The Red Ledger, Book 3

by Meredith Wild

  Some more workers come into the room and start moving tables around. She motions me to follow her into the hallway.

  “He’s booked the Vieux Carré suite. It’s vacant until he arrives tomorrow, so we have the place to ourselves for a while. We’ll be set up in the room across the hall.”

  “We?”

  She walks ahead of me. “Skye and me. Martine will be overseeing things remotely. You’re welcome to join us.”

  Once in front of the suite, she hovers her key over the sensor. It beeps with a green blink.

  “That a master key?”

  “Sure is.”

  Perfect.

  We enter a sitting area that expands into an opulent bedroom. This is where Boswell will try to have his way with Isabel.

  I shove away the jealousy the way I’m shoving everything else away—all the emotions Martine’s worried will ruin Isabel’s showdown with Boswell. Spending the day without Isabel has been its own kind of agony. Putting distance between us doesn’t feel good, but right now, it’s necessary.

  Pretending I don’t feel a damn thing is easier when I’m back in my routine. Assessing, calculating, hunting. Jury’s still out on whether I’ll be able to keep myself from pulling the trigger out of pure instinct.

  Wasting no time, Zeda reveals a thin case concealed under her uniform and sets it on the coffee table. She unzips it and starts setting out several small cameras perfect for hiding in a room like this one.

  “Where are you positioning them?”

  “One in the corner by the curtains. Should give a good view of the bed. One at the desk. And one above the doorway so we can keep an eye on his bodyguard or anything else he does outside the bedroom.”

  “Bodyguard?”

  “Private security company. They’re local.”

  “Is Martine taking care of that?”

  “Of course.” She pulls a chair to the door, lifts herself onto it, and carefully places one of the tiny cameras by the door hinge.

  I glance into her little case of goodies and spot a small roll of duct tape. From my jacket, I withdraw a tactical knife and the same gun Isabel practiced with at the range.

  “Mind if I borrow your tape?”

  She comes down from the chair and pauses, her eyes fixed on the weapons in my hands.

  I lift them up innocently. “I’m planting them for her.”

  “Sure,” she says, carrying the chair into the bedroom to reach the top folds of the curtain.

  While she works on that, I go to work scoping out convenient places. All the while my thoughts circle around this plan. Around Isabel and how all this might go down. This is what I do, but Isabel isn’t anything like me. She’ll react differently. Since I can’t take her out of the equation, I have to make damn sure I’m there and ready when she needs me.

  When I return, Zeda is still busy at the curtains.

  “She’s got a knife under the coffee table and a Glock behind the toilet.”

  “Got it,” she says with a strip of adhesive clenched between her teeth.

  “What exactly do you do?”

  “Same thing you do,” she says, evading my question.

  “I doubt that.” Not even close.

  “My brothers used to pick up old computers and TVs from the local junkyard. They’d bring them home and use the pieces to make their own computers or sell them to their friends. Kids who couldn’t afford laptops or new phones.”

  “You learned all this from them.”

  “I needed something to do after Katrina wiped out everything we had. I got my GED and did a year at a trade school. Working for Martine is more lucrative obviously.”

  “How did you hook up with her?”

  “Martine took me in after the storm. When our house flooded, my family and I got separated. When everything settled down, turns out I was the only one left. Everything we had was gone. Martine took a lot of people in then, but once she found out I was useful, I stayed and took on more work with her.”

  There’s an edge to the way she talks about Martine. Like being in her employ is a matter of circumstance, not commitment.

  “Seems like you’re a pretty tight-knit group.”

  She ignores the bait and steps down, moving next to the desk lamp.

  “Call me crazy, but you don’t seem like the rest of them,” I press.

  “You mean I’m not an evangelist like Skye?”

  I chuckle. “Right.”

  “She drinks the Kool-Aid.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I’m there to learn. There’s no binding contract that you have to buy into their mission. So I don’t. Martine knows I’m a skeptic, but she’s determined. She keeps me busy, so, for now, I stay.”

