“Desmond?” I asked yet again.
My voice and touch didn’t wake him, but he shuddered out a breath, and his body relaxed a bit, as though something had pulled him out of whatever horror he’d been reliving.
“Blue,” Desmond rasped in a softer, calmer voice. “Breathe in the blue…”
I had no idea what that meant, but I didn’t want to cause him any further distress, so I released his ankle and stepped back. He started mumbling again, mostly about the color blue and auras and other things I didn’t understand. But he seemed calmer, so I crept out of the bedroom, hoping he would either fall into a more peaceful sleep or eventually wake up on his own.
I started to return to my own bedroom when a blur of pink caught my eye. I glanced to my left. One of the landscape paintings on the wall was a bit crooked, which had pinged my synesthesia, and an odd sliver of gray was peeking out from below the painting’s bottom right corner. Curious, I walked over and hoisted the frame off its hook to reveal…
A large wall safe.
Now this was interesting. I glanced toward the bedroom, but Desmond had quieted, and his nightmare seemed to have passed. So I set the painting down on the floor, then clicked on a nearby lamp and took a closer look at the safe.
It was a standard safe, a thick metal shell embedded in the wall with an electronic keypad on the front. Probably locked with a three-digit code like the doors in the art gallery and the apartment one that Desmond had opened earlier. I leaned forward and reached out with my magic, staring at the numbers on the keypad. My synesthesia kicked in, and I screened out the numbers bathed in red. They weren’t part of the combination, so I focused on the two black numbers that were. It took me a few tries, but I finally entered the right code—007.
“Seriously, Dundee?” I shook my head, but I turned the handle and opened the safe to find…
Files.
Since Desmond was a cleaner, I had been expecting a cache of weapons, along with some passports and a few stacks of cash. Maybe even another pocket watch with a deadly chain or some other seemingly innocuous yet extremely dangerous gadget. Not files. More curiosity filled me, and I grabbed the manila folders, took them over to the kitchen island, turned on the light over the stove, and sat down on one of the barstools. The first file was labeled Blacksea, and I opened it and started reading.
It was the same report I’d read on my laptop when I’d first gone into work, the one detailing Desmond’s doomed mission to kill Adrian Anatoly. I scanned the information, but it was exactly the same as what I’d read before, so I set that file aside and looked through the next one. It too was about the doomed Blacksea mission, an after-action report that speculated how Anatoly could have possibly known Section was sending cleaners and a strike team after him. Lots of questions were proposed, but no real conclusions were drawn. I snorted with disgust. Of course not. The Section higher-ups would want to keep the fact that they had a mole in their ranks as quiet as possible.
I flipped through the rest of the folders, but they were all more of the same—until I got to the last file.
Initial Report on Henrika Hyde. Dated two months ago. With my name all over it.
I reared back in surprise. Why would Desmond have this file hidden in his safe? Even more curious than before, I flipped through and carefully scanned the document, but the report looked just as I remembered it, and none of the pages seemed to be missing. Finally, on the next to last page, buried halfway down, I came across a single line that had been highlighted with a blue marker.
United Corporation—a known shell company of Henrika Hyde. Used to make supposed charitable donations to the Halstead Foundation.
A handwritten note had been scribbled in the margin beside the typed, highlighted line—Anatoly connection.
Henrika was connected to Anatoly? Of course. I should have realized it sooner. Desmond didn’t want to take out Henrika just because her new Redburn weapon was a threat. No, he wanted to capture—and probably torture—Henrika in hopes of finding out where Anatoly was hiding, so he could avenge his dead partner.
And he was using me and my work to do it.
“Manipulative, lying bastard,” I hissed.
I glared at the open bedroom door, but no more screams or murmurs rang out, and the silence indicated that Desmond was finally sleeping peacefully. He didn’t care about protecting me. Not really. He was just using my big brain, as he called it, to get closer to Henrika and hopefully Anatoly in the process.
