Page 84 of Double Bucked

“Yes. Eyes and ears.”

The smooth voice in my ear is Aaron Schilling—my handler.

The frames of my glasses are fitted with two small, invisible cameras in the screws.

Likewise, my headphones are connected to Schilling’s device.

What I hear, Schilling hears. What I see, Schilling sees.

It doesn’t always connect directly to Schilling. He’s made a point to join me for the preliminary exam of this operation in order to make sure it’s a legitimate request. Most of the time, I’ll get wired through to one of the remote intelligence agents. While I’m in the field, they’re behind a desk, researching my findings, geo-tracking faces, and occasionally quickly searching things like how to land a helicopter.

My job is a lot of things. Boring isn’t one of them.

“Sweep the room,” Schilling instructs.

I make a grid around the room, careful to aim the lenses in every corner so I make sure I’m not missing anything.

People are not unlike puzzles. There are pieces of Claire Preacher scattered all around this room, begging for someone to pick them up and put them together.

On her bedside table sits two photographs in hand-painted wooden frames. One is a picture of a chestnut horse. The second is a picture of small child with straw-colored hair cuddled up to her stern, unsmiling father.

She has posters on the wall. Rows of beautiful women in striking poses.

According to Mr. Preacher, he hasn’t seen Claire in three years.

Which makes her twenty-four when she left.

This isn’t the room of a twenty-four-year-old. This is the room of a sixteen-year-old.

Which begs the question:

Who, or what, was she hiding?

“Do you really think Oculus is involved in this?” I ask.

“It’s a thin lead,” Schilling admits, “but right now, it’s the only lead we’ve got to work with.”

We’ve been hunting down whispers of Oculus for years now. Oculus is an organization responsible for, primarily, the black-market trade of stolen goods, drugs, and, occasionally, trafficking people. The deeply secretive organization has fingers spread all across the world.

But why would they put roots in small-town Kentucky?

It doesn’t add up.

“What’s your read on Preacher?” Schilling asks.

“He has too much money, no friends, and his isolation has made him paranoid. But you know what they say about insanity. The only thing worse than being paranoid…is to be paranoid and actually have someone after you.”

“We’ll keep eyes on him. I’m forwarding you a plane ticket to Paris now. Leaves in the morning. I need you to watch the daughter. If even a sliver of what he’s saying is true, she might be the lead to draw out Oculus.”

“The bait, you mean.”

“You’ll be there to protect her. She’ll lead us to Oculus. It’s a win-win.”

I touch her sheets. The soft, pink fabric is squared into pillowed puffs. I lean in close. Her pillow smells like lavender.

I stand. I go to her bookshelf.

Nancy Drew—both the modernized version and the old, yellow-edged hardback covers. Willkie Collins. Mary Shelley. This is a woman who escapes her life by diving into darkness. But how dark will she go?

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