by Holly Hart
I sit back down and wave to the waitress for another scotch. She anticipated my order and already has a new glass, which she sets in front of me. I slip her a crisp portrait of Benjamin Franklin – a tip, you never actually see the bill at the Regent – and she leaves me to my thoughts.
Next thing I know, my fingers are tented under my chin and I’m in full analysis mode. Let’s recap, shall we? I need to track down a stunning needle in the haystack of New York City before an unknown number of fellow billionaires with equal, or perhaps ever greater, resources beat me to the punch.
How hard can it possibly be?
Chapter Forty-Two
11. CARSON
Normally, the Boom Boom Room is enough of a distraction to make it worth my time. On any given night, you’ll see billionaires – or at least their heirs, like Maksim here – and a handful of A-list celebrities wandering around in the red neon glow. At the very least, you’ll see a Kardashian or two.
But tonight, I’m not paying attention. All I can think about is the Chase.
Maks is dressed in his usual club outfit: black slacks and a charcoal satin shirt, open practically to his solar plexus, three gold chains dangling against the curly pelt of his chest. I love the guy, but if you looked up “Eurotrash” in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of him.
I’m a little more subtle: light gray seersucker suit for the summer heat. Tailored, naturally, for my physique. Even top-of-the-line suits off the rack invariably fit too tightly in the chest, shoulders and arms.
Our companions, as usual, are friends of Maks. As I said, people tend to flock to him. Especially when I’m paying, which is always.
Tonight, it’s a buxom brunette with stunning blue eyes, and a willowy blonde who looks a little like Taylor Swift after a boob job. They do have two things in common: they’re both lawyers, and I’ve barely said a word to either all night.
I’m not trying to be a dick, but right now, if they’re not former intelligence operatives, then I’m simply not interested. My mind is consumed by the Chase, alive with excitement and possibility.
Maksim leaves the girls talking with each other and slides down the bench to greet me with an arm around the shoulder.
“Tovarishch,” he says with a grin. “Your mind is not here this evening. I think I know where it is being, though. Yes?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whisper. “And you better hope your uncle doesn’t know, either. He may have eyes on us right now.”
His eyes go wide and the blood drains from his face. Just as quickly, the old Maks is back and he’s laughing theatrically.
“Oh, my friend!” he hoots. “You are making the best jokes! ‘Santa only comes once a year!’ I get it!”
I can’t help but admire the guy – he’s nothing if not adaptable. He goes back to the girls, who send disapproving looks in my direction. I’d like to tell them the old Seinfeld line – it’s not you, it’s me – but how would I follow that up? “Sorry, I just paid twenty million bucks to chase an anonymous woman and take her virginity”?
I’m guessing that would be a conversation stopper.
I glance at my Rolex. It’s been almost forty-eight hours since my meeting with Red Dress at the Regent. She said I’d be contacted with information on how to make my payment. I scan the Boom Boom Room for potential underworld types, wondering if one of them will approach me.
Most of the people in the club are in their twenties, probably spending a month’s pay for a single night of dancing and rubbing elbows with the beautiful people. I see an aging Real Housewives “star” in the middle of a group of young people, acting like she’s their age instead of her actual forty-seven years.
All of it combines to make me suddenly tired of the whole thing. I pull my billfold from my jacket and drop a stack of hundreds on the table.
Maksim frowns. “You are not leaving already?” he says. “The party is just yet beginning!”
Another disappointed look from his companions, so I amble to their side of the booth and lean in close. I take one hand from each in my own and place a kiss on both.
“Ladies,” I say with a smile. “Please don’t take this as having anything to do with you. You’re both absolutely charming, but I’m afraid I have a pressing… business matter that needs my immediate attention. I hope we can do this again soon, when I have more time to get to know you.”
They both sigh as I let go of their hands. Behind them, Maks is shaking his head and applauding silently. Slick, that look says. Or, in Maks-speak, Sliding.
I make my way through the crowd as the lights strobe and the bass thumps, taking in more of tonight’s clientele. As I approach the VIP section, I recognize a handful of gentlemen from the upper rungs of the socioeconomic ladder. Some of them are close to my spot, if Forbes’ rankings are to be believed.
But are any of them my competitors?
The thought sparks a little pang of cockiness in me. So what if they are? They may have my kind of money, but none of them have my kind of brain. All of them inherited their standing; I earned every penny in my bank account, just like I earned the muscles under this suit.
As I emerge from the club, the night air on Washington Street is filled with the smells of street vendors and exhaust, the sounds of sirens and laughter and music. I wave at the street in an attempt to get one of the yellow cabs to pull over and take me back to my penthouse.
One of them slows down and pulls alongside a Porsche parked at the curb. As I move to take a step toward it, I see a huge shadow out of the corner of my eye. I turn my head to catch one of the largest humans I’ve ever seen – easily a head taller than me and a hundred pounds heavier – stride past me on the sidewalk. The material of his suit could upholster a small sofa.
