“You think it’s someone inside Section—a mole here in the D.C. station. It’s the only conclusion that makes sense. Someone saw my reports. They didn’t like what they read, and they tipped off Henrika. Then they—or Henrika—sent those cleaners to eliminate me.” She paused. “And most likely Jensen too. He’s the only other person who looked at my reports on a regular basis, and he was always taking credit for my work. The mole must have mistakenly thought that Jensen was the one on Henrika’s trail, which means his bicycle accident probably wasn’t an accident at all.”
She seemed to be thinking aloud and talking to herself rather than to me, so I didn’t interrupt her. Besides, I didn’t know who Jensen was, and if he was already dead, then he didn’t matter right now.
Charlotte stared at me, once again analyzing, measuring, and weighing me with her sharp, critical gaze. “Tell me you had nothing to do with the cleaner attack last night. Say the words, or I walk.”
I didn’t know why that was so important to her, but I said the words. “I had nothing to do with the cleaners who attacked you last night.”
“Truth,” she whispered.
Her shoulders sagged with something that might have been relief, or maybe disappointment. I couldn’t quite tell, but she sighed and stared at me again.
“What, exactly, are you proposing?”
I had to stop myself from pumping my fist in the air in triumph. “It seems to me that you, Charlotte Locke, are in desperate need of a bodyguard.”
“And you’re volunteering for the job?” she asked in a snide tone.
“Volunteering? Why, I’d say that I’ve already passed the audition and landed the gig, given what happened last night.”
She snorted, but she didn’t disagree. Instead, her gaze dropped to my chest and locked on to the silver watch tucked in my vest pocket. My grandfather Percival’s watch. I never went anywhere without it.
“You saw me in action last night. You saw what I can do. Deep down, I think you know you have a better chance of getting to the bottom of things and staying alive with me than you do on your own,” I said, sensing an opportunity to sway her to my so-called dark side. “No matter what you think of me or my father, I will do my very best to keep you safe. You can count on that.”
Even as I said the words, I couldn’t help but think they were a damn, dirty lie. I hadn’t saved Graham, my best friend, the person I trusted most in the world.
Instead, I had killed him.
“Truth,” Charlotte whispered again.
She shivered and hugged her arms around herself. Charlotte realized I was watching her, and she dropped her hands to her sides, although her fingers were still curled around her pen and notepad, as though they were anchors steadying her.
“So I get your protection and cleaner skills. What do you get in return?” she asked in a wary voice.
I held out my index finger and made a circular motion with it. “I get that big brain of yours, Numbers. I get your expertise on Henrika Hyde and anyone and everyone she deals with. Plus, we both think that someone inside the D.C. station is dirty. So you watch my back, and I’ll watch yours until Henrika is captured or killed, and we figure out who the mole is.”
I didn’t say anything about Graham, the Blacksea mission, or my search for Anatoly. Charlotte didn’t need to know about any of that, especially not my failure to protect my best friend.
She kept staring at me, once again doing those mental calculations in her mind, like there was a gymnast frantically tumbling from one side of her brain to the other and back again. I didn’t want her to think too long, especially not about the many holes in my story, so I held out my hand.
“Do we have a deal?”
Charlotte stared at my fingers like they were scorpions about to lash out and sting her. “A Locke willingly working with a Percy inside Section 47. I never thought this day would come,” she muttered.
“Neither did I, but here we are. So do we have a deal or not?”
“One condition.”
“What?”
“Don’t lie to me. Never. Not the first time, not the smallest fib. I’ll know if you do. Trust me on that.”
Her aura pulsed a bright blue, indicating she meant what she said. I once again wondered how she seemed to know my outright lies from the half-truths I was telling her and everyone else.
“No lies. Agreed.” I raised my hand a little higher. “Deal?”
She sighed again, but she put her hand in mine. “Deal.”
Together, we shook on our bargain.
Chapter Eight
Charlotte
Desmond Percy wasn’t telling me everything.
He wasn’t even telling me half of everything.
