by CD Reiss
No, I was right. She’s proud, but not arrogant. Her accent’s American. They could have flown her in from anywhere.
Thirty-ish. Five-eight.
Freckles on her nose the makeup doesn’t cover.
Grew up outdoors.
A few grey hairs at the root.
Fingernails trimmed, clean, unpolished.
A bare left ring finger.
Does she have a lover?
That releases a flood of mental imagery I have no time for.
“Why hide behind a mirror, Agent Grinstead?”
She looks me in the eye without shame or fear. It’s a frontal attack I’m not ready for. Her hair is the black of silk sheets, and her eyes are the grey of London’s early morning fog.
“We were giving you a little space.”
She’s blindsiding you.
It’s true, but I’m not turning away. She can come at me all she wants.
I can tell there’s no love lost between her and Agent Rotter. As soon as she’s in the room, I know she cares a bloody ton more about this case than the Boy Scout.
Which is good. I can use that.
“That answer’s beneath you.”
“If you have someplace else to be,” she says, tilting her chin toward the dossier, “you know the quickest way out of here.”
I lean forward. My answer should shake her a little, but not too much. I think about her response two seconds and formulate my own. “We’re in the middle of a promotional event. The mayor’s there. The press. The Lord himself is looking down on the Barrington factory, and you expect me to believe you want to give me space.”
“If you want less space, that can be arranged.” Her voice is so crisp, it’s seductive.
Walking confidently in six-inch heels, she steps from her position and gets behind me. Her calves are shaped for my hands. If I want to see her, I’ll have to twist all the way around. If I face forward, she has the benefit of speaking without me watching her reactions. This puts me at a disadvantage, technically. But without seeing her, I don’t have to be captivated like a schoolboy, getting me back a fraction of the leverage I’ve lost.
“Is this where you move from implications to accusations?” I say. “Maybe pull something else out of this little folder here? Reveal your narrative of crimes? Make a sincere but manageable threat, close the walls in on me, then show me a singular way out? Yes? A little Reid technique?”
Ken looks over my shoulder to her.
“A plea bargain. Maybe you want me to flip on someone?” I push the folder back toward Ken. “Keyser Kaos maybe? I read an article in the Intercept about him. Quite a character. According to the article, of the thousands of people on the dark web offering assassination services, he’s the only one who can make good on them.”
She speaks from behind me. “We have a trail that connects you and Alpha Wolf.”
“No.” I turn slightly, so her blur is in my peripheral vision. I can smell her with more clarity than I can see her. “No, you don’t.” I turn back toward Agent Rotter. Even in the corners of my vision, Grinstead is distracting. She takes up way too much room in my attention. “You could just tell me what you want.”
Rotter’s watch tick-tocks. The air conditioning snaps off. I hear Grinstead breathe. Otherwise she is immobile behind me. I know she and this plastic version of a man are talking with looks and hand signals.
“Two years ago, you invested in QI4,” Ken says.
“My friend Taylor came to me with an opportunity I had the resources to take advantage of.”
Such a flat answer for such a thick web of motivations. Taylor’s a genius. I wasn’t surprised when he cracked quantum computing. Anyone would have invested, but I did because it’s the right way to thank him for his friendship and loyalty before the rest of my plans go into motion.
“You and Keyser Kaos have been partners for years,” Rotter says. “We’ve tracked everything, and now you’re claiming to be legit? How could we not follow up?”
He shrugs as if this is just procedure. He’s going to be the good cop now. The role reversal is standard in Reid technique interrogations. I feel as though I’m the only audience for a play that’s been put on every day for a generation.
“When did partnerships become illegal?” I ask.
“When their purpose is to launder money,” Grinstead says, and I like her as the bad cop. She’s got a slick competence for wickedness that intrigues me.
“Maybe not?” Rotter’s like a teddy bear at this point. “Or maybe you never intended to finance QI4 with laundered cash and it’s Kaos with the baggage. It’s Kaos who lied to you. Maybe you’re just getting caught up in his malfeasance.”
I wait for her to go bad cop and say something refuting this soothing fairy tale, but she doesn’t.
After a few breaths, I say, “I’m sure that you think you have something in that folder that proves I’m Alpha Wolf, or that I launder money through cybercurrencies. But I know you don’t. There are no recordings, no screenshots, no nothing of Kaos communicating with any persona you can prove is me. This is a parlor trick, and a particularly bad one.”
I lean back, knowing I’m right. They have fuck-all. I know what exists in my world and I know what’s been erased, and by whom.
“Thank you, Mr. Bridge,” Grinstead says, coming back around the table. She’s quite a sight, and I wonder why a woman that beautiful would want to be a federal agent. She must be ever so much more than she appears. “We’ll spare you further exposure to our parlor tricks.”
She walks out, taking the air out of the room with her.
Chapter 3
CASSIE
“What were you thinking?” Ken’s look of incredulity is cartoonish on his generic handsomeness. “He’s not flipping.”
We’re in the lunchroom of our field office with our boss, Special Agent in Charge Cesar Orlando. His shaved head has flat parts, leaving a dark arc connecting his ears every few days. His tie is loose and his suit is too wide at the shoulders, but that’s normal around here.
