by Holly Hart
“I told you to leave it to me.” I tilt my glass back and feel the chill glide down my throat, taste the fruity tartness on the back of my tongue. That’s the stuff.
“It’s easy to say that. It’s something else to do it.”
“I also told you I have someone on the hook who’s looking to buy the goodwill in my consulting business. My client list is worth $3 million on its own.”
That’s a flat-out lie, but Tricia never needs to know. I’ve been telling lies for a living for almost eight years now; I’m an expert in it.
But I am – partly – telling the truth. I will have the money soon; it just won’t be coming from the sale of my business.
After all, how could it? The business doesn’t exist. It never did, outside of a PO box address and a phone number that goes straight to voicemail.
“Besides,” I say, lifting my glass in a toast. “Miranda is absolutely gaga about your shop.”
“She said that?”
“Well, not those exact words, but the sentiment was there.”
She grins and drains her glass. I follow suit and pour us two more. We both stuff a handful of popcorn into our mouths and chew noisily, then giggle like girls.
“So,” I say. “Are you ready to be a big shot?”
“I honestly don’t know. I mean, I come from a working class family. My parents freaked out when I told them I wanted to open an ice cream shop. To this day they think I should drop it all and try to find a government job.”
Government job. My stomach cramps a bit at that. I’m currently in the process of leaving a government job, even though my name isn’t officially on any government records. Anywhere. No 401K, no benefits package.
“My dad works for the government,” I say. That much is true.
“There’s something to be said for a steady paycheck and job security.”
Job security only works when you know you’ll be home safe at the end of the workday. I never knew from one day to the next whether I’d even be alive, let alone still have a job.
I munch on some more popcorn and wash it down with more pinot. “I think there’s something limiting in that, though. You give up something in exchange for that security.”
“What do you mean, give up?”
“Jobs are about conforming to standards and following rules, especially with government. You give up your creativity, your individuality.”
She nods. “I see what you’re saying. I can’t picture you ever working for government. You’re way too smart to make a damn fool move like that.”
I’m terrible at taking compliments, always have been. And, like always, I’m still blushing. But Tricia’s right: a government job that wasn’t in the CIA probably would have driven me around the bend. Using my wits is what makes me happy, gives me purpose. Makes me feel like I’m doing something important.
The problem with the job, of course, is all the horrors that are part and parcel of trying to keep America safe for democracy.
Tricia gives me an appraising look. “I wonder what you were like in high school,” she says. “I bet that gorgeous red mop and your big brain made you the most popular girl in school. Am I right?”
I smile ruefully. “You couldn’t be more wrong. We moved around a lot, so I was always the new girl. And despite what you may think, the other kids tend to hate you when you blow the grading curve with your scores. And this?” I take a handful of my curls. “It was a lot redder and a lot frizzier in those days. And I was built like an artist’s model.”
“You mean curvy?”
“No, I mean like one of those featureless wooden figures that they pose into different positions. Calling my breasts mosquito bites would be overselling them.”
Tricia giggles and takes another sip. I down the rest of mine in a gulp. Thinking about those days always makes me feel uncomfortable.
“Did you have a boyfriend?” she asks, leaning forward and putting her elbows on her knees. “Give me the dirty details!”
I break eye contact and look away. Suddenly my heart hurts.
“For awhile,” I say. “But there wasn’t anything dirty. And it didn’t last.”
“So you two didn’t…?”
I blush again. “No. I’ve never actually… you know.”
Her eyes widen. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“I just never had the time for a relationship,” I blurt. “And I never found the right guy again.”
How the hell did we end up in this discussion? This is the absolute last thing I want to be talking about right now, given my circumstances.
“Again? So you’re saying High School Boy was the right guy?”
“Look, can we talk about something else, please?” Anything else.
Tricia gets out of her chair and sits next to me on the sofa. She takes my hands in hers.
“Honey, the ‘losing it’ part is no great shakes,” she says. “But once you get that out of the way, it’s amazing what can happen. I mean, ah-may-zing.”
Once you get that out of the way. I won’t be in suspense much longer in that department. I guess that means I’ll be able to move on to the ah-may-zing part sooner. That’s a positive thing.
Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I’ll start to believe it.
Chapter Forty
9. CASSANDRA
My apartment is a study in contrast with Tricia’s. Where hers is all kitsch and kook, mine is all wood and glass.
Functional. Modern. Sleek. Efficient.
It’s funny how a home can be a reflection of its occupant.
The clock said midnight the last time I looked, and the buzz of the wine has long since worn off. I’m pretty sure Tricia had two glasses to each of mine, judging by how dozy she was when I left. The train ride home was enough to sober me up and get me in the right mindset for what I have to do.
I chose this apartment – or, I should say, it was chosen for me by my father – because it has a so-called panic room. It’s a secure space that’s not noticeable from the outside, designed for paranoid people who are worried about home invasion.
