Page 58 of Red Line

Did the CIA stand by them? Support them? Care for them?

Questionable.

No, Red was under zero illusions. She worked for the CIA, and she loved her job. They would love her and the results of her work just as long as she was still producing. And then they’d kick her to the curb.

Not her team, though. Her team was family, and she believed they had her back.

But do you have time for continued warm friendships when you spend every day trying to save the world?

Color Code would remain busy, and Red was prepared to live out her life alone.

It was a price she’d decided to pay.

But tonight? Tonight, she’d be with Grey, and they’d be waltzing.

Red had to look very different at the ball than she usually did. She needed to ensure that if she showed up on any viral royal watch feed or influencer social media, moving forward, no one would recognize her, including AI software.

Her transformation was easily accomplished with the shading and highlights of her makeup.

She’d had the salon thin her brow and create stylish arches, which changed her look. Typically, Red wore her hair in a low ponytail or simply draped over her shoulders to obscure the sides of her face. Tonight, the stylist had swept her hair into a sleek updo and sprayed it with some titanium-like hairspray, which meant no strand of hair was out of place even after napping.

Standing in front of her bathroom mirror, Red inserted chandelier earrings with man-made diamonds that looked like they were worth a fortune. They were heavy, and she wasn’t used to the tug on her earlobes. But as she turned her head from side to side, Red had to admit, they looked amazing. They weren’t just decorative. They were digital cameras. Technology was miraculous.

Besides that, Red would have a couple of GPS dots to press onto Elena if possible. Tiny, she might even be able to hide one on the Fire of the Desert if she could get close enough.

Other than that, she was going in naked, equipment and weapons-wise.

Back in the bedroom, the full skirt of her red taffeta gown spread wide across the bed. The matching high heels with their pointy toes and crystal clustered embellishments lay on the carpet.

Red was sure that Grey had asked someone to “get Red a dress,” and they’d heard “get a red dress” because this was very red. Very. It was a lovely red, though, she thought as she rubbed the fabric between her fingers. As far as formal wear went, she liked it. Tactically, it was an impossible gown. There would be no stealth with its rustling sound, no running with its yards of voluminous skirt, and certainly no hand-to-hand in a bodice that wouldn’t allow a deep breath or sleeves that constricted her range of motion.

Fortunately, none of that really came up in her job. Dodging bombs aside—observation, contact, and manipulation were the daily skills she applied.

And this get up?

This looked as far from spy as she could get.

This looked a littleprima donnaif Red was being honest.

Good. That would make life a little easier for her tonight.

As tired as she was from her bout with typhoid, easy would be greatly appreciated.

Chapter Twenty

Red

When Red was in grad school, one of the ways that she took a break from the books was playing poker. Playing for pennies was about stress relief and friendship instead of a payday. But that didn’t mean that it wasn’t a cut-throat game. The stakes felt real, even if they weren’t.

Red, by nature, was competitive, but she liked a slow game.

She was the turtle in the “Rabbit and the Turtle Race.” She liked to bide her time and make measured but steady progress. It meant fewer people noticed her success. And that always proved a good thing. She could just inch on by the pack.

While others enjoyed big-ego bluster and talking smack, Red, sitting behind a hand of cards, was quietly observing, learning, and honing her skills.

Poker taught Red to spot a bluff. She’d learned to read a whole body, where some people tried to read just the eyes. The subtle tells of body language weren’t lists she’d memorized from a book or heard in a behavioral psychology class at The Farm. Red’s capacity was a hard-earned knowledge from hours, days, and years of observation. Trial and error, stakes-driven outcomes, she’d learned a lot from penny-ante.

Her body language reading skills were a hallmark of those who came up through violent childhoods. And Red was forever grateful that she built this skillset purposefully and safely; it hadn’t been thrust upon her.

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