  “What’s the mission?”

  She pauses. “Halo’s mission is to collect information. The more important and connected the person, the more valuable the dirt. Martine banks it with the organization, and then they use it to manipulate people for strategic results. Sometimes the bad guys go to jail. Sometimes they can funnel some funds to the organization. Sometimes nothing happens and we wait.”

  “And you don’t buy into any of this?”

  She huffs quietly, remaining concentrated on her task. “Martine can’t see the forest for the trees. A true missionary, she wants to save one soul at a time. It’s like she’s keeping count or something. But all it does is chip away at the edges of the bigger issues.”

  “Bigger issues like…?”

  “Like this fucked-up world we live in. It’s not the little people. Skye’s pimp? He’s part of a system that made his abuse of power possible. This Big Pharma guy?” She shakes her head. “We’re getting warmer, but twisting him to keep Isabel safe doesn’t do shit for all the people dying because of the drugs they’re pushing.”

  “So you’re suggesting we use the intel we get here to try to damage his company instead.” I know it would never work, but I’m curious about her theories. Especially since Isabel’s about to star in the movie they plan on banking until further notice.

  “Nah. This Boswell guy is like the strip club down in the Quarter. Take ’em out, and someone new will be there setting up shop in the morning. The real problems run deeper.”

  Her focus on the systemic versus the isolated problems hits a nerve with me. Not like anything I’ve ever done was purpose-driven, but I haven’t been operating much differently. Taking aim at people’s individual grievances. Solving problems on a case-by-case basis.

  Then I remember Crow’s message. Think big. Maybe Martine’s not the only one who’s been thinking too small.

  “Doesn’t matter anyway,” Zeda says before whipping a small laptop from her bag. “This will combine all the signals from the cameras and send it to the room we’ll be in. Everything will be saved as it feeds in. We can edit the footage after to make it look however we want.”

  “Perfect.”

  She finishes syncing everything up and hides the machine in the far back of the entertainment center where Boswell will never notice it.

  “Hey, can I borrow your key for a second? I’m going to check out the other room before I head out.”

  I hold my hand out for the key. She eyes me warily before pulling it from her apron pocket and handing it to me.

  “Thanks.” I leave quickly, not giving her time to change her mind.

  The room across the hall is a smaller version of the suite but still finely appointed. I check out the windows and layout. Nothing of importance. I take out the RFID card duplicator hidden in my jacket, scan the master, and then program an extra key for myself. If Martine thinks she’s the only one smart enough to get the keys to the kingdom, she’s all wrong.

  When I return, Zeda has another laptop open displaying the feeds from all the cameras, including the two from the courtyard and terrace rooms.

  “Audio too?” I ask.

  She clicks a few keys and brings up the waveform fluctuating from our voices. “Audio too.”

  Silently I thank Martine
for organizing half the work for me. Because once Zeda leaves and we go our separate ways, I circle back to Boswell’s suite. Using my new master key, I gain entrance and carefully tape a second computer to the bottom of the entertainment center. Installed with a packet sniffer, the machine will ensure that whatever feeds out to Zeda and Martine’s operation will also feed out to me.

  Several hours later, when I check into the room down the hall, all the camera and audio feeds are at my fingertips. All that’s left to do is wait.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Isabel

  “I’m freaking out a little.”

  A little is an understatement. Anxiety is rocketing through me, and the more I try to subdue it, the stronger it holds me.

  We’re in the bathroom of the hotel room Martine secured for the night. Knowing it’s directly across from Boswell’s is reassuring, if anything is. At least I’ll be close to help if this all goes sideways. I pray it doesn’t.

  “You look awesome.” Skye smooths and straightens the sleek white cocktail dress.

  Its formfitting high-quality material molds attractively over my curves. The deep V in the front puts some of my cleavage on display. My skin pops against the cream, as do my eyes when I place the bright-blue contacts over them. My makeup is heavy but subtle—smoky shadow around my eyes and nude glossy lips. Fake eyelashes make mine look thicker and fuller.

