by J. Kenner
“Good idea,” Noah said, nodding slowly. “You want me to give him a call and see if any of the women on the team are free for a job? Or, hell, Liam and Quincy are both with the SSA,” he added, referring to two other former Deliverance members. “You could hit either of them up to approach Stark.”
“No worries. I’ll call him myself.”
Noah’s eyes widened, and Tony had to chuckle. Tony had learned that Stark was a hell of a nice guy, but there was no denying the billionaire was intimidating as hell. And Noah had no way of knowing that Tony had met Stark on multiple occasions—and that Stark had been actively recruiting him.
“He owes me a favor,” Tony explained.
Noah leaned back, clearly intrigued. “That’s a hell of a chip to be holding.”
“Yeah, well, let’s just say he thinks I’m worth it. I helped his wife out of a jam in Paris a while back.”
An attacker had gone after Nikki and, thankfully, Tony had been in the right place at the right time.
“Stark said to give him a shout if I ever needed anything. Guess I’ll call in the favor and tell him I need a woman.”
Chapter Two
Advance Reader Copy
I’m hanging upside down outside the window of one of Burbank’s hotels, and I can’t help but think that the world looks pretty much the same from twenty-four floors above the ground as it does right-side up at sea level.
But then, I’m not a sunshine and roses kind of girl. On the contrary, I’ve always thought that the world was a fucked up place, as often upside-down and backwards as it is safe and navigable. No, that’s not true. It’s more often fucked up. The warm and cozy world that you see on television commercials? That everyone’s grandmother claims to remember? It doesn’t really exist. I don’t think it ever really did.
Harsh, maybe. But the truth usually is.
I first learned about harsh realities when I was still in diapers. I didn’t have a stellar childhood, that’s for sure, but my perspective on the world gave me an edge. And my interesting string of jobs over the years has given me some very unique skill sets. The kind of expertise a woman needs if she plans on gathering a shit-ton of compromising intel from a money laundering asshole who, once upon a time, also brokered the sale of little girls on the black market.
Unfortunately for me, Billy Cane isn’t an easy guy to get close to. Which explains why I’m hanging upside down in front of his hotel window, a cable and a reinforced harness keeping me in place, as I try to hold my camera steady while I zoom in on his computer where he’s doing some very naughty things.
Not sexual things, though.
There are no scantily clad prostitutes in my view. No revelations into Mr. Billy Cane’s personal predilections. I’m not trying to catch him in that kind of compromising position. I’m trying to catch him moving money. Lots of money for lots of underworld clients.
I want to capture the keystrokes. I want shiny footage of the account numbers. I want all the juicy details. Because the more info I have to bargain with, the less likely anyone is going to care that I popped the guy.
Because that, of course, is the real reason I’m here.
A crackle of static in my earpiece catches my attention, then Quincy’s smooth British vowels fill my head. “Status, Auntie?” It’s a silly call sign, but protocol requires no names over the radio. The code name comes from Auntie Em of the Wizard of Oz, one of my favorite movies. And since I’m Emma, it’s a name I choose often for missions.
“Five-by-five. Just enjoying the view.”
“As much fun as waiting to reel you in might be, this mission is a bit below my pay grade.”
Quincy Radcliffe is not only one of the Stark Security Agency’s first recruits, he’s also a former Deliverance operative and a former MI6 agent. Which means he’s absolutely right. “Feeling extraneous?”
“You said you needed me specifically,” he reminds me. “And you asked me to bring company equipment even though you’re not with us.”
“I practically am.” The company is the Stark Security Agency, Quincy’s current employer.
“Are you, now? Do go on. When you asked me, I had the impression you’d be signing on the dotted line any day now. And yet I don’t believe you’ve signed a bloody thing.”
I almost smile. “You sounded seriously fucking British right then.”
“I am seriously fucking British. I’m also the man who is going to decide when and if I’m going to reel you up again. I want a straight bloody answer. Did you sign on to the company?”
If I weren’t hanging upside down, I’d shrug. “Technically, no.”
Damien Stark’s been asking me to come on board as an operative with the elite security agency ever since I rescued a kidnapped princess and Quince helped take down the fuckwad who was after her.
I admire the heck out of the SSA, but I also like my freedom. Working on my own terms. I spent too many years as a covert op for a deep-cover government intelligence organization. Under the circumstances, that was a kickass deal for me. A hell of a lot better than death row, that’s for damn sure.
Now that I’m no longer yoked to the government, my freedom is important to me. Quince knows it. My sister knows it. I know it.
I’m still trying to figure out if Stark Security knows it.
“Explain not exactly,” he demands.
“Well, you’re here, and you’re part of the company, and you’re my sister’s boyfriend. That’s way less than six degrees of separation. You do the math.”
His beleaguered sigh fills my ear, and I have to smile. Right now—upside down and all—I’m having one hell of a good time.
“Which begs the question of why I agreed to your absurd request in the first place.”
Through the crack in the hotel room’s curtain, I see Cane shift in his chair, revealing even more of the computer screen. I grin, then zoom in for a much better image of the spreadsheet he’s editing, chockfull of names and account numbers. “That’s it, you fucker. And thank you for being so anally organized.”
