Chapter 24 Ben
Ben
Dallas, Texas
Saturday night
There’s an art to schmoozing criminals. You don’t want to look too eager, or they’ll think you’re an informant. Too aloof,
and they’ll think you’re a cop. The trick is to be just corrupt enough to belong but not so corrupt someone assumes you’re
a threat and you end up in a ditch.
Which, considering the crowd and Ramirez’s growing suspicion, might be a very real possibility.
So here I am wearing my best “definitely not a federal agent” smile and nodding through another conversation about hedge funds,
offshore accounts, and the best way to “protect” assets in Singapore.
Oh, and in a charcoal gray suit that has the vibes of Daniel Craig’s Bond in Spectre—taste matters too.
Excusing myself from the conversation, I lift a glass of overpriced bourbon from a passing server’s tray and survey the crowd.
Ramirez has spared no expense tonight. Blackwood Prime isn’t one of those overhyped places where people take pictures of their
food. The steak house is tucked into a nondescript corner of the city, the kind of place you only know about if someone invites
you. No flashy signs, no glowy entrance. Just a single brushed-steel door and a valet who knows your name before you even
step out of the car.
Inside it’s modern and intimate. Low amber lighting, dark mahogany paneling, and black leather seating.
It’s a place built to look unassuming, but the handpicked wine list, not to mention the temperature-controlled wall-length glass case displaying rare dry-aged beef like museum pieces waiting to be sacrificed, screams money.
Since the restaurant is closed to the public tonight, I have no doubt that every server, every chef, and every bartender is
either hand-selected or paid off to keep their mouths shut. The guest list is impressive—enough financial corruption in one
room to give the SEC a heart attack.
But none of that matters to me. The only criminal on my radar is Ramirez. He’s not leaving anything to chance tonight—security
is stationed around the restaurant, with a team at the door scanning every guest. I give my breast pocket a quick pat, reassuring
myself that the hollowed-out pen hiding the YubiKey duplicator is still there.
“Gym socks and Doritos.”
Ruby’s voice crackles in my ear and I find a quiet corner. “What?”
“The smell.” She gags. “It’s like I’m stuck in my little brother’s bedroom circa his high school days.”
Tonight Ruby’s running surveillance in a van parked down the street. She wasn’t happy about being behind-the-scenes, but we
were left with little choice. There isn’t one person in this room who doesn’t have a wealth portfolio in the multimillions.
Ruby attended the museum gala as a colleague, and her presence tonight would have risked raising questions we didn’t want
to spend time answering. Instead, our focus became introducing Seth Jackson as “Grant Holloway”—a high-risk, high-reward investor
who owns Holloway Global Holdings.
A live jazz trio plays in the corner, and I find Seth holding up the wall near a hallway that leads to the restroom. Dressed
in a sharp suit and gold Rolex, our forensic accountant showed up tonight looking the part of interested investor who’s rumored
to have skirted regulations when it comes to projects he’s backed in energy, tech, and defense contracts.
Just the kind of guy Ramirez should spare a conversation with long enough to put our plan into action . . . if he didn’t look
suspect.
At six foot something, Seth usually has a commanding presence, but tonight his normally sharp eyes look glassy, his posture stiff.
“You got eyes on Holloway?” I ask Ruby.
“Yes.”
I keep watching him. “Does he look okay to you?”
“Sure.”
Ruby’s tone suggests that might not be entirely true. “What do you know that I don’t?”
She sighs. “He’s not feeling great. Kids had the flu, remember?”
I do, and my stomach twists. Ramirez already suspects Edmond of betraying him, and we can’t afford for anything to tip that
suspicion to our mission. “Why didn’t he say something to Katherine?”
“Would you?” Ruby countered. Okay, that’s fair. Katherine Scott’s reputation within the agency is built on success, and if an agent has the chance to work for her, it boosts
their career. No one wants to be the one who let her down or messed up her stellar track record.
I make my way to Seth, careful to monitor anyone watching us. “Hey, man, you good?”
Seth’s jaw tightens like he’s holding back a cough. “Yeah.”
“You look like you’re about to keel over. I can’t have my rich investor passing out in front of Ramirez.”
“If you really want to take someone down, make them drink after a sick toddler,” Seth deadpans, and I can’t tell if it’s the
low lights or if he actually looks green. “I’ll be fine.”
I want to believe him, but I’m unsure. Do I pull him off the mission? Can I do this without him?
A burst of laughter pulls my attention to a man chatting like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Julian Mercer is all wiry
muscle and quick reflexes and is here on behalf of the FBI, thanks to years of practice lifting everything from pocket squares
to state secrets.
He’s our ringer—the reformed criminal who cut a deal with the government for a get-out-of-jail card. Tonight our co-opted
asset gets to prove his worth by swiping the YubiKey off Ramirez—preferably without getting us all killed.
And right now, he might be my only hope of pulling off this mission if Seth is too sick to continue. I check the time.