A black-and-white poster of our ten most wanted hangs on the fridge with a curling note taped to it:
Don’t be like these guys.
Eat what you bring.
By the side of the sink, mismatched mugs stand on their heads. Locked grey cabinets hide cleaning supplies. Crushed-cornered boxes of who-even-knows pile under the window.
“We have an established pattern of racketeering,” I reply.
“Onion site chats aren’t enough to bring him in,” Ken argues. He’s believable and passionate now. He’s most animated when disagreeing.
Orlando stands against the counter with his arms crossed, silent until he has something to say. We’re chasing a white supremacist cell, one of many across the country with plans to start a race war with coordinated, simultaneous attacks, if we could just find them past the chatter. This is Orlando’s chance to validate the existence of our tiny office.
“This guy doesn’t spook,” I say, pointing out the door in the general area of the unflappable Keaton Bridge. “He’s slipped past the cyber division a dozen times, and now he’s trying to go straight. He’s in transition between Alpha Wolf and…I don’t know—”
“I agree,” Ken adds. “We need real-life leads, not digital creeps behind a screen.”
I continue without acknowledging the comment because it’s the only way to be heard. “This QI4 thing he invested in? It’s huge, and from everything we can trace, it’s above board. If we don’t flip him now, before he’s too well-known to hide, we’ve lost him.”
“He’s not taking the bluff, and he’s not a white supremacist. There’s a slim chance he’s useful.”
“He knows every corner of the dark web. That’s where they’re organizing.”
“I agree,” Ken snaps, not agreeing at all. “If he’s Alpha Wolf, he’s useful.”
I cross my arms. “Do you want to get into Third Psyche or not? Because I do. And I want to do it before they take up arms.”
“Th
ey’re not that organized.” He shoots a look at Orlando. “Not yet.”
I’m waiting for Orlando to chime in and agree with Ken. I’m waiting to be erased. But it doesn’t happen. It’s on me to convince him through Ken.
“Are you willing to be the guy who heard chatter about a synchronized multi-state armed takeover and didn’t follow up?” I ask.
“We can follow up without that guy.”
I’m about to answer when Orlando chimes in. “He’s a good lead right on our doorstep. But Ken’s right. He’s not flipping, and odds are against him even having the intel.”
I don’t know why I don’t buckle. Maybe because—for a second—when Bridge saw me, he really saw me. Maybe I want to feel that again. Or maybe I’m just sick of taking a backseat.
“Let him go, then give me half an hour,” I say to Orlando before I turn to Ken, wishing I’d said forty minutes. “I’ll have something. Maybe not enough to put into Delta, but something.”
Orlando will say no, but I’ve said what needed saying. I’ll fight another day.
“Take forty,” Orlando says. I’m shocked, but I keep my composure. “You’ve got the best shot. I think he liked you.”
Chapter 4
KEATON
The air is thick as London’s. Wet and foggy. A nip of cold. It’s early evening, and though I have control over my appetite, my stomach grumbles.
That whole interview was a fishing expedition with a barbed hook. She must be their closer. I don’t trust my attraction to her. It’s coupled with a compulsion to speak to her, tell her things, break promises I made to myself.
I want to tell her how important that company it is to me and why. Not Agent Rotter, not the FBI, but her. I cross the car park, closing my jacket and knotting my scarf as I walk over the wet concrete. I can resist the compulsion to see her, but even as I deny it, the pressure vibrates the webbing of my thoughts. I want her to understand me.
Doverton’s a small city about twenty miles from the two-horse town of Barrington, where I need to be. I stayed at the Doverton country club on a few previous visits, so I have the lay of the land, more or less. I’m not lost or disoriented. I’m just slightly angry, very impatient, and deeply concerned.
“Mr. Bridge!”
Her voice cuts the mist with the accompanying clap of her high heels. Even at a half-run, she’s steady in them. Her hair is wet at the ends, and the grey corner of a laptop peeks out from the front of her coat. She cradles it to her chest as if it’s a baby.
“I have to go,” I say. “If you want to arrest me—”
“No.” She stops short in front of me. “This isn’t like that.”
The misty rain is running the hell out of her mascara, enlarging the charcoal-colored ovals around her grey-fog eyes. Compared to how she came off in the interrogation room, this federal agent in front of me is the vulnerable version of herself. She’s not broken, but bending.
Half-sodden, she’s still captivating. What would it take to break a woman like her?
“What is it like?” I ask.
“Can we get out of the rain?”
I scan the car park. There’s no quick shelter. I check my watch. I don’t like being late, even for Taylor, but this version of Agent Grinstead in an uncontrolled environment is dangerous. I want to ask her what’s wrong. What has she given up on to run out after me like this? It could take all freaking night. Late is late, but too late is too late.
“I don’t have time.” I walk, and she stays put.
“I need your help.”
I turn and look at her. Is this the same person? “What’s your game?”
“No game. My laptop’s getting wet.”
I let her get rained on, resisting the urge to hold my coat over her. “Your shoes are getting wet too.”
