Wrong Number, Right Guy

by Tara Wylde

  I reach into my bedroom closet and tap the back wall, activating a spring-loaded switch that causes the false back to slide into the wall. Anyone watching me from the outside would see me disappear into a wardrobe that shouldn’t be big enough for me to fit.

  The office itself is purely functional, without a hint of style. It’s about eight feet square, with a simple metal desk, an office chair, my CIA laptop and a thirty-six-inch monitor affixed to the wall. The walls themselves are covered in soundproof panels made of foam wrapped in dark gray fabric.

  It won’t make the cover of Style At Home, but it serves its purpose. Hopefully it’s not as much a reflection of me as the rest of the apartment.

  I boot up my computer and open a Tor browser – a special program designed to access the “dark web,” a part of the Internet that even Google can’t find. Usually for good reason – they’re often used to sell drugs, weapons and… well, other things you don’t need to know about.

  I call up a text-based site I discovered through a dark web search a couple of months ago, and open a file marked “Chase.”

  I’ve read it half a dozen times already: there’s nothing new. General information, rules, contact names. I tried to trace it back to its source a few weeks ago in an attempt to find out who was behind it, but I just got bounced from one ISP address to another. Whoever set up the site had serious online security credentials.

  There’s no point going through it all again; I won’t learn anything new, and I wouldn’t change my mind if I did. So instead I call up the message board I’ve been instructed to use. I hit enter and green letters appear on a black screen: Your answer?

  This is the point of no return.

  Yes, I type.

  My finger hovers over the enter key for a full minute before I finally take a deep breath and press it.

  A green circle comes on the screen and spins for about thirty seconds. When it stops, another prompt: Enter account information. I type in the number of a bank account I set up in Grand Cayman, a haven for money that people don’t want to be found. Another green circle appears when I hit enter, another thirty seconds pass.

  More text on the screen: Account will be credited $250,000.00 USD per day until Chase is complete. Maximum term: 14 days.

  Now what?

  As if in answer to my question, a video file suddenly appears on the screen and auto starts. The camera is focused on a stunning blonde with long, satiny curls and bright red lipstick, sitting in a well-appointed parlor. Her dress probably cost more than I make in six months.

  “Hello,” she purrs. She’s worked very hard to erase her Russian accent, but it can’t escape my trained ear. “If you’re seeing this, it means you’ve completed your registration for the Chase. Congratulations.”

  Thanks, sweetheart, I appreciate your sincerity.

  “This year’s Chase will begin at precisely 12:01 a.m. on July 30. You’ve already read the rules and obligations, so I won’t go over them here. You are required to submit the information requested within twenty-four hours. Please note that your registration is considered a binding contract by the administrators of the Chase.”

  She cocks her head slightly and leans closer to the camera.

  “Failure to meet your obligations will be considered breach of contract and will be dealt with accordingly.”

  Of course it will.

  People who offer you large sums of money, deposited into offshore bank accounts via the dark web aren’t exactly known for their laid-back attitudes over breaches of contract. I understand the consequences.

  “The Chase will end at midnight on August 13. If you avoid capture until then, the prize will be auctioned among the contestants. The proceeds of the sale will, naturally, be credited to your account.”

  The prize.

  For better or worse, that’s what my virginity is now: a prize to be won by someone with more money than common sense.

  The thought makes my stomach sink just a little bit. But I knew what I was getting into when I pressed that button.

  As for prizes, I’ve got my eye on my own, and I’ll win it with the help of the Chase.

  The blonde leans back in her chair and folds her hands on her lap.

  “You will be contacted on July 27 with more information.”

  She smiles, and as she does, I grab my phone off the desk and snap a photo of her on the screen. I don’t know why; instinct, I guess.

  “On behalf of my associates, I wish you luck.”

  The screen goes black.

  That’s all I’ll get until the twenty-seventh.

  Three days from now.

  The deadline somehow makes what I’ve agreed to seem more real in my mind, and I realize my confidence has been an act.

  The Chase itself will be easy, I know that much. But that talk about an auction? It makes me think of the scene in Taken, where women are sold like cattle to the highest bidder. Of course, I’ve seen worse in my time working in the shadowy corners of the world.

  I never expected to experience it myself. And certainly not voluntarily.

  I leave the office and close the secret door behind me. Wine isn’t going to cut it this time, so I pull a bottle of Jack Daniels from the sideboard in the living room. I pour myself two fingers and knock it back in a single shot.

  There’s no turning back now.

  Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Six

  10. CARSON

  The Regent is a boutique hotel on the Upper East Side that never advertises, has no listing online, and is always full.

  Basically, if you don’t know someone who knows someone, you’re better off not even knowing it exists, because you’ll never get in. And if you do get in, you won’t see a price anywhere, because the kind of people who hang out here never see their own bills.