“Shouldn’t be too long.” I give Seth another once-over. “I’ll be back to introduce you to Ramirez.”
“Feel better?” Ruby asks.
“Not even a little.”
“Well, don’t shoot the messenger, but Edmond and Langford have arrived.”
At the entrance, Cybil walks in, looking like a force of nature in a sleek black velvet dress that hugs her figure like it
was made for her—classy, striking, and gathering far too much attention from the men in the room. Her arm is tucked into the
crook of Sebastian’s elbow, her posture the perfect balance of elegance and control . . . and confidence. It’s like she knows
she belongs here among this crowd, and I’m unsure how to assess what that means.
Something tightens in my chest. Protect her. That’s what my racing heart is telling me, but my brain is warning me to be vigilant. As much as I don’t want to follow Rook’s
directive to “find out what she knows,” I need to know. Is Cybil working on behalf of her boss to double-cross Ramirez?
As if on cue, Ruby is there to make sure I don’t forget. “How are you going to handle this?”
I slip into the crowd but keep my eye trained on Cybil. Her dark hair falls effortlessly in waves down her back, and the desire
to run my hands through it has me feeling restless. Like I’m chasing something I can’t have. I should be thinking about the
mission, about Ramirez, about not getting killed—but all I can think about is how much I want to touch her again.
Is there any chance we come out of this and find a future together?
Behind them, Edmond enters, looking every bit the self-assured businessman. Would he really risk Cybil’s life to, what—make
more money? Destroy Ramirez’s deal? There’s nothing worth more than Cybil’s life, but I’m not Earl Edmond, and maybe to him
she’s expendable.
My eyes flick back to Cybil as she moves through the crowd with ease. Anger pulses hot under my collar. I’ll find out what Cybil knows, if for no other reason than to figure out how to keep her from being Edmond’s pawn. Protect her.
“I’m going to do my job,” I answer.
“You ready?”
Reluctantly, I drag my gaze away from Cybil and focus on Ramirez, who’s holding court at a private booth, cycling through
investors in tight fifteen-minute conversations. Just enough time to lure them in with promises of wealth so obscene they’d
never spend it all—even if they tried.
My pulse kicks up a notch. Time to introduce Grant Holloway to Ramirez. I signal Seth, who heads my way, and I’m immediately
worried. There’s a slight hesitation to his step, and he looks like he’s about two seconds away from face-planting into a
tray of beef tartare.
I turn to catch Julian Mercer’s attention, but he’s momentarily preoccupied—entirely captivated by a woman dripping in diamonds.
Or maybe it’s the other way around. We were warned about his habit of making casual while pulling off something highly illegal,
like discussing fine dining while lifting a security pass. But with the way she’s batting her lashes, I can’t tell if he’s
charming her or if she’s the one reeling him in.
Am I watching my whole plan go up in smoke?
Rook waves me over, and I don’t know if I need to stall, improvise, or start praying.
“We have a problem,” Ruby speaks into my ear.
Seth pauses, gives me a shake of his head, turns, and makes a beeline to the restroom. Not good.
“You’re seeing it too?”
“How does she know him?”
It takes me a second to realize she’s not talking about Seth. Her? I glance over at Julian. He’s either working his magic
or about to get himself engaged, but I don’t recognize the woman. “Is she a threat?”
“Isn’t that what you’re there to figure out?”
The man Ramirez was meeting with is leaving his seat. I don’t have time for Ruby’s sass. “I’ve never seen her before.”
There’s a second of silence before Ruby asks, “Who are you talking about?”
“The woman with Julian. Who are you talking about?”
“Your old girlfriend.”
I don’t bother correcting Ruby as I scan the room for Cybil. I find her talking to an older man in a nearly black tailored
suit. His posture is rigid, shoulders broad, and he’s carrying a little around the middle, but something warns me the man
isn’t out of shape. He’s built like someone who spends more time giving orders than throwing punches.
“Who is he?”
“Milosh Kamarov. Former Russian intelligence turned private security consultant.”
From the van, Ruby is running facial recognition through an exterior camera we installed on a light post the day before. I
still don’t know who was following me in Italy and/or if they’re connected to whoever was digging into my alias.
“Should I be concerned?”
Ruby’s voice crackles in my ear, low and grim. “Remember that intel op in Moscow a few years back? The one where three agents
went in and never came out? Milosh’s name was all over it.”
“Awesome. A KGB David Copperfield.” Rook looks over at me and I acknowledge him, but I move in the opposite direction. Yep, definitely time to pray.
“What are you going to do?”
“Try to salvage this mission.”
Cybil and Milosh. The more I think about it, the less sense it makes. Does she even know who she’s talking to? If I wasn’t
already questioning her taste in company, I sure am now. I don’t know which is worse—her having no clue the danger she’s in
or me pretending I’m not already halfway in love with her and willing to risk everything to protect her.