As he passes, he leans down slightly and places something on the concrete before moving on. I look down and see it’s a black leather valise.
Stenciled into the opening flap at the top are the words Chase & Regent.
My heart skips a beat. This is it.
The cabbie toots at me to remind me how valuable his time is. I look up to see the giant has somehow blended into the crowd already. What level of skill must it take to hide that kind of bulk in a matter of seconds?
I recall what Red Dress said about us being monitored and I wonder if I even want to know.
I snatch up the case and hurry to the cab. As I slide into the back seat, I have to resist the urge to just yank it open and go through its contents right here and now.
“Where to?” the cabbie asks.
I give him the address of my Park Avenue penthouse. “There’s a $1,000 tip in it if you get me there in under thirty minutes.”
I have to grab the case to keep it from toppling off the seat as the cab screeches off into the night.
Chapter Forty-Three
12. CASSANDRA
I check my phone for the umpteenth time today to see if I’ve somehow missed the ding that indicates a new message. Nope. Just like all the other times I’ve looked at it so far today. Outside the living room window, I see the night sky of Manhattan lit up like the world’s most expensive Christmas tree.
The little Netflix logo appears on the screen of my Macbook with the message: “Are you still watching Scandal?” Obviously I haven’t been paying attention – I can’t even tell you what season has been playing, let alone what the current episode is about.
Of course, Scandal isn’t the easiest show to follow at the best of times, and this is far from the best of times.
I exit the program and am greeted by the desktop photo: a beautiful beach in Bora Bora. I traveled all over the world in my job, but I never got to see a place like Bora Bora. The only sand I ever got to see was in the desert.
Sigh.
I check the phone again without thinking. My work computer is rigged to alert my phone whenever a new message comes in from the Chase’s website, but still nothing. And it’s almost midnight.
My nerves are starting to fra
y. I’ve been more confident hunkered down in a rathole in the Middle East than I am right now, waiting for this message. What if it’s all fallen apart somehow? I don’t think I could take that. To come so far with this, only to see it disappear like smoke in the wind…
I need a distraction.
Before I can stop it, my thumb slides around the track pad and clicks on a file folder called “Sandra’s Stuff.” Inside is a folder of videos.
I know where my subconscious is going and I’m helpless to do anything about it. Suddenly the screen is filled with the image of two awkward teens mugging for the camera. In the lower right corner is a date stamp from thirteen years ago.
This isn’t going to help me at all. This is just wallowing. But I don’t stop it. Can’t stop it.
The girl is all red curls and freckles, the boy skinny with hair that looks like it was shorn by a military barber. They’re standing beside a roll-up banner welcoming all students to the seventeenth annual high school science fair. Behind them, a contraption covers most of the white plastic table on which it sits.
The girl holds up a large gold medal to the camera. The boy nabs it from her and bites down on it like an Olympian on the podium. She giggles with delight.
So do I. Just like I did back then.
“Tell everyone what you made,” my dad’s voice says from behind the camera.
“It’s just a scale model of a nuclear reactor,” the boy says blandly, like he’s describing a mildly interesting rock he found at the beach. Meanwhile, the girl looks at the boy the way teens gaze adoringly at posters of Justin Bieber these days.
He glances over at her and catches her staring. She blushes, flustered. Behind the camera, Dad clears his throat.
“All right, that’s enough filming. Mom’s waiting for us at the restaurant.”
The boy swoops in and kisses the girl on her freckled cheek an instant before the screen becomes filled with white static and the video file ends.
Smart, my brain tells me. I’m waiting on information about the stranger who’s going to be the first man to take me to bed, so what do I do? Watch a video of the first and only boy I’ve ever kissed. The only one I’ve ever cared about.
Sometimes I wonder if all my intelligence somehow pushed the common sense out of my brain.
The sharp rap at my front door sets the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Who the hell is here at this time of night? And why tonight, of all nights?
I place the Macbook on the sofa and take a calming breath, running my hands down my blouse to smooth out the wrinkles before striding to the door. Cool and calm. Olivia Pope, that’s me.
There’s no one there.
On the hallway carpet is a slim leather travel case with the words Chase & Regent stenciled on the top.
My pulse quickens as I snatch it into the room and quickly close the door. I just assumed they’d contact me electronically, not physically. That kind of risk shows a level of confidence I wouldn’t have expected from these people. I guess I underestimated them. That’s my first lesson.
I open the case and tip its contents gently out onto the sofa: a no-name electronic tablet, a sheaf of papers, and a gold ring. Nothing else.
I hit the power button on the tablet first. It comes to life with a video of the blonde woman again.
“Hello, Cassandra,” she says. “I hope this finds you well. I trust you now have in your possession a printed file of information on your pursuers. You should also have a ring. Please place the ring on your finger now.”
She pauses for a moment, so I do as she says. It’s a perfect fit.
“Excellent,” she smiles. I get the sensation that she can see me, even though I know that’s impossible.
Right?
“The ring contains a device that will allow us to track your movements during the Chase. Please make sure you wear it throughout; a sensor in the band is sensitive to your body heat and will alert us if you remove it at any point.”
