Zero Hour

by Megan Erickson

  When the aunt and uncle walked off to grab another drink, a man approached their table. He gazed steadily at Wren before he turned and shook Darren’s hand. “Good to see you.”

  Darren’s smile was tight. “Good to see you, too, Franklin.”

  Franklin, what a name. He was attractive in the same way Darren was attractive, all-American with a strong jaw, clean-shaven face, and impeccable haircut. His tux was tailored to his body, and the blue shirt underneath was the same color as his eyes. Which were currently taking in her body like she was the freshly carved prime rib. “And your friend?”

  “My date’s name is Lacy,” Darren said, his emphasis on date hard to miss.

  Franklin didn’t seem to care, still not taking his eyes off her. “Ah, and where did you two meet?”

  Wren stayed silent, unsure of Franklin’s story and careful not to draw the ire of Darren. Not tonight.

  “At Alpha,” Darren said simply.

  Franklin cocked his head. “I guess I should be going to Alpha more often then.”

  Darren stared at him blandly, and Franklin shot him a grin that was all teeth. “Congratulations to your parents.”

  Daren said thank you, and the two men spent a few minutes in a tense conversation about the stock market, trying to one-up each other with knowledge. It was some weird privileged game of rich chicken that Wren had no interest in, but she did watch Franklin’s body language. He held his back perfectly straight and continuously tapped some sort of college ring against his glass. He also met Darren’s gaze directly in a challenging way that made Wren uneasy. He was either just an asshole or an asshole who was capable of evil. She’d keep an eye on him until she was sure which. Eventually he sauntered away, only after making an odd bow toward her with a barely hidden wink. Wren shuddered.

  Two hours later and the ballroom was crowded with flushed faces, and the food had been forgotten in place of an unlimited amount of liquor. Wren had managed to avoid drinking all but a few sips of wine. She hadn’t been able to get out of dancing with Darren though, and if he put his hand on her bare thigh one more time, she was liable to knee him in the balls.

  She met Marisol’s gaze over Darren’s shoulder as they swayed along the edge of the dance floor. Marisol scratched the corner of her mouth with her middle finger. That was the signal to make her move.

  “I’d love another drink.” Wren shot Darren the most alluring smile she could. “And you’re out, too. Would you grab us a couple?”

  Wren’s pulse pounded, the sound like a drumbeat in her ears. This was one of the riskiest parts of the mission, the most likely way they’d be caught. She and Marisol had practiced this over and over with Erick pretending to be Darren, and they’d perfected their moves to nearly imperceptible levels. Wren kept a smile plastered on her face and willed her hands to stop trembling.

  Marisol moved toward them, holding a tray covered in champagne flutes. She didn’t say a word as she held it out.

  “Thank you,” Wren said, grabbing two glasses before Darren could.

  Marisol nodded and turned around, but not before stepping on Darren’s foot. He yelped, and Marisol leaped back, still managing to hold on to her tray. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!” Marisol said, her hand out.

  While Darren’s attention was diverted, Wren pretended to adjust her bracelet. With a careful flick of her fingernail, she opened up the heart charm on her bracelet and angled her wrist. The powder contents dropped into one of the champagne flutes, and after a couple of swirls, dissolved completely.

  There was safety in numbers this size. Everyone around them was drunk and singing along to Adele. No one was paying attention to her.

  When Darren turned around with a frown on his face, clearly ruffled, Wren smiled and handed him a drink. “Accidents happen,” she beamed, her grin growing as he snatched the champagne out of her hand and took a large gulp.

  “I guess so,” Darren said, still scowling.

  He finished his drink a minute later, and Wren glanced at the giant clock above the ballroom doors. She had about fifteen minutes before the drug began to make him feel a little woozy, and another ten after that before he passed out.

  This was going to be the hardest part of the night, where she’d have to let him take some liberties in order to prove to him that she wanted to be alone with him. Of course the thought made her want to vomit. The imprint of Roarke’s hands were all over her body, the echo of his words in her ear. She hoped he was okay back in the van and not losing his mind over this mission. She imagined him hunched over in a chair, one hand tangled in his dark hair, the other holding the headphones to his ear. The dark ink on his fingers would stand out from his white knuckles. He’d alternate between sneering and wincing and cheering.

