Page 26 of Savage Beauty

He doesn’t trust her.

Sloane appears to be intent on the news, which shows a man dressed in red with a sword spinning through the air. The English subtitle reads World Combat Games. Sloane appears to be intent on the screen, but she’s too close for this text conversation if she can’t be trusted.

Me

I’ll check in when we connect in LA

* * *

The full moon lights the parking lot as Sloane digs around in the dirt near the steps to her place, searching for a buried apartment key.

Thanks to the time change and almost thirty-five hours of nonstop travel, the moon and the pervasive silence are the only clues to the time of day. My internal clock is useless. If it had been my call, after we shuffled through the door of a small villa, we would’ve crashed, ensuring we adapted to our new time zone, and planned this apartment intrusion for the next night.

But Sloane’s wide awake. And she’s like a dog with a bone. I recognize determination, so I didn’t waste effort attempting to dissuade her.

True to Jack’s word, luggage awaited us. We have clothes for our stay here, plus a full arsenal of handguns, ammunition, and a secure phone for Sloane, which she promptly turned off.

I offered to find what she needed, letting her stay behind where she would be safe and could rest.

Unsurprisingly, she didn’t bite.

And after spending almost two days with this woman, I’ve noticed she eats little. Crackers and two plain bagels in thirty-five hours. All she drank on the plane was Coca-Cola. She refused any water. Full on grimaced when a bottle of water was offered.

She’s not taking care of herself, and she’s borderline obsessed with her work. On the way here in the car, I asked, aiming to emphasize this isn’t a game, “Is whatever you’re working on worth risking your life?”

All she said was, “Every choice bears a cost.”

And I can’t get that answer out of my head because it’s a guilty person’s defense. Did she remember more on the flight home? Tomorrow, when she’s in the shower or something, I’ll need to log a call to Jack. He needs to read me in on whatever the fuck he knows.

By the time we landed, Interpol had an update on the two tangos the local police back in Kuala Lumpur picked up. They hadn’t actually broken any laws, but they managed to extract some useful intel. One, they’d been hired by the Wagner Group to retrieve Sloane. They weren’t there to go after Sage, but they were aware of her. Turns out somewhere out there was a reward offered for Sloane with a much higher sum paid if she was alive. Our tech team finally found the post. Kairi back at HQ had been saying all along it had to exist. Now they’re trying to track who posted it, but that might be damn near impossible.

“Got it!” Sloane triumphantly holds up a grimy Schlage key.

“You didn’t trust a neighbor with it?”

There are twelve apartment units in this two-story apartment complex. She’s been digging below a window of one of the ground units. Lights are off in all the units, there’s been no curtain movement, but knowing someone could be inside watching us doesn’t give me the warm and fuzzies.

She opens the door, and I lift my SIG from its holster. With one last scan of the parking lot, I push past her. She steps inside, and I position her at the door.

Per her description, it’s a simple one bedroom. The front door opens into an open living area with a den and kitchen. There’s a musty smell in the apartment, as one would expect from a unit that hasn’t been lived in for over a month. But other than a stuffy smell derived from closed windows, it’s immaculate. Nothing appears out of place.

The kitchen counters are bare other than a wood block holding a dozen knives. There are no canisters on the counter. No dish towel hanging from a knob. No photos anywhere in the den. The coffee table in front of the small, slightly worn sofa is bare, as are the two side tables that hold only lamps.

In the far corner, there’s an odd-looking wooden sculpture. Stacked wood blocks covered in splintered divots and bright color spots in the center of the splintered wood.

Hanging blinds with a thin layer of dust cover the two rectangular windows on one wall of the den. They’re folded closed, but moonlight streams through the cracks. Sloane stands against the entrance door, waiting for me to give the all-clear.

There are two white closed doors on the back wall in front of an area where a kitchen table would normally be located, and one stool beneath a kitchen counter.

As a military guy, I’m used to seeing barely decorated apartments. It’s common for young single soldiers. Can’t say it’s what I was expecting from Sloane.

When Sloane drew out a diagram of her apartment, she explained the door on the left opens into a storage closet. The door on the right opens into her bedroom suite.

Behind the left door, there’s a broom, dustpan, and a shelving unit with dry food, paper towels, toilet paper, and a large bag of generic dry cat food.

Behind the right door, there’s a neatly made bed that would pass inspection on base. On her nightstand, there’s a framed photo of Sloane, Sage, and Sam. Sage is a child in the photo, so I’m guessing the photo is an old one. There’s a white desk pushed against one wall. A charger is plugged into the wall below the right side of the desk, but it connects to nothing.

I push the bathroom door open. Movement has me slamming the door against the wall and aiming at the shower.

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