“I’m sure that would be dealt with accordingly,” I say.
“One final rule of the Chase,” she says, holding an old-style skeleton key up to the camera. “Each pursuer will carry a key identical to this one. It opens a room in the Regent Hotel. If and when you are presented with this key, it means the Chase is concluded and the presenter has won.
“You will accompany him to the Regent and complete the transaction.”
So now I know. It’s like they’re all carrying a key to my soul. And losing my innocence will be a transaction.
An image of the redheaded girl in the video flashes in my mind and I feel the hot sting of tears behind my eyes.
Chapter Forty-Four
13. CARSON
I almost never use the blinds on the floor-to-ceiling windows that wrap around my penthouse, but now I hit the button to activate them as soon as I walk in the door. Someone would need a telescope to spy on me at this height, but I’m not going to take any chances.
I take a seat in the center of the twelve-seat sectional couch that sits right in the center of the living room, and spread the contents of the case onto the low, wide block of solid walnut that serves as the coffee table. Even with the blinds down, I make sure the only light in the apartment is the soft LED glow from the post-modern lamp next to the sofa.
The contents are less than I would have expected: a tablet, a few papers and an old-fashioned brass skeleton key.
The papers are a dossier on my quarry. She’s thirty, the same age as me. The military college she graduated from is somewhere on the southeastern seaboard. That narrows it down.
Red Dress said the quarry graduated at the top of her class. A year early, to boot. Much better than my two years at Harvard before I dropped out.
That should narrow it down even more.
My heart is racing. This woman is turning me on more than any has in recent memory, and I don’t even know what she looks like, let alone her name.
Her file says she’s worked with two distinct government agencies – it doesn’t specify which, but I assume it’s some exotic combination of Army Intelligence, the NSA and/or the CIA. She’s been an analyst and an active field agent.
I don’t know much about this kind of stuff but I do know those two jobs rarely align. They take a totally separate set of skills: one is a thinker, the other is a doer.
This lady is both. Brains and brawn. Just like me.
An involuntary grin creeps across my face.
There’s precious little other information: a list of places she frequents, her neighborhood (Midtown), a few more background details. She’s from a military family, like me. Hopefully that will help me get inside her head.
I pick up the tablet and hit the power button. The screen remains black but suddenly a line of green text appears across it, a hallmark of dark web sites. It’s like being in The Matrix.
Enter account details.
This is it. I use the browser to call up my slush fund and watch as the sum of $20 million disappears into the ether.
As soon as that’s done, a new line appears.
Transfer verified.
The screen goes black again and suddenly it’s filled with a video of Red Dress smiling at me. She looks exactly the same as she did the night we met at the Regent. Did she meet all the competitors wearing the same outfit? Or did she film a different video for each of us?
I don’t know, and I can’t figure out which I’d find more strange.
“Congratulations on joining the Chase,” she says, ignoring my dilemma. “I trust you currently have in your possession a case containing both a dossier on your quarry and your key.”
She holds up a key that’s identical to the one sitting on my table. I wonder again how many of these are now floating around New York.
“Allow me to reiterate the rules of the Chase,” she says. “You are not to speak of it to anyone. Your pursuit of the quarry cannot draw attention to you in any way. Any attempt to circumvent this rule will be dealt with accordingly.”
I assume that means I can’t take out an ad in The Times saying “Hey, quarry, I’ll pay you a bonus if you come to my apartment and let me give you my key.”
The thought of being dealt with accordingly gives me pause, though. How much power do these guys have that they can make veiled threats to a gang of billionaires?
I think about the giant that disappeared on the street outside the Boom Boom Room and realize I probably don’t want to find out.
“As you know, the quarry will be monitored by us at all times,” she continues. “Any actions deemed inappropriate will be dealt with accordingly.”
No cheating. Gotcha.
“Finally, the Chase will end when the quarry is caught by a contestant. All remaining contestants will be informed by an untraceable text message that simply says ‘over.’”
You won’t be on that damn recipient list, I tell myself.
“In the event the quarry avoids capture for the full term of the Chase, the prize will be auctioned off among the remaining contestants.”
Wait, what? Red Dress never said anything about that at the Regent. So no matter what the quarry does, she’s giving up her virginity to one of the competitors.
I lean into the low back of the sofa and run a hand over my chin. I don’t think I like this development. I just assumed I was going to win – I still do – so it didn’t really matter that she was losing her cherry. Her first time would be with a guy who, all false modesty aside, is built like a statue and has spent the last ten years learning every bedroom trick in the book.
It’s disturbing to think that she might end up underneath some bloated old toad, or worse, an entitled bastard who thinks it’s perfectly fine to hit women, just because they were the highest bidder.
Red Dress smiles at me from the tablet screen one last time.
“I wish you luck. Let the Chase begin.”
The screen goes blank, and as soon as it does, more text flashes across the screen: Rewriting hard drive.
Might as well say erasing all evidence.