  Well, he’d cheer as soon as she said the next sentence, which was her confirmation Darren had ingested his drink—along with the sleep aide. “This house is gorgeous by the way, at least from what I’ve seen.”

  Darren’s eyes narrowed a minute before his lips stretched into a grin. “Why don’t I take you on a little tour? It’s crowded in here anyway.”

  He held out his arm, which she took as they began to walk toward the exit. He’d taken the bait, like she knew he would. Darren wasn’t going to pass up a chance to be alone with her.

  He did, in fact, give her a small tour, which surprised her because she figured he’d just shove her in a bedroom. But he led her through the state-of-the-art kitchen with four ovens and into a massive library, where the books were indeed alphabetized.

  They approached the stairs, and Darren’s grip tightened on her arm. His pupils had begun to dilate, his grin became a little crooked. Despite the knowledge that he was drugged and couldn’t hurt her, it didn’t stop her heart from racing as they ascended the marble steps leading to the second floor.

  Every click of her heels on the floor echoed through the empty foyer. Everyone was concentrated in the ballroom so no one was around to see her and Darren.

  “My mother has theme rooms,” Darren was saying. “I can show you a couple. They are kind of ridiculous, but she loves them.”

  “Theme rooms?” Wren tried to act interested and not like every single nerve in her body was firing warning signals to her brain with high-powered rocket launchers.

  “Yeah, like she’s got an ocean room, a desert room, et cetera.”

  Oh, that actually sounded kind of cool. He led her down the hallway, which was carpeted with a long dark runner. He opened the door to a room on the left and led her inside.

  Oh, he wasn’t kidding. One wall was lined with saltwater fish tanks, little Nemos swimming around inside along with some weird crab creature. Another wall was painted with an ocean mural—a sperm whale surfacing. This seemed a little out of character for such an expensive house, but hey, what did she know about being rich?

  Darren’s body swayed into hers, and she wasn’t sure if that was him or the drugs. But either way, she had a couple more minutes until this man slumped to the floor—

  Suddenly she was slammed into the wall behind her, so hard that her head thunked loudly, scrambling her brain for a few seconds, which Darren took full advantage of. He caged her in, his hands on either side of her head, his chest smashed against hers. Oh God, she could feel how hard he was because his dick was pressed against her belly. She swallowed against her gag reflex as Darren began to suck on her neck.

  Her entire body screamed at her to push him away, fight back, but she couldn’t. She had to play the part, unsure if he’d remember this or not, but if he did, he couldn’t blame her when he passed out.

  “Lacy,” he moaned, his wet tongue swirling along her skin, “been waiting a long time to get my hands on you.” He ran his fingers up her leg, where her dress split, and with a firm grip on the back of her thigh, yanked it up. She sucked in a breath as he ground against her, his lips leaving her neck to make their way to her mouth. “Little body like this, I bet you’re tight as fuck, aren’t you?”

  The only reason
she didn’t scream or start crying was because she knew Roarke was listening. Be strong, Wren. “Why don’t you find out?” she breathed, slipping her fingers down his back to clutch at his ass. She thrust her hips against him. “It’s been too long since I’ve been fucked by a real man.”

  Darren groaned and pressed his lips against hers. Oh fuck, she was going to be sick. He was moving his mouth, seeking entrance into hers, and if she had to feel that lizard tongue meeting hers, she might just blow this whole damn mission.

  But then the pressure began to ease up as Darren’s grip on her thigh went a little slack. With a stumble backward and a hand to his head, Darren blinked at her before his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed on the floor with a thud.

  She breathed hard as she stared at his slumped body. She shuddered, thinking about how narrowly she’d avoided having to make out with Darren. “Done,” she whispered to her crew, knowing they’d notify Marisol.

