She watched as he walked away to make his rounds before leaving, then retreated to the corner bar. Out of the corner of her eye, she made out a male figure approaching—a round face, a shock of blond hair. He sidled up to her at the bar. Here we go.
“Feeling better, I see,” said the now-familiar boyish voice of the guy who had come up to her by the men’s room.
She turned and shot him a look of practiced indifference. “That,” she said, “is none of your concern.”
“No, I suppose not.” He flicked his hair away from his eyes. “Just like it isn’t my concern that you were poised to lure a very particular man coming out of the bathroom. And it isn’t my concern that you watered a ficus with Cristal.”
The little twerp had been watching her. “A woman has her ways of having fun. Not that you’d know anything about that.”
“I know about fun.”
“I meant women.”
“Touché.” He called over the bartender and ordered a whiskey on the rocks. “But you’re not here for fun.”
“Oh really?”
He stood with his back against the bar and grinned. “In that dress? No, you’re all business.”
The bartender set the glass of whiskey down on a napkin.
“Which, I might add, is none of yours.”
Ice clinked in his glass as he took a sip.
She looked out the window to the sea of darkness that was Central Park. “I’m curious about what you’re doing here at all. Tell me, did you have to borrow your daddy’s tux?”
He smiled wide. “Why, would you like to meet him? He might be a little more of your target demographic.”
“Maybe he is.” She cast her gaze around for Baxter. She found him glowering at her from the exit to the ballroom. Jealous. Good. The boy had his uses.
She let the conversation fall into a lull, which he then tried to break. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a lovely accent?”
“You yanks love your accents,” she said. “Tell me, does it make me sound smart and sophisticated?”
He chuckled. “No, you manage that all on your own, Miss—”
She shot him a sidelong glance. “Lily.”
“A pleasure,” he said. “I’m Scott. Scott Renard.”
“Of the Poughkeepsie Renards?” she deadpanned.
He laughed, a hearty, wholesome laugh. “I can’t figure you out. You’re not here for the politics. You’re not here with someone who’s here for the politics. But I’m not getting the gold-digger vibe, despite your little show. What is your deal?”
“Maybe I’m just tired of men who tell me I have a lovely accent.”
“So instead, you want men who have a lovely net worth?”
She watched as Baxter walked toward the elevator, shooting her one last look before he disappeared into the foyer, baring his teeth like a predator.
“So let me guess your—deal,” she said. “You paid two hundred dollars for that haircut somewhere in Silicon Valley and got shanghaied into coming to this dinner across the country because you’re the least socially inept of the partners in your startup, which consists of an application that lets your dog connect with other pets in the area for friendship, romance, and business networking. Am I getting warm?”
He threw up his hands. “Guilty as charged, more or less. Except for the app itself. It’s more of an integrated security suite. We’ve got a good chance of being bought out by Google or Facebook before the year is out.”
“I’m sure that must be very exciting for you,” Lily said sarcastically.
“It’s been boring. I used to program all day. That used to be the job, and I was good at it.”
“Now that sounds riveting.”
“More than you think,” he said. “Today, it’s all meetings with venture capital and angel investors, PR, management. Not my bag. But that’s what the job calls for, so that’s what I have to do. Never mind that I’m introverted and have all the social graces afforded by a down-home Midwestern upbringing.”
“You seem to be able to hold your own,” said Lily. “For an amateur. Little tip: skip the whiskey in social functions. It makes you sloppy, and you wince every time you take a sip. You don’t like it and it shows. Get a tonic with a slice of lime. People will assume it’s got gin in it. They’ll trust you more, and you get to remain sober.”
He set the glass down on the bar. “I yield to the expert.”
She pushed off, collecting her clutch. “You’ll have to excuse me now. This shindig’s played out, and I have some grown-up things to attend to.”
“I was just about to take my leave anyway,” he said. “Condoleezza Rice promised me a dance. But I’ll tell you what. I’m just going to put my number in this little purse you’ve got here.” He pulled out a business card, took her clutch and, opening it a crack, slipped the card inside. “You feel like picking up this conversation, I know a great little five-star place that’ll give me a table on, like, zero notice.”
“I’ll consider it,” she said, waving him away. What was worse was that she really felt like she might. His young insouciant charm had left her with more of a tingle than she wanted to admit.
She walked out of the event hall and into the elevator, pressing the floor for Baxter’s room. In the ride down, she got herself into character. When she emerged into the hallway, she was Lily Harper, femme fatale.
She inserted the keycard into the slot on the door to the Diplomatic Suite. It flashed green, and she pushed the door open.
The light poured into the dark chamber, getting lost in its extensive square footage. Its windows opened to the Central Park view, stunning from an unlit space. Her high heels clicked on the hardwood floor.
Baxter was sitting on a red upholstered armchair, still in his suit, deep shadows cast on his face and body. He puffed on a thick cigar, which lit up red as he drew in. The sweet and acrid smell tickled her nose as she approached him. Lily set her clutch down on a credenza as the door behind her clicked shut and darkness enveloped the suite, letting the cityscape shine through in all its glory.
