by J. Kenner
“No,” I repeat. “Score one for me. Let’s see how I do on the bonus round, because I’m thinking that the closest you ever got to high finance was your family’s net worth. I’m thinking that before you worked here, you worked for the government. British, obviously, so I bet you were with MI6. Or, I don’t know, whatever private paramilitary organizations hang out around London.”
“Hang out?”
I cock my head and cross my arms. “I lay all that on you, and the only response you have is to criticize my word choice?”
“Go on.”
I make a show of raising my brows. “What? There’s more? Or are you talking about the fact that you were in intelligence even back when we were together? Because I’d bet money that you were. And I’ll even double down and say that it was some mission that called you away. What I don’t get is why the hell you stayed away. Because honestly, Quince, I really don’t know how I surv—shit.”
He says nothing, just watches my face. And there is no way I am confessing the depths of my pain. No way at all.
Instead, I roll my shoulders back and focus on his face. “I was in love with you.”
He swallows, but his expression doesn’t change. For a moment, he is silent, then he says simply, “And now?”
I consider lying, but what would be the point. “Now? Now I kind of hate you.”
I exhale, feeling a little better since that is off my chest. I don’t look at his face. Instead, I turn and walk toward Denny, then slide into the chair next to her.
She glances sideways at me, and I have the feeling that she understands more than she’s letting on. For the first time, I wonder about her relationship with Quincy. Are they work partners? Or is there more going on between them?
Considering I just told Quince that I hate him, I probably shouldn’t care one way or the other. But, of course, I do.
I clear my throat and nod at the computer screen. “I’m confused,” I confess. “I thought I had to hold that gadget so that some sort of decryption software could get beamed down to Quincy. But if that’s the case, then what are you decrypting now?”
She glances toward Quincy, who’s watching us from the window, and I see him nod, giving permission to bring me into the loop.
“That software got us past the system security and also instituted a high speed cloning program.”
“So you stole his database, but it’s still encrypted?”
“Pretty much.”
I frown. “But you can decrypt it, right?”
“Me personally? No. But fortunately I work with some of the best geniuses Mr. Stark’s money can buy.”
“So why did you steal it? What’s on there, and who hired you?”
She runs her fingers through her fine, blond hair. “I’m pretty sure that’s above your pay-grade.”
I let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. How long is it going to take? I’m only here because our problems overlap, and I want to know if that thing’s holding information about my sister.”
“Well, that’s the million dollar question. And the reason we took the clone with us instead of hanging around. Could be five more minutes. Could be five months.”
“It won’t be five months,” Quincy says, joining us. “My friend Noah ran the team who developed that fine piece of software. It’ll work fast. You can count on it.” He cocked his head toward the conference room. “Come on. They’re off the call. I’ll introduce you.”
I’ve met a lot of celebrities over the years. It comes with the territory when you do as many random roles as I have. But I’ve never met someone like Damien Stark. He’s tall and lean, and I remember that he used to be a professional tennis player before reinventing himself as one of the wealthiest men in the world. He has dark hair and fascinating dual colored eyes—one black and the other amber. He projects a commanding manner that should be intimidating but isn’t.
“Ms. Tucker,” Stark says, extending his hand. “I apologize for keeping you waiting. Quincy, nice work in the field.”
“Except that database still isn’t decrypted,” I say, because I’m so used to speaking my mind with Lorenzo and Emma that I forgot to turn on my filter.
“Denny will have that remedied by the time we’re finished here,” Ryan Hunter says. “I think Damien was talking about you. Didn’t our red-headed friend come close to gutting you?”
“Oh.” I realize that Quincy must have tapped out an update to the team during our ride from Hollywood to Santa Monica. Frankly, I’m flattered that Stark and Hunter think of me as anything other than someone who could have potentially gunked up their mission. But I do take his point, and I turn to Quincy with an apologetic smile. “Did I say thanks?”
Amusement lights his eyes. “You’re welcome.”