  She rushed forward, feeling his pulse, which was light but steady. It was a struggle in her dress and heels to drag his deadweight body away from the doorway. She propped him up in the corner in shadow and smacked his face a couple of times. He didn’t move.

  She stood up, considering grinding her heel into his balls, when Marisol waltzed into the room. Her bow tie was loosened, and she gazed down at the unconscious figure and eyed Wren from head to toe. “Did he paw you too much?”

  Wren shrugged. She didn’t care, not really, although she would have given anything for Roarke to be there, for him to take her mouth and grip her thighs to remind her what it felt like to be touched by a real man. Not fucking Darren Saltner.

  She resisted the urge to spit on the unconscious figure. “I’m fine, but we need to get moving. We have about two hours, and we’ve got some breaking and entering to do.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Wren wiped her clammy hands on her dress as adrenaline coursed through her body. Before they left the room with a passed-out Darren, Marisol glanced at her watch and whispered over her shoulder, “Got confirmation that Jock cut the cameras.”

  Good timing. Wren slipped off her heels to pad barefoot down the hallway while Marisol walked on silent, soft-soled shoes. Because of the size of the house, the sounds of the party could barely be heard as they made their way to Arden’s office. Still, a sudden spike of female laughter rattled Wren, and her heart pounded as a trickle of nervous sweat dripped down her back. Darren had led her to the same wing that housed Arden’s office so at least the trip to their destination was short.

  Within minutes, they were standing in front of a large oak door. There was a security camera in the office as well, which Jock had cut along with the hallway cameras. Other than that, there was no extra security to Arden’s office. Marisol rattled the knob with a gloved hand. It was locked, as they’d expected it would be. She unbuttoned her shirt and pulled a thin piece of wire out of her bra. With a wiggle of her eyebrows at Wren, she picked the lock. Wren glanced down the hall, wary of every single raised voice, every clink of a glass.

  At the satisfying click of the lock, Wren exhaled.

  Marisol pushed the door open, and they crept into Arden’s office—the lion’s den. Moonlight shone through floor-to-ceiling windows, spotlighting the computer that sat on the massive mahogany desk. An antique globe on a waist-high stand sat in the corner in front of a lush potted plant. Bookshelves, full of tomes with thick embossed spines, lined one wall.

  Wren closed the door but stayed nearby to listen for anyone coming down the hallway. Marisol immediately sat in the giant chair, running her hands down the leather arms with an impressed nod before giving it a little spin and placing her hands on the keyboard.

  Wren’s heartbeat was now so loud in her ears that she feared she wasn’t hearing anything else. She wished she weren’t wearing satin, so she could wipe her damp palms on the fabric to dry them. The bobby pins in her hair were digging into her scalp, and the beaded bodice of her dress was scratchy. She curled her toes into the carpet, all her senses heightened as she met Marisol’s gaze from across the pristine office.

  For the first time since she’d met Marisol, a wariness crossed over the woman’s face. Her bottom teeth came out to scrape her top lip. Then she spoke into the microphone hidden in her bow tie. “We’re in the office. I’m at the log-in screen.”

  A bead of sweat dripped down Wren’s neck, and she wiped it away. They’d watched the footage up until yesterday, and Arden accessed his computer with the same password. Still, Wren worried he’d changed it at the last minute.

  Marisol’s fingers moved across the keyboard. She’d memorized the password, not trusting to write it down anywhere. Her fingers stopped, and Wren clenched her fists.

  “I’m in,” Marisol said a little breathlessly, and Wren exhaled.

  Marisol uncapped a lipstick from her pocket and popped off the waxy red tip to reveal a flash drive underneath. She plugged it into one of the USB ports on Arden’s machine. “Copying his files now.”

  Wren alternated between holding her breath and panting like she’d run a marathon. She knew they had time. Darren would be passed out for a while, but that didn’t stop the hair on her arms from rising like she’d been shocked. Anyone could come up here, and she was sure they’d be snuffed out without a second thought…

  “Fuck,” Marisol said, and the sound of typing ceased. That one word sent Wren scrambling behind her to look at the screen.