“I have an extra pair in my desk.” She indicates my feet. “Do you?”
I do not, and my shoes aren’t built for standing in the rain.
She shivers once, quickly, then stills her body. That moment of vulnerability seals the deal. I figure Taylor can handle the pleasantries with Beaver.
“Ten minutes,” I say.
“My car is over there,” she says, turning and pointing at a black Buick without extending her arm enough to drop the computer.
“Your car or a company car?”
I’m not getting into an FBI fleet car. They’ll record everything and collect DNA after.
“Mine.”
“Show me the registration.”
“It’s in the glove compartment.”
Chapter 5
CASSIE
I’m already soaked through when I pluck the registration card out of the glove compartment. I hand it through the window. He unfolds it with his hands inside the car so it stays dry.
His hands are six inches from me. They’re tendon and bone, calloused at the tips from hitting keys. They’re the hands of a man, and I want him to put his fingers in my mouth.
Are you serious? Stop.
He checks my name and the license plate. “Cassandra.”
“That’s my name.”
“Do you know the Cassandra complex?”
“You’re getting wet.”
He hands me the registration. He must have memorized everything already. “Cassandra was an ancient Greek woman with the power to see how the world was going to end, but no power to stop it.”
“Let me guess. No one would listen to her.”
He smirks and crosses in front of the car, touching the hood with the graceful tips of his fingers as he cuts the turn around it. I hit the unlock button. When the passenger door slaps shut, he and I are in a tight space. Was the car always this small? Was the roof this low? The seats this cramped?
He slides the seat all the way back, but the length of his legs isn’t the issue. He’s fine. The car is suddenly too small for me. His presence fills the space between the dashboard and the back window, floor to ceiling with a sense of thick menace. He’s as stationary and lethal as a bullet in the chamber. As perfect as a polished barrel shining in the moonlight.
Without the protection of my badge, the two-way mirror, or the buffer of a threat, I am small and vulnerable. I am made of alarms and denials. I’m water being poured into a container shaped like him.
“So,” he says. “How is it you can be in the field office parking lot with me?”
I close the windows and turn on the heat. Everything turns to steam. The air gets heavy, weighing down my eyelids in a way I know will be construed as seductive. I’m conflicted about giving that impression. I’m pretty sure there’s no way I can hide how beautiful I find him.
“We have nothing on you. That doesn’t mean we aren’t close.”
“I don’t know you, Agent Grinstead, but if I were a betting man, I’d bet entrapment was beneath you.”
I look him in the eye, and the force of his gaze silences me. I feel powerless. Like cornered prey. The thickness of the air delivers his smell directly between my legs, which reacts with a sudden throb that’s almost painful, as if an unused delivery system is asked to do too much, too fast.
I point out the half-fogged window, up at the light posts. “Those cameras?”
He’s looking at me, not in the direction I’m pointing. I’m about to trust him with a piece of information. It’s easy negotiation calculus. I have to expose myself if he’s going to expose himself.
I continue. “Out here in Doverton, they put them up, but they don’t have the resources to monitor them. Some work. Some don’t. That one in particular hasn’t worked in three months. That one over there.” I point behind him, but he doesn’t turn. “Couple of high school kids hit it with a rock and it points at the sky. It works if you want to know the weather.”
“It’s raining.”
“Yeah.”
“It bothers you that they don’t work.”
For a guy who makes a living hiding behind a computer screen, he sure can read people. Now, in addition to feeling turned on to the point of bein
g liquid, I feel naked.
“It bothers me. If you’re going to do something, you should do it. If they don’t want a field office in Doverton, they should close us. Don’t do this half-assed shit.”
“Are you from here?”
“I’m from Flint. Just outside Detroit.”
“I know where Flint is.”
Of course he does.
After clearing my throat, I say, “So you’re wondering why I asked you to come into my car.”
He smiles. He has great teeth. Not fake. Ever so slightly uneven. I notice the canines aren’t any longer or sharper than a normal person’s, then I wonder if that’s a trick to make his prey relax.
“Not really,” he says. “I can work it out.”
“Oh?” My apprehension gives way to curiosity. I turn off the heat, cutting the ambient noise so we can hear the pit pat of rain on the windshield.
He taps his finger on his knee. His trousers are a nice tweed. He was on his way to the Barrington bottling plant for a celebration. He’s missed it, and I don’t feel bad about that at all.
“You’re an open book, Ms. Grinstead.” He adjusts himself in his seat, looks away from a beat. He turns the heat back up, drowning out the sound of the rain.
He waits.
“You’re testing me,” I say. “I turned the heat off. You think it might be to unmask our voices because the car is wired? You don’t know.”
“Now I do. You didn’t react when I turned it back on.”
“The car isn’t bugged.”
“It’s not.” He turns to face me with more of his body. “You’re taking a risk. You knew you had nothing on me. This meeting we’re having here isn’t planned. Maybe it’s personal. Looking to get information on an ex-boyfriend perhaps?”
I huff out a laugh. My most recent ex-boyfriend, Doug, is harmless to the point of invisibility. If I want information from him, all I ever have to do is ask, except there’s nothing in his brain I want to know.