“Auntie…”
“Fine, fine. I’m assuming you agreed because you’re screwing my sister. God knows that was a big part of why I asked you.”
“Trust me. As much as I adore that particular activity, it wouldn’t be enough.”
“Then it must be because you love my sister.”
“Ah, yes. That’s why.”
“She’s lucky to have you,” I tell him. “And I’m not just saying that because you could push a lever and drop me on my head.”
“I’m lucky to have her.”
“Damn right, you are.”
“And right now, you’re lucky to have me.”
I laugh softly. “Can’t argue with that one either.”
“Care to give me a bit more information about what exactly you’re doing? Nature of the intel? Your mission objective?”
“Nope.”
“Because I might tell your sister?”
“Yup.”
“You know she’d—”
“Hang on.”
The bastard is pushing back from the desk, and it’s clear why—my own reflection right there on his goddamn computer screen. Dammit, dammit, dammit.
I wanted more footage. Lots more.
But I’ll have to make do with what I have, because it’s now or never time. And I’m not willing to stop now.
I do a quick flip in the harness, shifting my position to right-side up, then use the clip at the top of the harness to hook me into this position. These aren’t ideal conditions, but when are they ever?
I grab the Smith & Wesson .45 that’s holstered to my hip, say a prayer that the wind doesn’t shift, and quickly take aim. I’ve done this before, albeit not while suspended, but I’d always been assigned a partner on those missions. One of us to shoot out the glass, the other to almost simultaneously shoot the target, thus eliminating the need to account for the deflection of the kill shot when it penetrates the pane.
But I don�
��t have a partner beside me, and I don’t have time for hefty calculations. And while I’ll aim for a kill shot the first time, most likely I’ll have to take the second shot on its heels. If it works, great. If not, I damn sure hope Quince can haul my ass to the roof before Cane takes a shot at me.
Time seems to drag on dangerously slow, but that’s an illusion. The world is moving in slo-mo now. My thoughts coming at such a fast clip that he’s not even fully steady on his feet yet. But I’ve got the weapon ready, and the moment he’s upright and facing me, I fire. The glass shatters, and he’s close enough to get sprayed by the shards.
Flying glass can be deadly, but I’m not willing to take a chance, and the glass is still flying when I take aim, pull the trigger again, and send the bullet zinging through the newly formed hole in the window. And right into that son-of-a-bitch’s head.
I rattle off an ironic curse. Ironic because though I’d been aiming for his chest, I nailed the more difficult shot. Even so, I hate it when subpar conditions fuck with my aim.
I draw a breath, calm myself, and tell Quince to pull me the hell back up.
Immediately, I start to move up, and at a pretty fast clip. But that’s also when I realize that he hasn’t said a word. Yeah. He’s pissed.
“Listen, Bond,” I say, using this call sign. Because, hey, he’s British. “This was—”
“Bloody hell,” Quince growls. At first I think he’s even more pissed than I anticipated, but a split second later, I start to free fall and realize he’s dealing with an equipment fuck-up.
The clip holding me upright isn’t designed to withstand intense pressure, and when I jerk a few feet above Cane’s room, I also spin forward, the air coming out of my lungs with a whoosh. Suddenly I’m upside down again, staring through the glass into Cane’s room.
He’s still there, still dead, and still alone. There are no sirens. No sign that anyone at three in the morning noticed the shower of glass that rained down on the parking lot below. And no indication that hotel security is racing to his room.
I do have a problem, though. Because when I flipped, the camera shifted. Now it’s hanging from my arm, tethered only by the strap I’m wearing across my body.
Considering I’m currently upside down, this isn’t the most secure of positions. “What the hell are you doing up there?” I demand.
“Got a jam in the recoil system. Give me a—there.”
His final word is unnecessary, because I can hardly miss the fact that I’m now zooming upward, the crank’s motor having obviously re-engaged.
The camera starts to fall, but it can’t go far because the strap is around my body.
Except that it’s not. I realize too late that the metal clip that attaches the strap to one side of the camera has come loose—and now the weight of the camera is pulling the damn thing free faster than I can scramble for it.
“Goddammit,” I snarl as my fingers brush the end of the strap, but I can’t get a grip. And I watch, helpless, as the camera tumbles through the night to smash unseen on the dark parking lot below.
There’s a chance—a slim one—that the SD card survived. But I’m not holding my breath. Instead, I growl into the mic. “Tell me the wifi was working. Tell me you got the image transfer.”
“No glitches,” Quince assures me. “I’ll confirm the images were transferred once you’re up here. Can you see where it landed?”
“More or less. We’ll retrieve it when we exit the scene.” A moment later, my feet have reached the barrier that marks the edge of the roof. I pike up and re-orient myself with my head up, as if I’m some sort of trapeze artist.
I grab hold of the ledge around the roof and pull myself up and over in time to see him standing beside the now-locked crank, his attention on the tablet in front of him.
“Got them. Let’s go.”
To his credit, he says nothing else as we pack the equipment in seconds, then use the utility elevator to get to the basement. We exit through a service entrance, both keeping our heads down and shielded by black, generic baseball caps.