Ryan nods, then indicates the nearby chairs. I sit, grateful to be moving past the introductions. On the whole, Hunter seems more approachable than Stark, but at the same time, I think that’s a facade. According to Quincy, Ryan’s the big cheese at the SSA, which means part of his job is to get close. To watch. Right now, he’s watching me, and I wonder what those blue eyes see in me.
I have a feeling both of these men make friends slowly, but when they do, they’re loyal to a fault. It’s a quality I admire, and which reminds me of Emma.
Looking at these three men now seated around the table, it’s like I’m an extra in a movie featuring three A-list guys. They’re that gorgeous. At the same time, all three seem like real people, with rough edges and a core of steel inside. Nothing airbrushed about them at all.
Between the three of them, Quincy is the most real to me. But even he seems a little rough around the edges. As if he isn’t quite tame. I’d seen hints of that in London, but now it’s more obvious. A dark watchfulness. The sense that he’s on the hunt.
Whatever it is, there’s even more of an edge to him now, and I think that’s partly why I’ve felt safe, even on what has been one of the most horrible nights of my life.
But safety with Quincy is dangerous, too. Because while I’m happy to not be dead from Red’s blade, I’m terrified of knocking down the wall I built around my heart to keep Quincy Radcliffe out.
“—and then maybe a quick rundown? Eliza?”
I jump, embarrassed to realize that Ryan Hunter is talking to me and I’ve completely zoned out. “I’m sorry. It’s been a really long day.” True, but that’s not the reason my mind was elsewhere. “What did you say?”
“Sorry. I know you’re exhausted, but obviously our interests overlap. Quince gave us the short version of why you were at The Terrace. Could you fill in the gaps?”
I lean back in my chair. “Well, that depends.” I look between him and Damien Stark, wondering at the extent of my moxie. “Are you going to tell me why you were hacking Scott Lassiter’s system? Because, color me naive, but I’m pretty sure that’s not legal.”
“Bloody hell, Eliza.” Quincy’s voice is sharp. Frustrated.
I glare at him. “Excuse me for wanting to understand the level of shit I’ve stepped in the middle of.”
“Ryan just wants to know—”
“No,” Ryan says. “It’s okay.” He looks to Stark, who slides seamlessly into the conversation.
“Are you familiar with the name Marius Corbu?”
I frown, then shake my head. “Should I be?”
“Probably not. He’s the leader of a Romania-based sex trafficking ring.”
“Oh.” I sit back in my chair. I’m not shocked. On the contrary, the pieces are starting to fall into place. “Go on.”
“The ring’s been in operation for over a decade, sometimes taking hits from law enforcement, but mostly flying under the radar. Or over it, depending on your perspective.”
“Like the mafia.”
He nods.
“Most of the victims are from underdeveloped countries. People trying to make a better life.”
“I know. Lots of Nigerian refugees get sucked in.” I know more than I want about sex trafficking since Emma spent so much of he
r time in intelligence fighting an essentially unwinnable fight.
“There’s a European Union task force that’s zeroing in on some of the key players, and so far it’s done a good job. But Corbu is the holy grail, and he’s a tough man to find. So Stark Security was commissioned to aid the task force by recovering a contact protocol for Corbu.”
“At the party? But that doesn’t—oh.”
Quincy nods, obviously realizing I’ve caught up. “Apparently Corbu is among Lassiter’s clients. Whether Lassiter knows about Corbu’s role in the operation is anyone’s guess. From what we know, he’s just your average scumbag with extortion, prostitution, and drug trafficking lining his bag of tricks. Worth going after, but right now he can lead us to bigger fish.”
“Like Corbu,” I say. “Because if Corbu’s a client, then Lassiter must have some way to contact him.”
“Exactly,” Ryan says. “And our intel suggests that Lassiter keeps all client contact information on his highly encrypted hard drive.”
“Which we now have,” Stark adds.
“So this is all part of a sting,” I say. “You get the protocol, then you contact Corbu, then—”
“Not us,” Ryan says. “But presumably that’s what the task force agents intend. As soon as Denny pulls the protocol off that disk and we transmit to the EU, the SSA’s role in this operation is officially over.”