I thought about storming into his bedroom, dumping the files on top of his head, and waking his ass up. Then I would get dressed, grab my things, and…go where, exactly?
Four cleaners had tried to kill me last night, and then three more assassins had targeted me tonight. Oh, I had a suspicion the car bomb had been meant more for Desmond, to disrupt his magic, whatever it was, so that the cleaners could kill us both. Either way, someone still wanted me dead. Probably whatever mole—or moles—were inside Section, working for either Henrika, Anatoly, or both of them.
Like it or not, Desmond Percy was still my best chance of surviving these dangerous spy games. If he captured or killed Henrika and then Anatoly further down the line, then maybe the threat to me would disappear with their deaths. Either way, Desmond had backed me into a corner, one I couldn’t escape without his help.
“Lying bastard,” I hissed again.
But the longer I glared at the files, the more my gaze kept straying back to that one blue highlighted line about the United Corporation. The shell company was a new wrinkle in Henrika’s financial holdings and something I’d been meaning to follow up on but just hadn’t had the chance to yet. I glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. Just after five in the morning. I wasn’t going to get any more sleep, and there was no time like the present. So I slid off the stool and went into the bedroom to get dressed.
Besides, the sooner I helped Desmond get to Henrika, the sooner I could go back to my quiet, safe, normal life—and leave him to his dangerous, blood-soaked revenge.
Chapter Fourteen
Desmond
The muttering woke me.
The low, almost musical sound was strangely pleasant. Certainly more pleasant than the nightmares. Ever since the Blacksea mission, my sleep had been…well, troubled was putting it mildly. And the car bomb hadn’t helped. The flash of fire, the scorching heat, the shock wave of the explosion, the buzz in my ears, the overwhelming energy zinging through my body afterward. The sensations had been eerily similar to the IEDs that had exploded on the beach around Graham and me…
I scrubbed my hands over my face, shoving the memories away.
My hands dropped to my sides, and I glanced over at the clock on the nightstand. Just after six a.m. Usually, I tossed and turned all night, but the last time I remembered looking at the clock was around two. I also felt…okay. Like I’d actually gotten a few hours of decent sleep for a change.
But the strangest thing was that I dimly remembered something intruding on my nightmares, something cool and blue that had soothed the fire and fear roaring through my mind. The more I tried to remember what it was, the faster the sensation slipped away. Soon, it vanished altogether, although muttered words caught my ear:
“…Hyde Engineering…
“…United Corporation…
“…Adrian Anatoly…”
The last name made me lurch upward. My head snapped from side to side, my heart rate spiked, and my hands fisted in the sweat-soaked sheet that covered my body. I was going to rip the sheet off the bed, twist it into a weapon, and strangle Anatoly and whatever men he’d brought here to kill me—
“Lying bastard.”
Another mutter rang out, and the soft, feminine voice penetrated the fog of rage clouding my mind. Suddenly, I remembered that I was safe in my gallery apartment—and that Charlotte Locke was here. And apparently, very much awake. I frowned. But why would she be talking about Anatoly?
Worried, I climbed out of bed, threw on an old T-shirt over my p
ajama pants, and padded out into the living room.
Charlotte was perched on one of the kitchen barstools. She was already dressed for the day in a navy-blue cardigan over a white T-shirt with blue musical notes. Her cargo pants and sneakers were also both navy-blue.
A steaming mug of what looked and smelled like hot chocolate sat by her elbow, while reams of paper, piles of photos, and stacks of empty folders covered the island counter in front of her. Sprinkled here and there were neon highlighters and colored pencils that I recognized as coming from the stash of art supplies in one of the kitchen drawers. She had definitely taken my advice to heart about making herself at home.
“What are you doing?” I asked, walking over to her.
Charlotte kept scanning a piece of paper, carefully highlighting one line after another. “Research.”
“On what?”
“Henrika Hyde’s connection to Adrian Anatoly,” she said in that same distracted voice.
