Bombshell (The Rivals Book 3)

by Geneva Lee

  I shake my head and despite everything, I can’t help but laugh. I look over to the studio window. Class has begun, and in the center of the students, Ellie is turned the wrong direction, dancing to a completely different beat than everyone else. She’s mine. My little girl. Our little girl. I fought and lost before. I won’t lose her again.

  “Everything’s changed,” I tell her, “especially me.”

  20

  Sterling

  “Cyrus is supposed to arrive fifteen minutes from now. Is that enough time?” I’m alone in Adair’s suite at the Eaton, talking to Luca and Jack over an encrypted communication hub running out of Jack’s G-Wagen. We’ve run this setup before, dozens of times on damn near every continent, but never with our own skin in the game.

  It adds spice, to say the least.

  It also means we can pull it together in a pinch, and we’re running out of time. The most difficult element was getting Adair to agree to follow my instructions without an explanation in advance. I just promised her I wouldn’t order her around again after this. I wouldn’t risk it.

  Luca is meeting with the hotel manager, Mr. Randolph, who’s been trying to get a private meeting with him for a couple of weeks. Randolph’s name has been on my list since before we returned to Nashville—ever since he embarrassed me at Thanksgiving five years ago, in fact. Today, the entire Eaton dynasty gets what it deserves, right down to the asshole manager.

  “We knew we’d be threading the eye of the needle with this. You getting cold feet, Ford?” Jack has the easy job—he always does.

  “You’re just mad you still have to stay in the car,” Luca chuckles.

  We have an impressive array of tech at our disposal, earpieces and mics so small no one will see them by accident, wireless cameras, and a fiber-optic splicer that costs more than a modest house. Someone has to manage all of it, and who better than Jack, since he made most of it? I hadn’t been surprised when he’d led us into a hidden room in the back of the Barrelhouse and a stash of equipment. Jack might want to be out, but old habits die hard. I’m not certain he’ll ever relax into the life he claims to want entirely.

  Normally I take point, Luca covers me discreetly, and Jack provides operational support from nearby, usually somewhere unglamorous like a utility closet or a shitty van. But today Luca and I are both working at the same time, which gives us almost no ability to improvise and absolutely no room for mistakes.

  We all know the score: once I start my discussion with Cyrus, there’s no going back. He’ll figure out what I know and how I know it. He’ll move to protect his data trove, which we know now is in a safe next to Randolph’s office downstairs.

  It was surprisingly easy to discover where Cyrus keeps the data cache from his family’s vast holdings. The Eaton is wired into a standard cable company fiber optic network, and it only sends and receives encrypted data. Contrary to movies and television, encryption is nearly impossible to break. It’s one of the reasons the U.S. government spends so much time pressuring tech companies to put hidden backdoors in its products. But finding where someone’s keeping that shit isn’t difficult at all.

  All Jack had to do was splice into the network hub for the block the Eaton hotel sits on to confirm our theory that the company’s flagship hotel is more than just that—it’s where they’re storing their dirty laundry. Massive amounts of data are being routed there from IP addresses all over the world.

  If I wasn’t so close to this, I might be impressed. The complexity of the operation is worthy of a foreign intelligence agency. The potential for blackmail is staggering.

  What happens when Eaton Hotels wants to open at a prime piece of real estate next to Red Square? Well, it definitely helps to have dirt on a number of government officials. It also explains the Eatons knack for cutting through red tape. How else could they manage to own hotels in the heart of Moscow?

  “It’s a quarter to one,” Luca says through the headset. “Are we go?”

  “Go,” Jack says.

  “We're go,” I agree, checking my watch. Cyrus is meeting me in fifteen minutes, but he might arrive early. If he follows his usual daily routine—stopping in the main office as soon as he enters the building—everything will be fine.

  Powerful people have a tendency to be paranoid bordering on superstitious. Accessing sensitive information comes with its own routine. The simple fact they’ve never been compromised before tells them their routine is working, so they almost never change it. That’s the flaw in his system. It tells us more than he could ever imagine. Like the fact that the name he’s made for himself in the stock market is probably built on the information he gathers from the illegal surveillance. Why else would he keep an office at the hotel when he’s hardly involved in its management at this point?