“Okay,” I say. “But what does that have to do with the thirteen year old girl that Quincy mentioned? She’s got to be the same girl that Red mentioned, right?”
“We think so,” Ryan says.
“Who is she?”
“Princess Ariana of Eustancia. And she was recently taken.”
I feel my eyes go wide. “A princess? Seriously? Of what country?”
“Eustancia,” Stark says.
“It’s a small but incredibly wealthy monarchy tucked in near Switzerland and Italy,” Quincy adds. I’ve never heard of it, but I believe him. “The task force isn’t sure why Corbu would risk exposure by snatching someone so high profile,” he continues, “but the sources are confident.”
“And Stark Security is working the kidnapping, too?” I can hear the incredulity in my voice and hope that they’re not offended. “But seriously, doesn’t Europe have, oh, law enforcement?”
“Actually, we have nothing to do with the princess,” Ryan says, sliding into the conversation. “Or we didn’t until we got your intel.”
“My intel,” I repeat, looking at Quince. “You mean the fact that Red asked me about the girl?”
“So far, it’s the only real lead.”
“But he may not have even been talking about this princess.”
“True,” Stark says, but the Regent is willing to take the gamble. He wants us to pursue the lead. And since I’m acquainted with him and his brother, we’re taking the assignment.”
“Oh.” The closest I’ve ever come to royalty is meeting Queen Latifah when I had two lines in one of her movies. That and watching the changing of the guard outside of Buckingham Palace with Quincy. So right then, I’m a little in awe.
A hint of a smile touches Stark’s lips, and I’m certain he’s read my reaction perfectly. “Obviously, we need your help.”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’ve told you everything I know. I’m not sure how much more help I can be.”
Ryan leans back in his chair. “Why were you at The Terrace?”
“You know why. I’m trying to figure out what happened to my sister.” He already knows that, of course. I’d told Quincy everything in the Uber, and he already relayed it all to Ryan and Stark.
“The same sister that Red thinks knows about the girl?”
I nod.
“And we all assume that this girl is Princess Ariana?”
Again, I nod.
Ryan spreads his hands in a there you have it gesture. “Seems to me that we need to find your sister. And to do that, we need your help.”
“And Eliza,” Quincy adds gently, “I think you need our help, too.”
I’m surprised by the amount of relief that courses through me. Lorenzo’s smart, and I know he’s just as worried as I am, but his resources are nothing compared to what’s in this room. “Yeah,” I whisper as Denny taps on the glass door. “I really think I do.”
Ryan signals her to enter and she practically bounces into the room. “Got it,” she says. “Am I amazing or what?”
“Your skills never fail to awe and inspire,” Quincy says dryly. In reply she grins and buffs her nails on her chest.
“He’s just jealous of my awesomeness,” she tells me conspiratorially. I nod and force a smile as I realize that right then, I’m a little jealous, too.
The teasing doesn’t faze Quincy, who steers me out of the conference room so that Stark, Ryan, and Denny can call the task force commander with Corbu’s contact protocol.
As we exit the conference room, I see Liam coming in through the main door. He raises a hand in greeting, and we meet him halfway, the three of us grabbing chairs from the nearby computer stations. “Well, you were right,” he tells me. “Somebody was in her place.”
“I knew it,” I say. “Lorenzo said I was just being paranoid, but I know Emma.” I tilt my head, studying him. “You are as good as advertised. But how can you be sure?”
He holds out his phone. It’s open to his photos, and I gasp when I see the first one. It’s Emma’s apartment, but it looks like a tornado has ripped through the place. “I’m thinking they came back after Red took a tumble,” he says, as I nod numbly. “Also, your phone is missing. They may think it’s Emma’s.”
“Shit.” The curse slips out, but it’s heartfelt. My life is on that phone which, fortunately, is backed up to the cloud. It’s locked, but if we’re really dealing with international organized crime, I’m betting they can hack it. Which means that if they didn’t already have Emma’s email address and phone number, they do now. And if she sent me any messages, they have that as well.