I froze, staring at the papers and photos spread out across the countertop. Blacksea. Hyde. Anatoly. My gaze snapped from one empty folder to the next, then over to the opposite wall. The landscape painting was sitting on the floor, and my safe was standing wide open.
“What are you doing?”
My harsh tone finally prompted Charlotte to look up from the papers. Her gaze flicked over me. I probably should have put on some real clothes before I’d come out here, but it was too late now, and I would be damned if I would retreat because of some flimsy pajama pants.
“You had a nightmare,” she said. “You were screaming, so I went into your bedroom to see if you were okay.”
Her voice was calm and even, with no hint of reproach or judgment, as though she were talking about the weather instead of something I desperately wished she had never witnessed. Somehow, her light, easy tone and steady gaze made me feel even worse. My demons were my own, and I didn’t want anyone to suspect they even existed—much less hear the screams that rang in my mind and spewed out of my mouth night after night.
What had I been thinking bringing her to my apartment? I should have stashed her in another safe house, not here with me where she could see—and hear—just how weak I truly was.
But I couldn’t change the fact that she had observed my latest nightmare, so I moved on to a different subject. “And the files?”
She gave an unapologetic shrug. “I got them out of your safe.”
“How did you do that?”
She shrugged again. “Double-oh-seven might be amusing, but it isn’t a hard code to crack. As for exactly how I did it, well, I suppose the same way you managed to absorb most of the blast from that bomb last night, as well as get up and walk away after being slammed into a car hood.” Her eyes narrowed. “Care to tell me how you did all of that?”
I didn’t respond. One of the handful of things my father and I had ever agreed on was that the fewer people who knew about my galvanism, the better. Even among paramortals, it was a rare, powerful ability, and the General didn’t want to risk someone kidnapping and then forcing me to use my magic for their dastardly purposes. No, my father only wanted me to serve Section 47 and his own dastardly purposes.
“What’s wrong, Dundee? You don’t want to chat about your magic?” Charlotte asked. “Yeah, I didn’t think you would like that any more than I would.”
I ground my teeth and crossed my arms over my chest. The motion must have caught Charlotte’s eyes because her gaze flicked over my chest again, then slid lower. Her aura spiked a bright, hot blue like a match flaring to life. Was she…checking me out?
I looked at her in return. I’d never thought that cardigans were particularly sexy, but the way the soft blue fabric clung to and yet hid her curves at the same time was very intriguing—and did some very surprising and rather uncomfortable things to my anatomy.
Charlotte cleared her throat and dropped her eyes, focusing on the files again. I uncrossed my arms and stepped around the island, putting it between us and hiding the evidence of her unexpected effect on me.
“Your files made for an interesting read,” she said.
“How so?”
“Well, for starters, they told me that Henrika and Anatoly seem to be in business together. They both have access to a mutual shell company called the United Corporation. Henrika uses it to funnel charitable donations here and there, lately to the Halstead Foundation, while Anatoly dumps large amounts of money into the corporation’s accounts, then takes most of it right back out again, I assume to finance his terrorist operations. But you already knew all of that, thanks to my report on Henrika and your own digging into Anatoly.”
Charlotte raised her gaze to mine again. “Adrian Anatoly is the real reason why you’re here. You’re not planning to turn Henrika over to Section. At least, not immediately. You want to squeeze her for info on Anatoly so you can find him and avenge Graham.”
Once again, she said it in a matter-of-fact tone with no reproach or judgment. And once again, it made me feel even worse than if she’d started screaming accusations. I opened my mouth, but Charlotte pointed her finger at me in warning.
“Don’t bother lying,” she said. “It will just make me even more pissed than I already am.”
“Fine,” I growled. “You’re right. The Redburn mission is just a cover so I can get close to Henrika and pump her for information on Anatoly. There. I said it. Are you happy now?”
She leaned back on her stool and crossed her arms over her chest. “Do I look like I’m happy, Dundee?”
“I don’t know, Numbers,” I shot right back. “So far, all you’ve done is glower at me.”