Only after we’ve retrieved the broken camera, confirmed the images transferred safe and sound to the remote tablet, and are miles away in the plain, black Toyota—without license plates—does Quincy turn to me and say, “What the bloody hell is going on?”
He’s driving, and he pulls into a deserted bank parking lot. I don’t even grimace. It’s not like I wasn’t expecting this.
“It’s personal,” I tell him. “And sanctioned. Don’t worry. There won’t be blowback.”
“Sanctioned,” he repeats. “But not by my company.” He kills the engine and looks at me, his expression as hard as glass. He glances to the backseat where our gear, including one of Stark Security’s tablets, are safe and sound in a go-bag. “I’m assuming the photos are important and you weren’t just practicing your artistic composition skills before taking out the guy.”
I cock my head, not even bothering to answer.
“So here’s what happens. Tell me what this is all about, and I’ll get the images for you. Keep me in the dark, and you’ll have to steal the bloody tablet and hack the passcode. And no offense, but I don’t think you’re that good with tech. I’m not sure anyone is. The SSA has serious security. You might find someone to eventually hack it, but I wouldn’t want to take those odds.”
“Quince.” Over the years, I’ve cultivated a firm and intimidating voice. Unfortunately, my sister’s boyfriend isn’t the type to be intimidated.
“No.” His voice is harsh. No nonsense. This is the man who withstood torture. The man who saved my sister. And the man who now protects her, just like I once did.
I feel my resolve shift.
“This isn’t an SSA mission,” he continues. “And despite suggesting as much when you asked me to come with you, you aren’t actually on the cusp of joining the SSA, are you?”
I say nothing.
“Fine. Tell me what the fuck’s going on, or this whole exercise was for nothing.”
“Eliza said you were a principled hard-ass.”
“She knows me well. Talk.”
“It’s personal. Me and Eliza.”
“That makes it personal to me, too.”
“Oh? Have you proposed?”
His mouth twitches and even in the dim ambient light I can actually see the hint of color rising up his neck.
“Oh my God. You did propose. I can’t believe she didn’t tell me.”
“Not yet. But soon. I have the ring in my pocket.”
“Your pocket,” I repeat. “Here? Now?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Until it’s on her finger, I’m not letting it out of my sight. And even then, I’m not letting it get too far away.”
I feel my heart melt a little, which is not a common feeling for me. Yes, I’ve been known to tear up during the occasional sappy film when my sister forces me to watch them, but on the whole, relationships and the mess that goes with them really aren’t my thing.
Sure, I’ve had a few friends with benefits over the years, but that’s sex and laughs and a good time. Nothing serious. Because what’s the point? I’ve got Eliza. I’ve got my circle. And that’s plenty. The world’s a harsh enough place as it is, and the more you get close, the more you get vulnerable.
Still, I’m happy for Eliza. She’s practically floated through life ever since she and Quince got together again after a particularly bad parting many years ago.
He’s since redeemed himself a hundred-fold. And since he had a significant hand in saving my life and the princess, I have to admit I’m predisposed to liking the guy again.
Most important, I know he loves her.
“The mission,” he presses.
I hesitate, then nod. He came tonight to help me, no questions asked. And, yes, I might have suggested that Stark was okay with it, but I know damn well he didn’t believe it. Not when the briefing consisted of the two of us discussing mission specs in my Jeep outside a Taco Bell.
And, yeah,
I sort of forgot to mention the part about my plan to kill Cane.
Bottom line, he deserves to know. And I should probably get used to the fact that Quincy Radcliffe is family, too.
Family. What a weird fucking word. When I was little, I thought it meant blood and birth and genealogical shit. DNA and genes.
But that’s bullshit. Blood isn’t family. Not the kind of family that counts.
“Our father was planning to sell us,” I tell him, surprised that the furious noise in my head translated to a whisper in the dark.
I see the pain cross his face, but there’s no surprise. I already know that Eliza has told him our story. And while she never knew that particular vile plan of daddy dearest, I guess it’s not a shock when you know about the rest of the evil that clung to that man.
“I never told Eliza, but I’ll understand if you tell her now. I know you two don’t like having secrets, and I probably should have told her long ago.”
He shakes his head. “She didn’t need to know, and you were doing what you’ve done your whole life. Taking care of her.” He reaches out and casually brushes my hand. “It doesn’t change a thing, but I want you to know it matters to me.”
I nod, then realize I’m looking down because there are tears in my eyes, which makes no sense whatsoever. Or maybe it does. Because he loves who I love, and that’s a good thing.
“So Cane was the buyer?”
I shake my head. “No, that was someone else. An entitled prick with fingers in industries both legitimate and not. But he’s dead.”
“And Cane was the next best thing.”
I nod. “He brokered the deal. He brokered a lot of deals. Still does.”
He nods slowly. “You should have told me before.”
“Would you have come with me?”
“Of course.”
I shrug. “Then what’s the difference?”
He rubs his temples. “Emma…” He trails off, then rubs his temples again. “Of course I would have helped. You know what I’ve done. Who I’ve worked for.”
