Harsh, maybe. But the truth usually is.
I first learned about harsh realities when I was still in diapers. I didn’t have a stellar childhood, that’s for sure, but my perspective on the world gave me an edge. And my interesting string of jobs over the years has given me some very unique skill sets. The kind of expertise a woman needs if she plans on gathering a shit-ton of compromising intel from a money laundering asshole who, once upon a time, also brokered the sale of little girls on the black market.
Unfortunately for me, Billy Cane isn’t an easy guy to get close to. Which explains why I’m hanging upside down in front of his hotel window, a cable and a reinforced harness keeping me in place, as I try to hold my camera steady while I zoom in on his computer where he’s doing some very naughty things.
Not sexual things, though.
There are no scantily clad prostitutes in my view. No revelations into Mr. Billy Cane’s personal predilections. I’m not trying to catch him in that kind of compromising position. I’m trying to catch him moving money. Lots of money for lots of underworld clients.
I want to capture the keystrokes. I want shiny footage of the account numbers. I want all the juicy details. Because the more info I have to bargain with, the less likely anyone is going to care that I popped the guy.
Because that, of course, is the real reason I’m here.
A crackle of static in my earpiece catches my attention, then Quincy’s smooth British vowels fill my head. “Status, Auntie?” It’s a silly call sign, but protocol requires no names over the radio. The code name comes from Auntie Em of the Wizard of Oz, one of my favorite movies. And since I’m Emma, it’s a name I choose often for missions.
“Five-by-five. Just enjoying the view.”
“As much fun as waiting to reel you in might be, this mission is a bit below my pay grade.”
Quincy Radcliffe is not only one of the Stark Security Agency’s first recruits, he’s also a former Deliverance operative and a former MI6 agent. Which means he’s absolutely right. “Feeling extraneous?”
“You said you needed me specifically,” he reminds me. “And you asked me to bring company equipment even though you’re not with us.”
“I practically am.” The company is the Stark Security Agency, Quincy’s current employer.
“Are you, now? Do go on. When you asked me, I had the impression you’d be signing on the dotted line any day now. And yet I don’t believe you’ve signed a bloody thing.”
I almost smile. “You sounded seriously fucking British right then.”
“I am seriously fucking British. I’m also the man who is going to decide when and if I’m going to reel you up again. I want a straight bloody answer. Did you sign on to the company?”
If I weren’t hanging upside down, I’d shrug. “Technically, no.”
Damien Stark’s been asking me to come on board as an operative with the elite security agency ever since I rescued a kidnapped princess and Quince helped take down the fuckwad who was after her.
I admire the heck out of the SSA, but I also like my freedom. Working on my own terms. I spent too many years as a covert op for a deep-cover government intelligence organization. Under the circumstances, that was a kickass deal for me. A hell of a lot better than death row, that’s for damn sure.
Now that I’m no longer yoked to the government, my freedom is important to me. Quince knows it. My sister knows it. I know it.
I’m still trying to figure out if Stark Security knows it.
“Explain not exactly,” he demands.
“Well, you’re here, and you’re part of the company, and you’re my sister’s boyfriend. That’s way less than six degrees of separation. You do the math.”
His beleaguered sigh fills my ear, and I have to smile. Right now—upside down and all—I’m having one hell of a good time.
“Which begs the question of why I agreed to your absurd request in the first place.”
Through the crack in the hotel room’s curtain, I see Cane shift in his chair, revealing even more of the computer screen. I grin, then zoom in for a much better image of the spreadsheet he’s editing, chockfull of names and account numbers. “That’s it, you fucker. And thank you for being so anally organized.”
“Auntie…”
“Fine, fine. I’m assuming you agreed because you’re screwing my sister. God knows that was a big part of why I asked you.”
“Trust me. As much as I adore that particular activity, it wouldn’t be enough.”
“Then it must be because you love my sister.”
“Ah, yes. That’s why.”
“She’s lucky to have you,” I tell him. “And I’m not just saying that because you could push a lever and drop me on my head.”
“I’m lucky to have her.”
“Damn right, you are.”
“And right now, you’re lucky to have me.”
I laugh softly. “Can’t argue with that one either.”
“Care to give me a bit more information about what exactly you’re doing? Nature of the intel? Your mission objective?”
“Nope.”
“Because I might tell your sister?”
“Yup.”
“You know she’d—”
“Hang on.”
The bastard is pushing back from the desk, and it’s clear why—my own reflection right there on his goddamn computer screen. Dammit, dammit, dammit.
I wanted more footage. Lots more.
But I’ll have to make do with what I have, because it’s now or never time. And I’m not willing to stop now.
I do a quick flip in the harness, shifting my position to right-side up, then use the clip at the top of the harness to hook me into this position. These aren’t ideal conditions, but when are they ever?
I grab the Smith & Wesson .45 that’s holstered to my hip, say a prayer that the wind doesn’t shift, and quickly take aim. I’ve done this before, albeit not while suspended, but I’d always been assigned a partner on those missions. One of us to shoot out the glass, the other to almost simultaneously shoot the target, thus eliminating the need to account for the deflection of the kill shot when it penetrates the pane.
But I don’t have a partner beside me, and I don’t have time for hefty calculations. And while I’ll aim for a kill shot the first time, most likely I’ll have to take the second shot on its heels. If it works, great. If not, I damn sure hope Quince can haul my ass to the roof before Cane takes a shot at me.
Time seems to drag on dangerously slow, but that’s an illusion. The world is moving in slo-mo now. My thoughts coming at such a fast clip that he’s not even fully steady on his feet yet. But I’ve got the weapon ready, and the moment he’s upright and facing me, I fire. The glass shatters, and he’s close enough to get sprayed by the shards.
Flying glass can be deadly, but I’m not willing to take a chance, and the glass is still flying when I take aim, pull the trigger again, and send the bullet zinging through the newly formed hole in the window. And right into that son-of-a-bitch’s head.
I rattle off an ironic curse. Ironic because though I’d been aiming for his chest, I nailed the more difficult shot. Even so, I hate it when subpar conditions fuck with my aim.