“And all you’ve done is dance around the truth and put me in danger,” she snapped. “You never cared about protecting me. You just wanted to see what else I might know about Henrika.”
“You’re damn right,” I snarled again, my hands clenching into fists. “If I have to choke the life out of Henrika Hyde with my bare hands to get the smallest lead on where Anatoly is hiding, then I will happily do that to her and anyone else who gets in my way.”
“Even me?”
“Even you,” I promised.
Charlotte glared at me, and I did the same thing to her.
The longer I looked at her, the more I worried about what she would do now that she knew my real agenda. That she might run straight to Trevor Donnelly and Gia Chan and ruin any chance I had of getting my hands on Henrika Hyde.
Charlotte’s aura flared up, burning a bright blue, as if her anger and frustration matched my own. My fingers twitched, and I had a sudden, crazy urge to round the island, yank her into my arms, and… I didn’t know what. Strangle her. Kiss her. Maybe both. The only thing I knew for certain was that Charlotte Locke was driving me absolutely crazy—
The lights flickered.
Startled, Charlotte glanced up. The second she looked away, I realized just how much electricity, just how much power, was pounding through my body, beating in time to the anger, frustration, and all the other unwanted feelings crackling back and forth between Charlotte and me.
I grimaced and forced myself to relax my hands and slowly release the electricity I had been unconsciously gathering up. I hadn’t done something like this, hadn’t lost control, in years. More proof that I needed to wrap up this mission and get far away from Charlotte Locke as soon as possible.
The lights quit flickering, and Charlotte looked at me again. Her eyes narrowed, and I could almost see the mental calculations going on in her blue gaze.
“You can do something with energy, with electricity. That’s your power. Manipulating it is how you got up and walked away after being slammed into that car last night. I’ve heard of your ability. What’s it called?” She snapped her fingers. “Galvanism. That’s it.”
I bit back a curse and opened my mouth to deny it, but she pointed her finger at me again in warning.
Her words sparked an idea in my own mind. This time, my eyes narrowed. “And your synesthesia lets you do more than see mista
kes and typos in reports. You can tell when people are lying because you can hear it. I’m guessing your magic also warns you about danger. That’s how you knew there was a bomb in that old car.”
She blinked in surprise. Her pointed finger wilted, and her hand dropped to the counter. A tense, uncomfortable silence descended over the apartment.
I scrubbed my hand through my hair again, then down my face, trying to get my emotions under control. Charlotte and I might both work for Section, might both ostensibly be on the same side, but so far, all we’d done was lie to each other. I didn’t want to lie to her—or to myself. Not anymore. That was something the General would have done, and I’d promised myself long ago I would not be the same sort of man my father was. Besides, Graham wouldn’t want me to avenge him like this—by putting an innocent woman in danger.
I sighed, breaking the silence. “You’re right. I’m here to use Henrika to track down Anatoly so I can kill him. But I didn’t intentionally involve you in my plan, and I didn’t knowingly put you in danger. I just wanted to get more insight into your report and pick your brain about Henrika. That’s why I came over to you in the cafeteria. Someone else sent those cleaners after you. Whether they would have done that if I hadn’t approached you… Well, I don’t know. But if I’ve put you in even more danger, then I’m sorry. That was never my intention.”
“Truth,” Charlotte said in an absent voice, staring down at the files again. “And they would have come after me anyway. Gregory Jensen dying in a cycling accident last week is entirely too convenient. They killed him before you ever came to D.C., most likely to get him to quit making noise about going after Henrika. I was probably scheduled to have a similar accident sooner or later, but you showing up probably accelerated their schedule.”
She waved her hand over the files. “You know that this new mission is doomed, right? Because if Henrika and Anatoly are connected, then the mole is most likely leaking information to both of them, which means Henrika probably already knows everything about the Redburn mission—and us. And, of course, since we don’t know who the mole is, we can’t trust anyone else, not even Gia, Trevor, or the other supervisors.”
A Sense of Danger Page 17
