I draw a breath, calm myself, and tell Quince to pull me the hell back up.
Immediately, I start to move up, and at a pretty fast clip. But that’s also when I realize that he hasn’t said a word. Yeah. He’s pissed.
“Listen, Bond,” I say, using this call sign. Because, hey, he’s British. “This was—”
“Bloody hell,” Quince growls. At first I think he’s even more pissed than I anticipated, but a split second later, I start to free fall and realize he’s dealing with an equipment fuck-up.
The clip holding me upright isn’t designed to withstand intense pressure, and when I jerk a few feet above Cane’s room, I also spin forward, the air coming out of my lungs with a whoosh. Suddenly I’m upside down again, staring through the glass into Cane’s room.
He’s still there, still dead, and still alone. There are no sirens. No sign that anyone at three in the morning noticed the shower of glass that rained down on the parking lot below. And no indication that hotel security is racing to his room.
I do have a problem, though. Because when I flipped, the camera shifted. Now it’s hanging from my arm, tethered only by the strap I’m wearing across my body.
Considering I’m currently upside down, this isn’t the most secure of positions. “What the hell are you doing up there?” I demand.
“Got a jam in the recoil system. Give me a—there.”
His final word is unnecessary, because I can hardly miss the fact that I’m now zooming upward, the crank’s motor having obviously re-engaged.
The camera starts to fall, but it can’t go far because the strap is around my body.
Except that it’s not. I realize too late that the metal clip that attaches the strap to one side of the camera has come loose—and now the weight of the camera is pulling the damn thing free faster than I can scramble for it.
“Goddammit,” I snarl as my fingers brush the end of the strap, but I can’t get a grip. And I watch, helpless, as the camera tumbles through the night to smash unseen on the dark parking lot below.
There’s a chance—a slim one—that the SD card survived. But I’m not holding my breath. Instead, I growl into the mic. “Tell me the wifi was working. Tell me you got the image transfer.”
“No glitches,” Quince assures me. “I’ll confirm the images were transferred once you’re up here. Can you see where it landed?”
“More or less. We’ll retrieve it when we exit the scene.” A moment later, my feet have reached the barrier that marks the edge of the roof. I pike up and re-orient myself with my head up, as if I’m some sort of trapeze artist.
I grab hold of the ledge around the roof and pull myself up and over in time to see him standing beside the now-locked crank, his attention on the tablet in front of him.
“Got them. Let’s go.”
To his credit, he says nothing else as we pack the equipment in seconds, then use the utility elevator to get to the basement. We exit through a service entrance, both keeping our heads down and shielded by black, generic baseball caps.
Only after we’ve retrieved the broken camera, confirmed the images transferred safe and sound to the remote tablet, and are miles away in the plain, black Toyota—without license plates—does Quincy turn to me and say, “What the bloody hell is going on?”
He’s driving, and he pulls into a deserted bank parking lot. I don’t even grimace. It’s not like I wasn’t expecting this.
“It’s personal,” I tell him. “And sanctioned. Don’t worry. There won’t be blowback.”
“Sanctioned,” he repeats. “But not by my company.” He kills the engine and looks at me, his expression as hard as glass. He glances to the backseat where our gear, including one of Stark Security’s tablets, are safe and sound in a go-bag. “I’m assuming the photos are important and you weren’t just practicing your artistic composition skills before taking out the guy.”
I cock my head, not even bothering to answer.
“So here’s what happens. Tell me what this is all about, and I’ll get the images for you. Keep me in the dark, and you’ll have to steal the bloody tablet and hack the passcode. And no offense, but I don’t think you’re that good with tech. I’m not sure anyone is. The SSA has serious security. You might find someone to eventually hack it, but I wouldn’t want to take those odds.”
“Quince.” Over the years, I’ve cultivated a firm and intimidating voice. Unfortunately, my sister’s boyfriend isn’t the type to be intimidated.
“No.” His voice is harsh. No nonsense. This is the man who withstood torture. The man who saved my sister. And the man who now protects her, just like I once did.
I feel my resolve shift.
“This isn’t an SSA mission,” he continues. “And despite suggesting as much when you asked me to come with you, you aren’t actually on the cusp of joining the SSA, are you?”
I say nothing.
“Fine. Tell me what the fuck’s going on, or this whole exercise was for nothing.”
“Eliza said you were a principled hard-ass.”
“She knows me well. Talk.”
“It’s personal. Me and Eliza.”
“That makes it personal to me, too.”
“Oh? Have you proposed?”
His mouth twitches and even in the dim ambient light I can actually see the hint of color rising up his neck.
“Oh my God. You did propose. I can’t believe she didn’t tell me.”
“Not yet. But soon. I have the ring in my pocket.”
“Your pocket,” I repeat. “Here? Now?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Until it’s on her finger, I’m not letting it out of my sight. And even then, I’m not letting it get too far away.”
I feel my heart melt a little, which is not a common feeling for me. Yes, I’ve been known to tear up during the occasional sappy film when my sister forces me to watch them, but on the whole, relationships and the mess that goes with them really aren’t my thing.
Sure, I’ve had a few friends with benefits over the years, but that’s sex and laughs and a good time. Nothing serious. Because what’s the point? I’ve got Eliza. I’ve got my circle. And that’s plenty. The world’s a harsh enough place as it is, and the more you get close, the more you get vulnerable.
Still, I’m happy for Eliza. She’s practically floated through life ever since she and Quince got together again after a particularly bad parting many years ago.
He’s since redeemed himself a hundred-fold. And since he had a significant hand in saving my life and the princess, I have to admit I’m predisposed to liking the guy again.
Most important, I know he loves her.
“The mission,” he presses.
I hesitate, then nod. He came tonight to help me, no questions asked. And, yes, I might have suggested that Stark was okay with it, but I know damn well he didn’t believe it. Not when the briefing consisted of the two of us discussing mission specs in my Jeep outside a Taco Bell.
And, yeah, I sort of forgot to mention the part about my plan to kill Cane.
Bottom line, he deserves to know. And I should probably get used to the fact that Quincy Radcliffe is family, too.