In my case, it’s my office. Read into that what you will. At least my office until I decided to leave work behind two months ago.
I reach into my bedroom closet and tap the back wall, activating a spring-loaded switch that causes the false back to slide into the wall. Anyone watching me from the outside would see me disappear into a wardrobe that shouldn’t be big enough for me to fit.
The office itself is purely functional, without a hint of style. It’s about eight feet square, with a simple metal desk, an office chair, my CIA laptop and a thirty-six-inch monitor affixed to the wall. The walls themselves are covered in soundproof panels made of foam wrapped in dark gray fabric.
It won’t make the cover of Style At Home, but it serves its purpose. Hopefully it’s not as much a reflection of me as the rest of the apartment.
I boot up my computer and open a Tor browser – a special program designed to access the “dark web,” a part of the Internet that even Google can’t find. Usually for good reason – they’re often used to sell drugs, weapons and… well, other things you don’t need to know about.
I call up a text-based site I discovered through a dark web search a couple of months ago, and open a file marked “Chase.”
I’ve read it half a dozen times already: there’s nothing new. General information, rules, contact names. I tried to trace it back to its source a few weeks ago in an attempt to find out who was behind it, but I just got bounced from one ISP address to another. Whoever set up the site had serious online security credentials.
There’s no point going through it all again; I won’t learn anything new, and I wouldn’t change my mind if I did. So instead I call up the message board I’ve been instructed to use. I hit enter and green letters appear on a black screen: Your answer?
This is the point of no return.
Yes, I type.
My finger hovers over the enter key for a fu
ll minute before I finally take a deep breath and press it.
A green circle comes on the screen and spins for about thirty seconds. When it stops, another prompt: Enter account information. I type in the number of a bank account I set up in Grand Cayman, a haven for money that people don’t want to be found. Another green circle appears when I hit enter, another thirty seconds pass.
More text on the screen: Account will be credited $250,000.00 USD per day until Chase is complete. Maximum term: 14 days.
Now what?
As if in answer to my question, a video file suddenly appears on the screen and auto starts. The camera is focused on a stunning blonde with long, satiny curls and bright red lipstick, sitting in a well-appointed parlor. Her dress probably cost more than I make in six months.
“Hello,” she purrs. She’s worked very hard to erase her Russian accent, but it can’t escape my trained ear. “If you’re seeing this, it means you’ve completed your registration for the Chase. Congratulations.”
Thanks, sweetheart, I appreciate your sincerity.
“This year’s Chase will begin at precisely 12:01 a.m. on July 30. You’ve already read the rules and obligations, so I won’t go over them here. You are required to submit the information requested within twenty-four hours. Please note that your registration is considered a binding contract by the administrators of the Chase.”
She cocks her head slightly and leans closer to the camera.
“Failure to meet your obligations will be considered breach of contract and will be dealt with accordingly.”
Of course it will.
People who offer you large sums of money, deposited into offshore bank accounts via the dark web aren’t exactly known for their laid-back attitudes over breaches of contract. I understand the consequences.
“The Chase will end at midnight on August 13. If you avoid capture until then, the prize will be auctioned among the contestants. The proceeds of the sale will, naturally, be credited to your account.”
The prize.
For better or worse, that’s what my virginity is now: a prize to be won by someone with more money than common sense.
The thought makes my stomach sink just a little bit. But I knew what I was getting into when I pressed that button.
As for prizes, I’ve got my eye on my own, and I’ll win it with the help of the Chase.
The blonde leans back in her chair and folds her hands on her lap.
“You will be contacted on July 27 with more information.”
She smiles, and as she does, I grab my phone off the desk and snap a photo of her on the screen. I don’t know why; instinct, I guess.
“On behalf of my associates, I wish you luck.”
The screen goes black.
That’s all I’ll get until the twenty-seventh.
Three days from now.
The deadline somehow makes what I’ve agreed to seem more real in my mind, and I realize my confidence has been an act.
The Chase itself will be easy, I know that much. But that talk about an auction? It makes me think of the scene in Taken, where women are sold like cattle to the highest bidder. Of course, I’ve seen worse in my time working in the shadowy corners of the world.
I never expected to experience it myself. And certainly not voluntarily.
I leave the office and close the secret door behind me. Wine isn’t going to cut it this time, so I pull a bottle of Jack Daniels from the sideboard in the living room. I pour myself two fingers and knock it back in a single shot.
There’s no turning back now.
Chapter Forty-One
10. CARSON
The Regent is a boutique hotel on the Upper East Side that never advertises, has no listing online, and is always full.
Basically, if you don’t know someone who knows someone, you’re better off not even knowing it exists, because you’ll never get in. And if you do get in, you won’t see a price anywhere, because the kind of people who hang out here never see their own bills.