The cleaner probably thought he was being smooth, suave, and charming, complimenting my intelligence and flattering my ego by claiming he needed my help with the mission. Parts of what he was saying were absolutely true. But thanks to my synesthesia, I could see the half-truths dropping from his lips like pink diamonds spewing out of his mouth and clattering to the floor, and my inner voice kept whispering danger-danger-danger.
Oh, yes. Desmond Percy wasn’t telling me everything, and he was definitely using me for something. I just didn’t know what that something was yet.
Then again, I was using him too. Like it or not, Desmond was right. Someone had sent four cleaners to kill me, and it was just a matter of time before they tried again. He was also right about my having a far better chance of surviving with him than on my own, especially given how easily he’d dispatched my attackers last night.
So, like it or not, I was stuck with Desmond Percy, and him with me, until this thing—whatever it truly was—was finished one way or another. I just hoped it wouldn’t be the death of us both. And that we managed to refrain from murdering each other in the meantime.
After we shook on our uneasy alliance, I followed him out of the dead-spot alcove, and we headed toward the operations hub in the center of the fifth floor. Desmond pulled a keycard out of his pants pocket, waved it in front of a reader, and held open the glass door.
He gestured with his hand. “After you, Numbers.”
“Why, thank you, Dundee.”
His eyes narrowed, and we glared at each other before I moved past him, and he let the door swing shut behind us.
We went down a short hallway, then stepped into another bullpen that was a carbon copy of the one on the third floor—clear plastic cubicles manned by a variety of people, a wide walkway running down the center, and a large conference room nestled in between a couple of glassed-in offices set into the back wall.
Cleaners in their ubiquitous dark suits sat at desks on the left side of the center aisle, while their liaisons were perched in their own spaces on the right side. Even assassins couldn’t escape filing Section reports, and most people were typing away on their laptops, while a few murmured softly into their landlines.
I had only been down to the fifth-floor bullpen a few times during my Section career, and only then to personally deliver a file that someone wanted ASAP, so I’d forgotten about the perpetual hush that filled the air and the stiff tension that radiated off everyone. This was where missions were put into action and decisions were made about who lived—and who was eliminated.
“This way,” Desmond said.
He strode over to the cleaners’ side of the room, and I followed him to a desk situated in the back row of cubicles. An open laptop perched on the desk, along with several papers and folders, while a closed, light gray leather briefcase was sitting underneath on the floor next to a metal trash can. Draped over the back of an office chair hung a light gray jacket that matched the rest of his dapper suit.
Desmond’s desk was even more barren and impersonal than mine was. The only truly interesting and unusual item was a small sketchpad, with a blue ink pen stuck through the spiral wires at the top, although he flipped the pad over before I could see what he’d been drawing.
He pointed at a desk directly
across the aisle from his on the liaison side of the room. “That will be your workspace.”
The desk was completely empty, and not so much as a stray paper clip or a wayward staple dotted its blank surface. I had been so angry and distracted when we had left Trevor’s office that I hadn’t thought to grab my laptop, so I set my pen and notepad down on the desk. Somehow, the two small items made the space look even emptier and more depressing.
Desmond futzed around his own desk, shuffling papers and folders back and forth. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there next to him, shifting on my feet like an idiot.
A woman was sitting at the desk directly in front of mine. She must have sensed my awkward hovering because she swiveled around in her chair, stood up, and crossed her arms over her chest, looking me up and down.
The woman was quite pretty, with rosy skin and long, glossy black hair that was curled into loose waves. Smoky shadow accentuated her light blue eyes, while pale pink gloss coated her lips. She was wearing a stylish dark gray pantsuit, along with sky-high black heels that added a few more inches to her petite frame.
“So this is Charlotte Locke,” the woman said in a cold, flat voice.
Desmond grimaced, but he set down his papers and folders, stepped into the aisle, and made the introductions. “Charlotte, this is Joan Samson, one of Section’s top liaisons. Joan, this is Charlotte, an analyst from the third floor.”
