voice call my name.
Shifting, I look around the corner and meet his gaze immediately. He doesn’t come closer, we just stare at each other silently for a beat before he holds his hand out low, wordlessly beckoning me.
It’s all it takes.
I slink from my spot and meet him, sliding my hand into his offered grip. “Turn it off,” he commands in a whisper. “Turn it. Off.”
I nod, knowing he’s right, and take a deep breath. Closing my eyes I push the worry and everything else deep down until I feel my shoulders droop and my face relax.
“Good.” He kisses the top of my head. “Come. We don’t have a lot of time.”
He pulls the door to the car idling at the curb open, and I slip in. We aren’t five minutes into the drive when I feel emotion clawing its way back up to the surface. A quick glance at William’s blank face reminds me that this isn’t the time.
He glances at me, and it all dies back down.
This is the game I signed up for, and I signed up for it well before York and William came along. I’ve got this.
And if I don’t?
Well, that’s what screaming into pillows is for.
Later.
In private.
I look out the window as the city whirs by, careful to keep my face blank even as my mind screams his name in its recesses, and my heartrate begins to soar despite every effort to calm it.
York . . . where are you?