  First, he goes to his office as soon as he sets foot on property. Then he reemerges ten minutes later, sometimes stopping to talk to the manager, Mr. Randolph. The amount of data being sent is too vast to decrypt for the ten minutes he’s on site—it would take hours or even days—which means the computer in his safe must be storing the data in its decrypted form.

  Get in the safe, and the data cache is ours. Sutton will be safe, and so will my family.

  Through my comms, I hear a knock on the door. Luca’s appointment has arrived.

  “Ah, Mr. De Angelo, right on time,” says Randolph.

  They exchange pleasantries, and then I hear a door close.

  “Why did you want to see me again, Mr. Randolph?” Luca’s smooth tone is designed to comfort prospective clients, help them talk about difficult things. People are lulled by his effortless, almost bored bastardry.

  “Trouble at home, I’m afraid,” says Randolph, his quavering voice betraying his nervousness.

  “The wife?”

  “You always get married with good intentions,” Randolph says, “but yes…”

  “I’m sorry to hear it’s not working out,” Luca says, sounding anything but. “I’ve always found that an ending is also a new beginning…”

  “I’m hoping,” says Randolph.

  It must be hard to solicit the execution of your wife. Even for someone like Randolph. He just can’t bring himself to be more explicit. But we need him to say it—if I don’t start scratching Noah’s back, he might end up being my second shadow for the rest of my life. A money launderer hiring a hitman is just a big enough fish to satisfy him for a bit.

  “I might be able to help you. We’re talking because you recognize my family name, no?”

  That’s good, Luca, keep him on the hook.

  “I—I’ve heard of the De Angelos, yes. And you indicated you help all kinds of people with all kinds of problems…” Mr. Randolph trails off, hoping Luca will say it for him.

  “You seem like quite a successful man,” Luca offers.

  “I like to think so.”

  “What’s your take home? Two hundred thousand?”

  “I—um, I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Just doing the math, Mr. Randolph. You’re nearly fifty. Been making good money for awhile now. Probably have a house, stock portfolio. Am I warm?”

  A long pause follows, but eventually Randolph answers, “Uncomfortably warm.”

  “Don’t push him too fast,” I warn through our comms.

  “And you’ve been together more than ten years?” Luca asks. He’s alluding to the length of time a standard prenup lasts. After ten years, a divorced wife gets half of everything.

  “Yes.”

  “I can help you with your problem. The price is one year of salary. Two hundred thousand dollars.”

  “What?” Mr. Randolph says. Clearly, he was expecting a lower fee.

  Jack’s voice pipes through the comms, “Oh shit, guys, we have a problem. Cyrus is here. He just pulled into the garage. We have to call it off.”

  “Luca?” I ask. Sometimes, all you need is a history. My one-word question says everything it needs to. Only Luca knows if he can get us where we need to be.r />
  “Time?” Luca asks.

  The question is for Jack, but Randolph doesn’t know that, so he answers. “Sometime in the next month, I should think. But I can’t do two hundred thousand. I just...can’t.”

  “You’ve got sixty seconds, Luca. No more. It can’t be done. If Cyrus thinks anything is off, we’ll never get that data,” Jack reminds him.

  “You never know unless you try,” Luca says, putting a hint of sheepish guilt in his voice, so it sounds like he’s still talking to Randolph. “What can I say? I’ll give you my Platinum Elite discount. Fifty thousand. In bearer bonds. The money can’t be traceable.”

  A few agonizing seconds crawl by, but eventually Randolph answers, “You can make it look like an accident? It would be better if there’s no investigation.”

  “Naturally,” Luca agrees.

  “Then we have an agreement,” Randolph says.

  I hear a chair creak slightly, followed by footsteps.

  “What do you think you’re—urrrkh.”

  Faint sounds of struggle spread into the dead silence of our comms. After another few seconds, we hear the sound of a body dropping onto the floor.