  I take a sip from my glass and savor the smooth, rich smokiness of the 1926 Macallan single-malt scotch. The décor in the Regent’s bar looks like it hasn’t changed since the 1920s; it’s just been maintained like new. It’s all ebony and leather, with white highlights like lace tablecloths and giant ostrich feathers in gold vases.

  I’m wearing a tailored Tom Ford tuxedo and I still feel underdressed.

  The second my appointment walks in, I know exactly who she is, because she looks right at home. A full-length red dress hugs her curves and the room’s discreet lighting turns her long blonde curls into spun gold. She sashays straight to my table and sits down before I have a chance to fully stand up.

  “We can dispense with the formalities,” she says with a smile. Her voice betrays just the slightest hint of an accent. “No need to be out in the open any longer than absolutely necessary, given the nature of our discussion. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I would,” I say. I feel like I’m in a scene from some old noir movie with Humphrey Bogart.

  The waitress arrives and silently places a double martini with three olives in front of my companion. She’s obviously a regular here.

  “Maksim – ”

  She arches an eyebrow and raises a red-tipped finger.

  “No names,” she says. “If you say another, I’m afraid our time here is done.”

  I nod in apology. I’m not used to being chided, not anymore. It’s almost… tantalizing. “Of course. Forgive me.”

  “Our mutual acquaintance says you are looking to become part of our friendly little game.”

  Friendly little game. That description makes the whole thing seem even more lewd, if that’s even possible.

  “I am,” I say.

  “The buy-in is twenty, due in full before the twenty-seventh of this month. You will be given instructions on the transaction.”

  I assume that means untraceable Internet transfer, possibly Bitcoin. I can do that. I have a couple hundred million in a slush fund that I use for purposes that might not meet the approval of my accountants. Twenty million would be a full ten percent of my rainy day fund, gone in an instant.

  “That’s a serious amount of money,” I say.
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  Her smile widens and she places her hands on the arms of the chair to stand.

  “It was very nice to meet you,” she says sweetly, and suddenly I see everything falling apart.

  “Wait,” I say. “That was incredibly crass of me. I apologize.”

  She returns to her seat as if nothing happened, but I definitely know where I stand now. A tingle runs down my spine. The way my body’s reacting is confirming what I already knew – this “friendly little game” is going to be exactly what I needed to recharge myself.

  “Upon acceptance, you will be given a dossier with information on your quarry. No names, obviously, or physical characteristics. Just enough about the quarry’s habits, environment, and background for you to create a profile.”

  Quarry. That’s even more lewd. Enough so that I actually feel a twitch under my tailored slacks.

  “The Chase will begin at midnight on July 30 and continue until midnight on August 13, or until the quarry is caught. Capture automatically ends the Chase for all competitors. No second place; winner takes all.”

  “How many others am I competing against?”

  She smiles and takes a sip of her martini. I guess that answers that question.

  “Each competitor will be given the key to a room in this hotel,” she says. “If and when you believe you’ve located the quarry, you will give her your key. If she is, indeed, the one, she will accompany you to the room to complete the game. If she is not, the Chase is over for you.”

  Wow, that really is winner take all. I mull it over as I finish my scotch.

  “What’s in it for her?” I ask.

  “Money,” she says with the look of a mother indulging a toddler.

  “A small fraction of what your associates will net, I’m sure.”

  Another smile. “Wealth is relative.”

  “So what stops her from just holing up somewhere for two weeks?”

  “She – and the competitors – will be closely monitored. Any deviation from the rules will be dealt with immediately and decisively. My associates pride themselves on the integrity of the Chase.”

  Jesus. Suddenly this is becoming real. Do I really want to be that involved with a Russian mobster? And drop twenty million in the process? Am I really that bored?

  The answer, absolutely, is yes. This isn’t so much about completing the game, as she puts it, but the game itself.

  “What can you tell me about the, uh, quarry?”

  She tilts her head and brings her palms together, clasping them like a chef describing a particularly rare feast.

  “I’m delighted to say that, just last night, we secured our most challenging lady yet. Her curriculum vitae includes one of the South’s top military colleges as her alma mater – graduating top of her class after only three years – and almost a decade of counter-intelligence and black ops fieldwork for off-the-books agency branches.”

  Hello.

  This is what I’ve been waiting for. This is why I’m willing to put up a small fortune.

  “One more thing,” my companion says with a leer that inspires a little blood flow in my nether region. “I’ve seen her, and she is truly stunning.”

  “As stunning as you?” I say automatically. Apparently, I just can’t turn it off anymore.

  She flashes me a sweet smile as she stands up. “You flatter me. But I’m afraid fraternization is strictly against the rules. You understand.”

  I understand that I can’t remember the last time I was turned down by a woman. It feels oddly exhilarating. At once a challenge and a warning.

  “You will be contacted shortly with more information,” she says, draining her martini and gathering up her purse. “Please be prepared.”

  I stand to see her off. “I will,” I say. “It’s been a great pleasure meeting you.”

  “And you. Good luck.”

  With that, she’s gone.

  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 One Hundred Twenty-Seven

  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?