Page 1 of Gemini Queen
Chapter One
Zara
I rappel down the ventilation shaft at midnight. Because midnight’s when the shift change goes down for the forty-eight guards in the two-hundred story Tai-Sun Tower in downtown Singapore. And I need every slim edge I can possibly exploit. Because this job’s about to become the boldest snatch I’ve ever pulled off.
And Wang Tai-Sun’s not the kind of guy you want catching you when you screw his shit up.
The cable hisses in the winch like a rattlesnake as I plummet sixteen stories straight down the shaft in 26.53 seconds. Just like I timed it in the mock-up. Icy air whistles past and burns my face, but every inch of my body is alive and tingling with nerves under my catsuit.
The cable plays out. The harness snaps tight around my torso with a jerk.
My bank account might be running on fumes. But my first-rate gear’s worth every cent.
Suspended in pitch black over one hundred eighty-four stories of nothing but air, sweating freely under my catsuit, I switch on the headlamp strapped over my silk beanie, then fish out the Phillips screwdriver from my utility belt.
Exactly 64.3 seconds later, according to the glowing digits racing across the face of my dive watch, I’ve got the grate popped and I’m slipping through the chute like a moray eel wriggling through my favorite Red Sea reef.
I’m 4.2 seconds off my personal best due to a rusted screw that sticks, but that’s an acceptable margin of error for me. We allowed for that when Cleo and Xiao set the timer.
I’ve got a twenty-three minute cushion before they detonate the bomb.
If this job goes the way I want, I’ll be sitting pretty in my latest safe house in Sharm el-Sheikh on the Red Sea coast in Egypt for at least six months before I need to plan the next heist. I’ll shore dive every day right from my own little crescent beach. Read smut every night in my own little hammock. And pretend my own dad isn’t offering to pay a cool two mill to whoever brings him my head in a bag.
Dad upped the bounty six months ago, the day I turned twenty, on the fifth anniversary of what I like to call my liberation from the family firm.
Another ninety-one seconds and I’m through the ventilation chute and stripping down to my unmentionables in the posh ladies’ room on the vacant office floor. Wang Tai-Sun lost his tenant on this level a week ago. He hasn’t landed another one yet to pay his extortionate monthly rent, but the power’s still on.
I peel out of my knapsack and catsuit, zip myself into the strapless black leather dress that encases my curves like latex and barely skims my thighs, snap my favorite spiked cuff around my wrist for luck, and tug on my platform boots.
Then I pull off my beanie, stuff everything into my pack, and stow my shit out of sight in the empty cabinet under the sink.
Now all I need to do is shake out the crazy mane of teal hair that was all squashed under my cap, check my makeup in the mirror, correct a smudge from the drama queen mascara that makes my turquoise eyes pop like Betty Boop’s, and grab the tiny clutch that holds my burner phone and the stolen keycard I need to unlock the elevator.
My stiletto’s in my boot. And that’s all the backup I typically need—other than Cleo and Xiao in the van—because my hands were registered as lethal weapons in the police station back in Vegas when I turned fourteen.
There are other powers at my disposal. But I promised myself a lifetime ago I’ll never, ever use them.
I’m a good liar. It’s a family tradition.
But that’s one promise I’ll kill to keep.
The elevator’s empty, all Hollywood lights and mirrors, but there’s a security cam winking red at me from the corner. I play it all casual for my viewing audience, puckering up my lips to swipe on a fresh coat of pink, leaning in to blot by planting a kiss on the glass. But my nerves are vibrating like guitar strings. Under the slide of curls swinging halfway to my ass, the back of my neck feels hot and tight.
If Wang catches me with my hand in his cookie jar, he’ll send me back to my dad in pieces. Cash in on that cool two mill. Though, really, for a Hong Kong triad boss like Wang, Mick Gemini’s bounty for his fugitive daughter’s hide has to look like pocket change.
I shoot to the rooftop penthouse in forty-nine seconds flat. I’m a solid three secs ahead of sked when the elevator doors hum open.
For a blink, I swear to God, even I stand there gawking like a Las Vegas tourist fresh from the turnip truck thinkingSweet Jesus, Wang, what a spread.Because nothing says posh fucking party like a Singapore billionaire getting his fucking rocks off on New Year’s fucking Eve.
There goes my potty mouth again. I know, I know. Someone should wash my mouth out with soap, etc.
Grinning for the camera, I sashay onto the rooftop pool deck with plenty of sway in my booty. When you’re scamming, confidence is king. And a little sexy never hurts either. Not that it stops the hired muscle that ambles up to check my invite. High-end suit, snake eyes, with the Wang noose tattoo inked around his neck.
I flash Snake Eyes the encrypted invite on my burner phone. “Cleo Ferrari. I’m on your list.”
Which sounds way better than sayingHey, I’m Zara Gemini, the casino czar’s daughter. You mess with me and I’ll blow your ass all the way across the pool deck into the floating bar.
Except I don’t do that shit anymore. You know, because of that whole “renouncing my powers” thing?