  “Jesus Christ, Luca. What are you doing?” Jack yells.

  “Relax. Randolph’s taking a nap,” Luca says.

  “How does that help us?” Jack snaps.

  “No time to explain,” Luca says. “Trust my genius, okay?”

  Ominous sounding thumps filter through his mic, and I realize he’s hiding the body somewhere. I hear a doorknob turn, and then another.

  “Are you in Cyrus’s office?” I guess.

  “Yes. Shut up.”

  I tear out of Adair’s apartment, and, skipping the elevator in favor of the stairs, run down them as fast as I can. This is why I’m always the point person. Jack is too risk averse, and Luca hasn’t met a kind of trouble he doesn’t want to be in. He just conspired to commit murder, then committed assault, and now he’s throwing in trespassing. If things go any further sideways, we’ll be lucky if we can find a way to stay on American soil, let alone in Nashville.

  “You better know what you’re fucking doing, Luca,” I say, a little out of breath. I exit the stairwell near the bank of elevators in the lobby, but see no sign of Cyrus. Either he hasn’t made his way up from the garage yet, or he already headed into the business offices.

  “It’s a keypad,” Luca says, relief flooding his usual coolness.

  He means he’s found the safe, and that it’s unlocked by keypad, not by using biometrics. It’s the first good news of the day.

  “Planting the camera now,” Luca says.

  “Ok, your feed is live,” Jack says, monitoring the signal from Luca’s camera. “Now get out.”

  There’s a pause of about ten seconds, then Luca hisses almost inaudibly, “I can’t.”

  I look around the busy lobby frantically, just in time to see the back of Cyrus’s head disappearing into the hallway behind the reception desk.

  “Cyrus, yo!” I bellow.

  He stops and spins on his heels, trying to figure out who called him.

  I wave energetically and call his name again. He finds me immediately, his brow furrowing. “Sterling” he calls across the lobby, checking his watch. “What’s up? Visiting Adair?”

  I freeze up for a moment, unable to reply. I don’t have an excuse ready—because I didn’t plan on being here.

  Jack rescues me, though.

  “You’re getting drinks from the bar,” says his disembodied voice in my earpiece.

  “I thought I’d grab a drink from the bar. We should catch up. What’s your poison?” I ask, crossing the last few paces to the reception desk.

  “You off the wagon again?” Cyrus says, turning toward me fully, but not leaving the door to the hallway.

  “Now’s as good a time as any,” I say pointedly, leaving Cyrus completely baffled, but giving Luca the signal he needs. “To get off the wagon, I mean.”

  Luca emerges into the hallway behind Cyrus, then ducks into Randolph’s office.

  “Yeah, why not? For old times’ sake, right?” Cyrus says, his easy grin coming out. “Whiskey neat. What else?”

  “Right,” I say, “I never paid attention to what other people were drinking.”

  “I’ve got something I need to do real quick,” Cyrus says, “See you upstairs?”

  “Sure thing,” I say.

  “That was too fucking close,” Jack says. “You okay, Luca?”

  “Yes,” Luca says under his breath. “He’s going into his office now.”

  My heart feels like it’s beating in my throat, but I force myself to go over to the bar.

  “I see his hands. He’s punching in the access code,” Jack shares.

  The bartender finishes making a drink and turns to me, rubbing the antique, polished zinc bar absentmindedly with a rag. “What can I get for you, sir?”

  “Can I order room service here?”

  “Of course, Mr. Ford,” the bartender says without missing a beat. I have to hand it to the Eaton family. The service really is excellent. I don’t even have to tell him where to send the drinks.

  “Whiskey neat. And a club soda with lime.”

  “I’ll send it right up, sir.”

  I wait until I’m in the elevator, alone, before I ask, “Do we have it?”

  “I’m slowing down the replay and bumping up the contrast to deal with low light,” Jack says patiently. “You’re much better at planting cameras, Ford.”

  “Oh, fuck you,” Luca coos. “I’m killing it today.”

  “I have the code,” Jack says, ignoring him. “Two three four seven.”