  “Do you need this?” Skye touches the silver pendant at my clavicle. “It’s kind of messing with the flow here.” She gestures up and down the bared strip of torso the dress reveals. “Is it important?”

  I hesitate. “Yes, it’s important.” I need every talisman and good omen I can get my hands on right now. St. Paul stays.

  “Fine.” She reaches around my neck, unhooks the chain, and circles it around my wrist a few times.” She cocks her head with a satisfied smile. “There. Now it’s important and won’t distract him from appreciating all your assets. Plus, we can’t have him thinking you’re a goody-goody Catholic girl, can we?”

  I doubt he would in this outfit. The reverend would have a heart attack.

  I look in the mirror and glide my hands over my slick blond bob. Not a hair is out of place. “What if he recognizes me?” I barely recognize myself.

  One of Skye’s genuine blue eyes goes much wider than the other. “Are you kidding me? The contacts aren’t even necessary. I’ll be impressed if he remembers your name. He’s going to be fantasizing about your tits the whole time.”

  She’s probably right. But her assumption is a blast of both relief and fresh worry. I have no idea how aggressive he’ll be or how adversely I’ll react.

  “I’m so on edge already. I feel like I’ll jump out of my skin the second he touches me.”

  And he is going to touch me. He’s going to go further than Tristan realizes, which is a betrayal for the cause that we’ll have to work out later. Or not.

  I haven’t heard from Tristan since Thursday when he dropped the bomb about Kolt on me. Maybe he already senses there’s more to the plan than we told him.

  I check my watch. The rooftop party starts in an hour, and he’s still not here.

  Skye twists her lips and looks me over. “You do look really tense.”

  “That’s because I am. I feel like I need a drink or a Valium or something.”

  “You can nurse a glass of champagne until he takes you to the room. No more.”

  “I know,” I mutter. I don’t like the anxiety, but it’s better than dulling my instincts.

  “Listen, you have to get out of your own head for a little while. At least until you have him where we want him.”

  I pace a little circle around the large marble bathroom, getting comfortable walking in the deep-red stilettos I bought for the occasion.

  “How am I supposed to get out of my head, Skye? This man wants me dead. It’s hard not to dwell on it.”

  She crosses her arms and leans her butt against the counter.

  “How do you think I got through half the shit I did? Of all the men I was with, you know how many guys I actually wanted to fuck around with?”

  “Not many, I’m sure.”

  “Exactly. You know how many kept coming back for more?”

  I don’t answer because I’d hate to know. The idea of her selling her body to live one step above the streets is awful to consider.

  “Plenty did, Isabel,” she continues matter-of-factly. “Because I was really good at pretending. I’d pretend that whoever I was with was going to see me for who I really was and take me away from that life. Didn’t matter what they said or did or looked like. So I sold the lie to myself, and then I sold it back to them. I looked at every man I was with like he was the only one on the planet. Like for the next twenty minutes, I might not be able to breathe without his hands on me. And when I started to hate it, I told myself I loved it.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that.” Another jolt of anxiety razors through me, making my fingertips tingle. I’m going to have a panic attack and botch this whole thing.

  Skye comes up to me and puts her hands on my arms. “Look at me. Breathe.”

  I take a few deep breaths and our eyes lock. My heart beats an odd rhythm.

  “Just look at him like you look at Tristan.”

  Could I do that?

  I don’t know.

  Maybe.

  “Where is he?” I whisper, trying to keep my emotions in check.

  “Don’t worry about it. You know he’s lurking around here somewhere.”

  “What if he isn’t?” My heart starts scampering in my chest again at the prospect of his eternal absence.

  What if he doesn’t care what happens tonight? What if he’s angry with me for how I messed everything up with Kolt?