Joan and I had been in the same rookie class, so I knew who she was, and I flipped through my mental dossiers, trying to remember everything I could about her. The Samsons were another Legacy family, just like the Lockes and the Percys, and Joan had a stellar reputation. She made sure that the missions she was assigned to ran smoothly and that the cleaners she assisted eliminated their targets in efficient, timely manners. She was also a transmuter, someone who could transform the physical properties of an element or object, such as changing water into ice or turning a cotton ball as hard as concrete, with just a wave of her hand.
“Nice to see you again.” I held out my hand, which she gave a short, perfunctory shake.
Joan shot Desmond a disgusted look, then spun around on her heel and strode away, leaving the bullpen without a backward glance.
“What’s her problem?” I asked.
Desmond sighed. “She wanted to be my liaison for this mission.”
“So why isn’t she?”
Joan Samson should have been his liaison, since she knew exactly what she was doing, unlike me, who was floundering around in the dark.
A shadow passed over Desmond’s face. “Because I promised a friend that I would keep her out of this.”
Truth, my inner voice whispered. I wondered if that friend had been Graham. I made a mental note to dig deeper into the dead cleaner’s background as well as Joan Samson’s past. My grandmother had fully believed in the old cliché that knowledge is power, but in this case, my survival would most likely depend on my knowing all the players as well as the dangerous, duplicitous games they were playing with one another.
“So you didn’t want to drag Joan into this, but you’re okay with me taking part in it?” I didn’t bother to keep the snide tone out of my voice. “Exactly how dangerous is this mission of yours going to be?”
Desmond opened his mouth, probably to give me some glib answer, but he stopped, as if remembering his earlier promise not to lie to me. “I told you before, Numbers. I need your help with Henrika Hyde.”
Another truth, but also a vague statement devoid of any real specifics about what his agenda truly was—and he definitely had an agenda. Trevor had mentioned he’d gotten an email from General Percy, and from what little Desmond himself had revealed, it seemed as though he had pulled some serious strings to get me assigned as his liaison. You didn’t go to that much trouble to take down some random bad guy. No, this had to be deeply personal, and I was guessing it had everything to do with the doomed Blacksea mission and his buddy Graham’s death.
Desmond stepped back over to his desk and started shuffling papers and folders around again. A couple of the other liaisons and cleaners glanced over their shoulders, giving us both curious looks. I didn’t want to keep standing there like an idiot, so I plopped down into the chair at my own barren desk, leaned back, and stared up at the black domed security camera embedded in the ceiling.
I sighed, put my feet on the floor, and pushed off, making my chair revolve in a slow, creaky circle, spinning around and around, and going nowhere fast.
* * *
Ten minutes later, Joan Samson strode back into the bullpen, followed by Diego Benito, one of the resident genius IT techs.
With his short brown hair, bronze skin, and dark brown eyes, I’d always thought Diego was among the cuter of Miriam’s many office exes. Unlike Joan and everyone else on this floor in their power suits, Diego was dressed down in a light green button-up shirt, a pair of gray khakis, and gray sneakers. Ah, a man after my own heart. At least when it came to his footwear.
I stopped spinning around in my chair and nodded at Diego. “Hey. Did you get roped into this mystery mission too?”
Diego peered at me through his square black glasses and gave me a quick, nervous smile in return. “You could say that.”
His hands were curled around his laptop, which he was holding like a shield in front of his chest, as if the thin device would somehow protect him from all the dangerous people here.
A woman strode into the bullpen behind Diego, and everyone, liaisons and cleaners alike, snapped to attention. In an instant, they all stopped what they were doing, sat up straight, and fixed their gazes on her.
The woman had golden skin and black hair styled in an attractive, tousled pixie cut. Only a few wrinkles fanned out around her dark brown eyes, although I knew she was in her sixties, the same age my father would have been, if he had still been alive. She was wearing a scarlet pantsuit, along with black heels, and her only jewelry was a small gold pendant shaped like the letter G. Red reading glasses were perched on top of her head, while a thick, red leather folder was nestled in the crook of her left elbow.