“Take off your dress,” he said, commanding.
She slinked toward him, hips swaying, shoulders thrown back. “Let me make you feel good.” She sat on the armrest of his chair, setting a caressing hand on his chest.
“Dress off. Now.”
She raised her chin in defiance. “I think that’s something you’re going to have to earn.”
He grabbed a handful of her hair near her skull in his left hand. Her scalp burned. He brought her face within inches of his, smoky from the cigar. “Dress. Off.” he growled.
She knew this game. “Yes, sir.” He released her hair. She reached back to undo the clasp on her dress. After that, a gentle shake of her shoulders was all that was needed for the sheer fabric to crumple at her feet. He devoured her body with his eyes.
And then his hands were on her, running over her body. They were rough to the touch, grabbing at her skin hard enough to bring her to the threshold of pain. She gasped as he pinched the flesh at her hips.
“I hope you’re not squeamish.” His breath was hot in her ear.
“Do what you want with me,” she whispered, breathless.
He did.
Chapter 9
Morgan parked his Oldsmobile two blocks away from Dominic Watson’s Cambridge apartment complex. The time on the dashboard read 11:49. On the night before a Monday, the snowy streets were deserted.
He checked his stainless-finish Walther PPK .380 ACP, made sure that the safety was clicked on, and set it in his shoulder holster, close to his heart. He shouldn’t need it, but in his line of work, it was a fine line between shouldn’t and did. He then tucked his lock-picking kit and the leather case Shepard had given him into his coat’s inner pockets.
Morgan wrapped a scarf around his neck, high so it covered most of his face, and pulled a beanie down over his head so that only his eyes were exposed. One of the benefits of winter—you could hide your face without drawing an
y undue attention. He pulled on thin leather gloves and got out of the car into the cold Boston night.
“I’m on the move,” he said, boots crushing the fine powder on the concrete sidewalk.
“Remember to approach the building from the south,” said Shepard. The technical stuff all fell under his purview, so he was his point man for this mission rather than Bloch. “Skirt the edge of the sidewalk against the fence here to avoid the traffic camera.”
“What about the one on the next block?”
“I’ll provide a well-timed glitch. Just leave it to me.”
Morgan’s breath condensed against his scarf as he walked, the still frigid air nipping at his exposed eyes. He passed a couple huddled against the cold who shrank from him as they passed, but otherwise the night was empty, crisp and clear.
Morgan approached the apartment building, a five-story modern red brick, boxy and ugly.
“You’ve got a camera above the door on your left.”
Morgan kept his face down, making a show to huddle against the cold. Standing at the door, he reached into the leather case and pulled out a keycard that connected remotely to Shepard’s digital lock pick, inserting it into the slot. The light above the reader flashed red.
“Ready for you to work your magic here,” said Morgan.
“Just a second.” Morgan heard typing on Shepard’s end. “These things are a joke.”
The light turned green.
“And you’re in,” Shepard said.
Morgan drew out the keycard and pushed the door open into the stale warm air of a drab hallway, tracking snow onto the worn carpet.
“There’s another camera on the ceiling on the left,” said Shepard. Morgan tilted his head down, as if to check something in his right pocket.
“Security video should be relayed through a room that’ll be”—there was a pause as Shepard checked—“second door in the hallway to your right.”
Morgan found the door and knelt to pick the lock, in full view of the hallway camera. This was the weakest point of the mission, unavoidable as it was. But if anyone was even looking at this feed, it would be a night security guard in a distant facility with a mosaic of who knew how many videos to keep watch on. Security cameras weren’t really for surveillance, but rather for deterrence and catching a criminal after the fact.
The lock opened with a click and Morgan slipped into the room, pulling down the scarf and taking off the hat. He inhaled a fresh breath with relief, musty as the air was in the windowless space. He closed the door behind him and flicked the switch next to it. Dim light shone from a bulb hanging from the ceiling by a wire. The far wall held a panel of electricity meters for each apartment, and on the right was a mess of wires for phone and Internet service. A low electronic hum pervaded the space.
A quick scan of the room revealed a box that looked like a large modem with a cluster of thin cables attached to it—the CCTV relay. Kneeling, he inserted a small device from Shepard’s case into the Ethernet port.
“The transmitter’s attached.”
“I’m in,” Shepard said a few seconds later. “Video incoming. I’m going to freeze the images as you pass.”
Morgan took his position at the door.
“All right, go.”
He walked out, closing the door behind him, and down the hall, taking the stairs up to the third floor.
“Hallway’s clear,” said Shepard.
He crouched at the door marked 3F and drew his lock-pick kit.
“You’re alone up there,” said Shepard. “Easy does it.”
Breaking into the home of a man who had just died had its own particular dangers, not least of which that the police were liable to appear at any moment to search his things. But the lock was simple and the hour was late.
Click.
The door swung open.
Morgan entered Watson’s living room and shut the door behind him, holding his right hand against the wood near the knob to stop it from making a sound. He found the light switch and flicked it, bathing the place in too-bright white light. The place looked like some kind of interior designer showroom. It was a clean, modern style, all chrome, white and black leather and mahogany.
