Page 131 of Only the Wicked
“He could use Dristol for all communications.”
“As a member of the Senate Foreign Intelligence Committee, that would be a wise move.”
“You know, when we ran into him the other day, Dristol was there, seated at a table. I bet they were having cocktails together. I didn’t think anything of it.”
“To be fair,” I hear myself saying, “He likely has after work sessions with his staff regularly.”
“Maybe.” There’s a faraway look in Syd’s eyes, and I can’t help but wonder how much of this is because of Crawford, and if she is in fact not over him. The idea doesn’t sit well. “Is Quinn on the line?”
“Right here,” a feminine voice answers.
I take that to mean Quinn is a woman.
“Did you find any connection with the FBI agent?” I catch Syd’s eye in such a way she knows I want more information.
“I confirmed the FBI does not have a current investigation into ARGUS. I also confirmed your FBI contact’s real name is Jason Reid. He’s not FBI, nor was he ever FBI. He did however work for the CIA from 2007 to 2015.”
“Interesting. Before my time. Anything on why he left?” Sydney asks.
“No, but I didn’t access his employee file.”
“How’d you confirm–”
“Jake’s visual recognition and first name assisted and believe it or not, one of my contacts at a foreign intelligence agency had the information.”
“Which one?” I ask, curious.
“Classified,” Quinn answers, and Syd gives a little shrug.
Fair, I suppose. I mean, this is a private black ops group and nothing is technically classified but protecting her sources is completely understandable.
“By the way, another person on our team, Noah, has been trailing Reid. He observed him meeting with an employee at a private security firm. Westinghouse. Did a search and Crawford has hired them in the past. Didn’t make an effort to keep it secret. It’s in public records. But rumors are Westinghouse has taken odd jobs from the Russians, too. It’s all speculation, but we know for certain Jason Reid pretended to be Ian Gregory with the FBI, he’s familiar with Senator Crawford and Crawford’s chief of staff, Dristol, and he had a meeting with Westinghouse, a private security firm with rumored connections to Russia.”
“So tonight we should watch Crawford in addition to the Russians,” Sydney says. “I can’t imagine this Jason Reid or Dristol would be at the events, but if they are, we should keep an eye on them too.”
“If you’re able to access intel from the Russians, it could be highly valuable. We have circumstantial information at best and no comprehension,” Hudson says, referring to my plan to install a surveillance virus onto a computer tonight. That’s what Sydney’s text to her team must’ve been about.
I have Sydney attempting the install but hearing all of this has me questioning my plan. Perhaps I should be the one attempting to break into a Russian office. They want something from me so it will be easier to sweep under the rug if caught. Only trouble is, I doubt I’ll be left alone.
“Understood,” Syd says.
“Jake and Noah are in position to provide support outside of the Russian embassy. I’m working on getting a waiter into the event, but Russian security is tight. I don’t think it’s going to happen. If you need backup, you’ll need to get off Russian embassy property. Copy?” Hudson asks.
“I’ll bring my security with me,” I say.
“That’s good. But they won’t be allowed into the party with you. Standard protocol.”
Hudson’s statement makes sense. I haven’t given it much thought, but it’s true security personnel don’t usually mingle at events I attend.
“Are you on the way in a hot minute?” Quinn asks.
Sydney’s posture changes subtly—a barely perceptible straightening of her spine. “Yes. I need to go to the ladies, but we’ll be out the door in a hot minute.” Her voice remains casual, but the repeated phrase isn’t subtle.
“Safe travels,” Hudson says before the call disconnects, leaving an electric silence in its wake.
I watch her hips sway as she seductively saunters to the restroom, the black lace dress highlighting every curve. But my appreciation is tempered by suspicion. “Hot minute” repeated twice—not a coincidence—an obvious signal to get her alone before our departure for the embassy, and she acknowledged it without hesitation.
The coded phrase should bother me more than it does. But I find myself analyzing not what she said, but how she said it. The slight tension in her shoulders when she had to use operational language. The way her eyes kept finding mine during the call, as if anchoring herself to something real. Miles and I have worked together for years and he chose secrecy and most likely deception. Sydney had minutes to exclude me from this call and chose transparency. She could have taken this conversation in the bathroom, but she put it on speaker. She could have hidden her team’s positioning, but she let me hear their operational support. The bracelet she’s wearing—my mother’s diamonds, signifies my own leap of faith. If I can’t trust the woman wearing my mother’s diamonds and walking into a Russian embassy for me, then I can’t trust anyone. And a man who trusts no one is already defeated.