  Marisol’s hands were balled into fists over the keys, but she unfurled one to point a shaky hand at a password-protected folder. It had an innocuous name—school pictures. But with an extra password on it, they were sure it was anything but school pictures. “Jock, I have a password-protected folder here.” Marisol glanced up at Wren. “He’s going to look through the footage to see if there’s a time Arden accessed this file but…damn it.” Marisol’s expression darkened. “I guess I can just copy it, and we can figure it out later, when we have time.”

  Wren glanced at her watch. It’d been ten minutes, although it felt like hours. They had time, but the sooner they got out, the less chance they had of getting caught. Jock had planned to review the files tonight, not spend his time gaining access to a locked folder.

  She nibbled at her nail, her mind racing. Something told Wren that Arden had made this one personal. What was he most proud of? His family—

  “EDC,” she blurted out.

  Marisol turned around slowly with raised eyebrows. “I’m sorry?”

  Wren flapped her hand, her mouth moving too slow for her brain. “Type in variations of EDC, or electronic digital computer, maybe with the numbers 1946, when it was invented. Or his anniversary date. A family member was involved in the invention of the electronic digital computer. Darren mentioned it, and apparently it’s the pride of the family. They claim entrepreneurship runs in their blood.” She gestured at the screen wildly, unsure her words were making sense.

  Marisol was already typing, the letters almost a blur as they appeared quickly in the input box. She tried about ten variations, with numbers interspersed among the letters. “Damn it,” Marisol said. “At least it hasn’t locked me out yet.”

  “Try Darren’s birthday with it,” Wren said, rattling off the date.

  Marisol shrugged. “Worth a try. If this doesn’t work, I’m saying fuck it and letting them take a crack at it back at HQ.”

  Wren wanted the team to spend time looking through the files, not hacking into the file. “Try it.”

  Marisol typed in a couple passwords, and on the fifth try, her pinkie finger slammed down on the enter key and the password input box disappeared.

  The file opened.

  Wren thrust her arms in the air in silent victory. They waited, watching the progress bar for the copied files creep from 0 to 25 percent, then to 50 percent. And as it slid to 90 percent, voices sounded down the hall along with the distinct click of heels.

  “Come on, come on,” Marisol whispered, pumping her fist in the air in a silent g
esture to hurry up.

  Wren scrambled to the door, pressing her ear to the cool wood as the voices drew closer. She widened her eyes at Marisol, who was bent at the waist to retrieve the drive from the computer. After replacing the lipstick on top to hide the USB port, Marisol wiped the computer’s activity log and turned it off.

  She rose and carefully placed the chair back where it had been, which she’d marked with small strips of tape. After pulling up the tape and slipping everything back into her pockets, she took her place next to Wren at the door. She mirrored her position to listen to the sounds in the hallway.

  “Shh,” a woman’s voice said. “We’re not supposed to be up here.”

  “Who gives a fuck?” the man said. “I want inside you.”

  The woman moaned, and Marisol made a gagging gesture. The women stared at each other with widened eyes as the voices reached the door and…kept going.

  The slam of a door farther away echoed down the hallway, and the voices were no longer heard. They waited a minute longer until they were sure the couple was occupied. Very occupied.

  This was where they had to part ways. Marisol had to finish out her shift so as not to draw attention to herself. “Go on, get out of here. I’ll take care of Darren when he wakes up to explain why you left.”

  Wren nodded. That was the plan, for her to fake food poisoning and ask the driver to take her home. Marisol was to tell Darren about Wren’s illness. “Be safe,” she said.

  Marisol grinned. “Never.” Then her smile faded. “Good luck, okay?”

  Wren nodded, knowing this escape would not be easy. Because she wasn’t going to stick with the plan. She had other ideas. “I will.”

  Marisol opened the door, and they slipped out. After locking it behind them, Wren slipped on her heels. They turned to each other, and Marisol gave her a quick hug. “You did good, girl. I’ll see you soon.”

  With a sloppy salute, Marisol turned around and took off down the hallway.