I take a sip from my glass and savor the smooth, rich smokiness of the 1926 Macallan single-malt scotch. The décor in the Regent’s bar looks like it hasn’t changed since the 1920s; it’s just been maintained like new. It’s all ebony and leather, with white highlights like lace tablecloths and giant ostrich feathers in gold vases.
I’m wearing a tailored Tom Ford tuxedo and I still feel underdressed.
The second my appointment walks in, I know exactly who she is, because she looks right at home. A full-length red dress hugs her curves and the room’s discreet lighting turns her long blonde curls into spun gold. She sashays straight to my table and sits down before I have a chance to fully stand up.
“We can dispense with the formalities,” she says with a smile. Her voice betrays just the slightest hint of an accent. “No need to be out in the open any longer than absolutely necessary, given the nature of our discussion. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would,” I say. I feel like I’m in a scene from some old noir movie with Humphrey Bogart.
The waitress arrives and silently places a double martini with three olives in front of my companion. She’s obviously a regular here.
“Maksim – ”
She arches an eyebrow and raises a red-tipped finger.
“No names,” she says. “If you say another, I’m afraid our time here is done.”
I nod in apology. I’m not used to being chided, not anymore. It’s almost… tantalizing. “Of course. Forgive me.”
“Our mutual acquaintance says you are looking to become part of our friendly little game.”
Friendly little game. That description makes the whole thing seem even more lewd, if that’s even possible.
“I am,” I say.
“The buy-in is twenty, due in full before the twenty-seventh of this month. You will be given instructions on the transaction.”
I assume that means untraceable Internet transfer, possibly Bitcoin. I can do that. I have a couple hundred million in a slush fund that I use for purposes that might not meet the approval of my accountants. Twenty million would be a full ten percent of my rainy day fund, gone in an instant.
“That’s a serious amount of money,” I say.
Her smile widens and she places her hands on the arms of the chair to stand.
“It was very nice to meet you,” she says sweetly, and suddenly I see everything falling apart.
“Wait,” I say. “That was incredibly crass of me. I apologize.”
She returns to her seat as if nothing happened, but I definitely know where I stand now. A tingle runs down my spine. The way my body’s reacting is confirming what I already knew – this “friendly little game” is going to be exactly what I needed to recharge myself.
“Upon acceptance, you will be given a dossier with information on your quarry. No names, obviously, or physical characteristics. Just enough about the quarry’s habits, environment, and background for you to create a profile.”
Quarry. That’s even more lewd. Enough so that I actually feel a twitch under my tailored slacks.
“The Chase will begin at midnight on July 30 and continue until midnight on August 13, or until the quarry is caught. Capture automatically ends the Chase for all competitors. No second place; winner takes all.”
“How many others am I competing against?”
She smiles and takes a sip of her martini. I guess that answers that question.
“Each competitor will be given the key to a room in this hotel,” she says. “If and when you believe you’ve located the quarry, you will give her your key. If she is, indeed, the one, she will accompany you to the room to complete the game. If she is not, the Chase is over for you.”
Wow, that really is winner take all. I mull it over as I finish my scotch.
“What’s in it for her?” I ask.
“Money,” she says with the look of a mother indulging a toddler.
“A small fraction of what your associates will net, I’m sure.”
/> Another smile. “Wealth is relative.”
“So what stops her from just holing up somewhere for two weeks?”
“She – and the competitors – will be closely monitored. Any deviation from the rules will be dealt with immediately and decisively. My associates pride themselves on the integrity of the Chase.”
Jesus. Suddenly this is becoming real. Do I really want to be that involved with a Russian mobster? And drop twenty million in the process? Am I really that bored?
The answer, absolutely, is yes. This isn’t so much about completing the game, as she puts it, but the game itself.
“What can you tell me about the, uh, quarry?”
She tilts her head and brings her palms together, clasping them like a chef describing a particularly rare feast.
“I’m delighted to say that, just last night, we secured our most challenging lady yet. Her curriculum vitae includes one of the South’s top military colleges as her alma mater – graduating top of her class after only three years – and almost a decade of counter-intelligence and black ops fieldwork for off-the-books agency branches.”
Hello.
This is what I’ve been waiting for. This is why I’m willing to put up a small fortune.
“One more thing,” my companion says with a leer that inspires a little blood flow in my nether region. “I’ve seen her, and she is truly stunning.”
“As stunning as you?” I say automatically. Apparently, I just can’t turn it off anymore.
She flashes me a sweet smile as she stands up. “You flatter me. But I’m afraid fraternization is strictly against the rules. You understand.”
I understand that I can’t remember the last time I was turned down by a woman. It feels oddly exhilarating. At once a challenge and a warning.
“You will be contacted shortly with more information,” she says, draining her martini and gathering up her purse. “Please be prepared.”
I stand to see her off. “I will,” I say. “It’s been a great pleasure meeting you.”
“And you. Good luck.”
With that, she’s gone.