“All right, what am I looking for?”
“Computers, hard drives,” said Shepard. “Anything that stores data.”
Morgan leafed through a pile of mail that sat on a buffet table. There were two credit card bills for different cards printed in menacing reds and yellows. It became obvious how he managed to afford all this. He didn’t.
Watson’s laptop was in plain view, a brushed aluminum Samsung sitting on a thick glass and metal desk. But there was a problem.
“It’s locked to an antitheft chain,” he said.
“Look for a bolt cutter or a hacksaw,” said Shepard.
Morgan surveyed the apartment, with its fussy decoration and metrosexual sheen. Morgan couldn’t imagine Watson would own a hacksaw.
“Something’s happening,” said Shepard. “There are three men at the building door wearing ski masks. They have guns—I see the bulges under their coats.”
Morgan felt his shoulders tensing, the hairs on the nape of his neck standing on end. “Burglars?”
“Maybe, I—what the hell? Someone else is in the system.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’ve hacked the security software, same way I did.”
Morgan didn’t believe in coincidences. “Can you keep them out?”
“Who do you think you’re talking to? I’ve already overridden the locks. They’re not getting in.”
Still, Morgan had to work fast. He examined the chain. It connected to the laptop through a cylindrical combination lock that was secured to the metal frame. The cable ran from the lock to loop around the steel leg of the desk. Morgan tested the desk for weak spots, but the welds were solid. He pulled against the lock to warp the aluminum to wrest it free. It held firm, and he was afraid of damaging the hard drive if he applied any more force.
“What the . . .” It was Shepard. “They kicked me out of the system and got the doors unlocked. They’re inside the building.”
“Morgan.” It was Bloch. “Leave the laptop and get out of there.”
Not an option. If this was important enough for armed men to come after, it was too important to leave behind.
“They’re moving up the stairs,” Shepard said.
Morgan’s hand went to his PPK. It was him against three armed men, seven rounds and a flimsy door between them, with no time for backup to arrive.
He didn’t love his odds.
Chapter 10
“Morgan, get out!”
Sorry, Bloch, but not a chance.
He popped out his earpiece, sticking it in his pocket, and pushed the white leather sofa against the door, dragging it across the hardwood floor. Grabbing two throw pillows, he sandwiched the cable between them. He then slipped his Walther into the crack, muzzle pressed against the chain, and pointed it against the wall.
He fired.
The report was muffled by the pillows. A flurry of down feathers erupted into the air, and the bullet embedded itself in the brick wall. The cable fell slack, sliced in two.
The apartment door rumbled as the men kicked it from the other side. Braced with the sofa, it held firm.
Morgan slipped the laptop into a padded fabric carrying case with a shoulder strap. He pulled open one of two heavy wooden windows, wood scraping against wood. Cold air gusted in.
The door boomed again. Morgan held the carrying case aloft out the window. The building was bordered by an iron fence, recessed from the sidewalk with a hedge in between, bare, leafless but dense with twiggy branches.
Morgan released the case. It fell two stories to land in the bushes with a shuffle of bending branches. Next he looked to either side and spotted what he was searching for.
Three suppressed gunshots. Splinters went flying. A windowpane shattered. A burning pain on Morgan’s thigh and blood on his bla
ck denim pants where a bullet grazed him.
Time to go.
He retreated into the bedroom, where he pulled open the window and looked to the right to find the black drainpipe, hugging the outer wall, three feet from the window.
The door cracked—the lock had been breached. The couch groaned as they pushed it out of the way.
Morgan ducked, lifting one leg at a time out the window so that they dangled free. He steadied himself against the wave of fear, averting his eyes from the thirty-foot drop.
He heard a final shove of the couch and then footsteps in the apartment.
No more time to hesitate. Morgan reached for the drainpipe with his right hand, getting a firm grip through his glove, and pushed off the window. The drainpipe whined as his body swung, but it held. He grabbed it with both hands, feet against the wall.
He let his hands slide down the pipe like it was a rappel rope. He made it one floor down before one of the attackers stuck his head out the living room window.
“Over here!”
The next time Morgan looked up at him, he was staring down the barrel of a Glock 19.
Oh, hell.
Morgan released his grip on the pipe. He felt the gust of the passing bullet in his hair. And then he fell.
He landed on the bushes, wind knocked out of him.
Another crack of the gun. The slug burrowed into the frozen ground between his legs.
But this time, his hands were free.
He drew his PPK and fired twice up at the window. One bullet found a pane of glass and the other only brick, but it was enough to force the shooter to retreat inside.
Morgan extricated himself from the branches and drew himself to his feet. With an eye on the window above, he squeezed past the bushes to get at the laptop carrying case, a few feet away.
Morgan fired another shot and scaled the fence, leaping over it in under three seconds to land on the snowy sidewalk on the other side.
A bullet hit the iron with a resounding clang.
Morgan ran under a hail of gunfire. These guys might be coordinated, but they were piss-poor shots. He covered the distance to the end of the block and turned the corner, safe out of the line of fire, and ran the two blocks to his car.
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