  “I guess I’m going to go have a drink with my old roommate without strangling him,” I say through gritted teeth, flexing my fingers. All I have to do now is keep Cyrus busy while Luca lifts the data. I can feel my fight-or-flight reflex let off, feel my eyelids get heavy. There’s no feeling quite like an adrenaline hangover. Maybe I should have ordered coffee at the bar.

  I’m waiting in the kitchen when Cyrus knocks on the door a few minutes later. Room service dropped the drinks off almost as fast as if I’d waited for them at the bar.

  “Jack, are we live?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  I hand Cyrus his drink as soon as I open the door, trying to give the impression I’ve already had a couple. “How the fuck have you been, Cyrus?” I ask, playing the part of old college buddies finally catching up.

  “Not bad. I’m not gonna lie, Sterling. We kept saying we’d get together, but I didn’t think you really meant it.”

  “Why not? We’re both busy is all. Hard to find the time.”

  “Right,” he says, before his head bobs with a question. “Where’s Adair, anyway?”

  “With Poppy. They went shopping or something. Didn’t you know?”

  “I don’t fucking keep track of that stuff. I’ve got enough to worry about, you know?” he says, looking around the suite. “I’m glad Adair’s finally moving in here. I can keep an eye on her.”

  I resist the nearly primal urge to beat him into oblivion. Something tells me that there’s cameras in her suite, and Cyrus is looking forward to the footage. “Probably.”

  Cyrus drops into a chair in the living room, surveying the boxes Adair left strewn, half unpacked everywhere. “You planning on staying in Nashville? Last time we spoke, you weren’t sure.”

  It’s a perfectly innocuous question for him to ask, but I already know he wants me to leave town. At first I thought he wanted me out of the way to make another play for Adair. But that’s probably not it. He has to know she’s never going to screw Poppy like that. He tried once. No, he wants me gone before one of us figures out he was behind that video five years ago. He’s scared of me. People with lots of secrets have lots to lose—and Cyrus has more secrets than he knows what to do with.

  “I’ve gone back and forth. Actually, I wanted to ask you about something Adair mentioned,” I say, taking a seat across from him
on the couch. I take a sip of my club soda.

  “Oh?” He takes a sip of his whiskey.

  “Adair gave Poppy a note before I took off. Did you ever see it?” I give Cyrus a hard look. I’d chalked up our mislaid communications as tragic bad luck when we both mentioned trying to reach the other. Once I realized what Cyrus has been up to with the Eaton surveillance, I began to wonder if there’s more to it than that.

  “Yeah, maybe.” He shrugs like he’s searching for the memory, but I can see it there in his eyes. “I remember dropping off some mail.”

  It’s a smooth lie, and a plausible one. He sips his whiskey, looking at me over the rim of the glass like he doesn’t have a thing in the world to feel guilty about. If I didn’t want to reach down his throat and rip his heart out, I’d probably be impressed.

  “That’s what I said.” I flip my palms from down-facing to up, the universal body language for who knows.

  “Still a vodka man, huh?” Cyrus deflects as soon as he can.

  “Yeah.” I lift my own glass. I’d learned a long time ago that people will see what they want. My club soda looks an awful lot like a vodka soda to Cyrus, because he wants to believe I’m still the drunk asshole he manipulated so easily all those years ago. “Anyway, we’ve just been trying to sort through it all. Put the pieces together. We were stupid kids. Don’t want to make the same mistakes, you know?”

  Cyrus’s eyes narrow at the corners, but he pins a smile to his face. His eyes flit to the door, but I pretend not to notice, taking another large drink. “Yeah, you two were really hot and cold. I couldn’t keep up with it. I don’t blame you for taking off. Adair is drama. No offense.”

  Well, if I don’t get to kill him, Adair probably will when she hears this bit.

  “She didn’t get my note either. Probably, because she was in London.” Try to wriggle off that hook, you fucking worm.

  “I know,” he sounds completely wretched, but only in the showy way rich pricks use to get away with being assholes. “Poppy made me promise not to tell you. She said Adair wanted to move on.”