“What if she messaged me?” I ask Quincy. “They’ll know where she is. Hell, they can pretend to be me. And, oh, fuck. I have that location app that lets you find your friends. If she has her phone, they’ll know exactly where she is.”
Quincy takes my hand, and that tiny show of support strengthens me. “She’s smart,” he reminds me. “You’ve told me so a hundred times. Right now, you just need to take care of your phone.”
He’s right. I don’t think there’s anything on there that would cause me trouble—I don’t have banking apps and I don’t use my phone to pay for things—but even so, I swivel toward a computer. I need to log on and wipe the thing remotely, and I need to do it right now.
Quincy’s way ahead of me, and he’s already logging in and navigating to the iCloud site. I look around to figure out how to wipe my phone, then realize I can track Emma’s phone from here. I click, the screen changes to a map, and I wait for the little dot that represents my sister to pop up.
Nothing.
“She wiped her phone, too,” Quincy says. “Either that or she turned it off.”
“Which means that she probably didn’t contact you. At least not from her phone,” Liam adds. “Probably not from her regular email address, either. Assuming she’s as smart as you both say.”
I nod slowly, relieved. Then I lean over and wipe my phone as well. It takes some time—the computer is determined to make sure I really want to remotely delete all my information—but soon enough, it’s all gone.
I lean back, suddenly overwhelmed by the impact of what I’ve just done. Because for the first time in my entire life, I’m completely disconnected from my sister.
Beside me, Quincy takes my hand. “It will be okay,” he says gently.
Once upon a time, I would have believed him, taking comfort in his words.
Now, though?
Now, I’m just scared. And even with Quincy beside me, I feel very, very alone.
10
Quincy’s Santa Monica c
ondo is smaller than I expected, and at the same time it suits him perfectly. There’s a small entrance hall with a coat closet on the right and a galley-style kitchen on the left. The kitchen boasts a pass-through bar that opens into the living area, the far side of which is made up of a sliding glass patio door which can be closed even more thoroughly by a garage-style metal door that’s currently in the up position. A dim porch light illuminates the patio, allowing me to see the cushioned metal chair and lounger that take up the small space.
Impeccably tidy, the condo is sparsely furnished with contemporary furniture in various shades of gray and black. A wall unit dominates one wall, the cubbies filled with an impressive stereo system, dozens upon dozens of vinyl albums and CDs, and what must be hundreds of hardback books ranging from well-known classics to historical nonfiction to loads of modern spy thrillers.
I don’t see a television, and I’m not surprised. The Quincy I knew only watched television for the news, and then on a small set that he kept in his massive bathroom and turned on while he shaved. I wonder if that’s still his routine, or if he’s switched to getting all of his news from some app on his phone.
What does surprise me is the punching bag by the patio door. Not one of those little speed bags, but the kind that is huge and probably weighs more than I do.
It’s not that Quincy doesn’t keep in shape—unless things have changed, he’s solid muscle under that suit, with a broad repertoire of martial arts skills. Before, I’d believed his interest in taekwondo, karate, and all the other disciplines stemmed from his childhood and his mother’s murder. Now, I think it’s bigger than that, and his array of skills is tied to his intelligence work. More, I have a feeling that despite being British, his skill set is way more Liam Neeson than James Bond.
Still, London Quincy wouldn’t have had exercise equipment in his living space, and I wonder what it means that the bag takes up such a prominent corner. It’s as if I’m getting a peek into the current life of this man I once knew so well, but I don’t have the benefit of explanatory footnotes.
There are other hints as to the man he’s become. Like, the cluster of framed photographs on the display table behind his couch. I recognize one as his mother; it’s a photo that used to be in his London home. Another shows him and a pseudo-celebrity, Dallas Sykes, a well-known New York playboy dubbed “The King of Fuck,” who’d been even more in the public eye after his affair with his adopted sister went viral.