  She hushes my unspoken worries and leads me into the bedroom, where Zeda is sitting at the desk with two laptops showing feeds of the opposite suite. An hour ago, the rooms were empty. Now I can see the pixelated figure of a man in a suit walking back and forth, talking on the phone, disappearing from one view and entering another. It’s Vince Boswell.

  “Oh, God. He’s here.”

  Skye squeezes my hand. “You’ve got this.”

  The party on the terrace is already bustling when I arrive a predetermined half hour late. The crowd is noticeably thicker in the courtyard than the adjoining terrace room, so I collect my first and only drink at the inside bar, swallow half of it down, and give myself a pep talk.

  I can do this. I know what guys want. I know what they’re thinking about when they’re on the prowl. And while I’m not normally preoccupied with how I look, I’m acutely aware of my physical assets tonight. I’m not negotiating a merger. I’m trying to interest a man sexually. This is easy stuff.

  With that affirmation in my head, I brave the courtyard. The space is beautiful and lush. Statues and greenery decorate the lightly colored terra-cotta walls. Servers mill between partygoers with glasses of champagne and drinks to order. Cocktail dresses and suits seem to be the going attire, so at least I fit in.

  I scan the crowd for one of two faces. One is the club owner who runs Skye’s old stomping grounds in the Quarter. He’s been out of the game for a couple of years, but he has a reputation for introducing beautiful girls to important men, so he’s at the party thanks to Martine. His job is to casually get me on Boswell’s radar if I can’t manage it myself.

  I spot them both sitting at one of the outdoor lounge areas, talking casually to one another. I look away quickly, suddenly terrified Boswell will see me, which is the entire point of being here. Except I’m not sure I can breathe. I walk to the far corner of the courtyard and have another swig of my champagne. My glass is nearly empty already, which wasn’t the plan. I’m sure my adrenaline can offset a second round.

  I look up and try to forget where I am for a minute. The navy-blue sky swirls with featherlike clouds. A few stars prickle the darkness. It’s a cool night, but I can’t afford to cover up. Not tonight.

  My thoughts d
rift to Tristan. Silent, absent Tristan. I replayed the night we spent on Frenchmen Street over and over. The unapologetic intensity of it. I let my guard down, but maybe I showed him too much. Hadn’t we been baring souls since we got here?

  “You look lost.”

  A man’s subtle New England cadence clearly stands out in the sea of local accents in the conversations around me. The sound makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Still, I manage to glance over my shoulder and feign surprise.

  “Excuse me?”

  He’s dressed in a dark navy-blue suit and a white collared shirt unbuttoned casually at the neck. He lifts his lowball to his lips, revealing the expensive diamond-studded watch adorning his wrist.

  “I said you look lost,” he says after a swallow, “over here all by yourself.”

  I quickly sense I’m being hunted. I turn to fully face him, and his attention goes where I expect it to—down the front of my dress. He doesn’t honor me with a quick return to my eyes. Instead he lingers there, licking his bottom lip like I’m a piece of meat, before slowly returning his gaze to mine.

  I practice Skye’s advice and pretend he’s Tristan for a moment. If Tristan looked at me like that, my clothes would fall off.

  “I have this rule at social engagements,” he says. “I can’t let a beautiful woman suffer one of these parties alone. I have to come rescue her.”

  “That’s very noble of you.”

  He smirks. “Thank you.”

  “Am I suffering, though?”

  He cocks his head. “I definitely am. There’s only so much networking I can stomach before I need to have a real conversation with someone.”

  “So you picked me?”

  “There is absolutely no one else here I would bother with.”

  I laugh lightly because Vince Boswell is unexpectedly charming. And in a sudden and disturbing moment that I mask with a coy smile, I realize that he reminds me of Kolt too. Expensive and cultured and carefree. Vince is tall with pale-blue eyes. His tanned skin is mottled with dozens of freckles. He shows his age with his slick scalp and lines spidering from the edges of his eyes. He’s too old for me, but he’s undoubtedly attractive.