Gia Chan was the cleaner supervisor and one of the most dangerous people in Section 47, perhaps in the whole world. She had been a cleaner for years, eliminating scores of paramortal terrorists and criminals before transitioning over to management. My father had often talked about her, especially her enduro magic, which was even stronger than his own, and they had been on several missions together. Gia was one of the few other cleaners my father had actually respected, and he had told me more than once how smart, skilled, and lethal she was.
Gia stopped in the center of the aisle and surveyed the bullpen like a queen staring out over her loyal, devoted, deadly subjects. Her gaze landed on me for a moment before moving on. “Percy, Samson, Benito, Locke. Mission briefing. Now.”
Gia swept past everyone and headed into the conference room. Diego gaped at her, and Joan shepherded him forward. The IT tech clutched his laptop a little tighter to his chest and scurried into the conference room, with Joan trailing along behind him.
Desmond stood up and gestured with his hand. “Shall we?”
I grabbed my pen and notepad, got to my feet, and stepped into the conference room. Desmond shut the door behind us, which locked with a click. A soft buzz rang out, indicating that the room had also been soundproofed.
We all took seats at the long, rectangular table. Gia sat at the head, naturally, with Joan on her right. Diego sat across from Joan. I took the chair next to him, while Desmond dropped into the one across from mine.
Gia opened her red leather-bound folder and started pulling out papers. “For those of you who are just being read in on this mission, the code name is Redburn. Mr. Benito, if you will be so kind as to set up the display so we can get started.”
Diego cracked open his laptop and started typing. The overhead lights dimmed, and a screen slid down from the ceiling and covered one of the walls. Diego hit a few more buttons on his laptop, then passed a sm
all black clicker over to Gia, who nodded her thanks.
Gia hit a button, and several photos appeared on the screen, all showing the same person—Henrika Hyde.
I had been tracking Henrika for three months, so I had seen plenty of pictures of her, mostly bland, staged corporate headshots that accompanied the press releases her pharmaceutical company put out from time to time, touting its latest medical breakthrough or charity effort. But these photos were much more candid, showing the biomagical weapons maker at dinners, fund-raisers, and other business and social functions.
Henrika Hyde was forty-five years old, with a tall, toned, lithe body that could have belonged to a professional ballerina. In most of the photos, her light brown hair hung in loose, shoulder-length waves that perfectly framed her beautiful features. Her eyes were as bright and green as the emeralds she loved to wear, while her skin was pale and luminous, thanks to her own ingenuity. In addition to creating biomagical weapons, Henrika had also developed several popular anti-aging serums, creams, and lotions for her company’s beauty division. She made almost as many millions from her skin-care products as she did from her horrific weapons.
Henrika Hyde was an actual genius, with a sky-high IQ and degrees in chemical engineering and several other scientific fields. The daughter of a single mother, she’d grown up with nothing in the coalfields of southwest Virginia and had built her company from the ground up. I admired her toughness, tenacity, and the fact that she was a self-made businesswoman, even as I despised the terrible things she had created with her talents.
Perhaps it was the fact she’d had so little as a child, but as an adult, Henrika was known for her enormous appetites and unabashed love for the finer things in life. Fashion, food, wine, cars, drugs, men, women. Henrika indulged in all that and more, proudly chronicling each new designer outfit, lavish party, and steamy Hollywood hookup on her social media accounts.
But her main love was jewelry. Henrika had a personal treasure trove of necklaces, bracelets, rings, and watches that was conservatively valued at more than fifty million dollars, and she collected rare gemstones the way some kids did comic books. She often posted about her jewelry and gemstones, sharing perfectly lit glamour shots of her wearing and clutching the items, along with long-winded descriptions about the carats, settings, and more. Those posts were far more enthusiastic and complimentary than the faint praise she occasionally doled out to her various hookups.
A Sense of Danger Page 11