Page 148 of Only the Wicked
“We always have a choice,” I say, although, as I play through the options, I’m not sure we do. One thing I do know is that he should’ve brought more than two men with guns if he was planning on forcing us to willingly walk through a hotel and quietly get into an awaiting car.
He pulls out his phone, reading the screen.
“Daisy’s here in D.C., right?”
Miles’ question carries a deliberate casualness that immediately sends warning signals through my veins. Daisy—brilliant, loyal, irreplaceable Daisy—who stood against going public, who tracked the bot network attacking ARGUS. Who knows every back door and security protocol in our systems. Who is going through her own shit right now and doesn’t need to be used as a negotiable token.
“Did you do something to her?” The question comes out dangerously quiet, my control hanging by threads.
His lips twist into something that’s not quite a smile. If I’m reading him correctly, he actually looks apologetic, which terrifies me more than anger would. Miles isn’t one for remorse. What has he done?
“She’s fine. For now.” He taps his phone screen, turning it to show me a location pin. “She’s with colleagues who are very interested in discussing technical specifications. They’re particularly curious about the failsafe mechanisms she designed.”
Daisy didn’t just help me build the system, she engineered critical security measures that even I don’t fully understand. In the wrong hands, that knowledge could compromise everything.
“Go on,” he says, the command soft but unmistakable. “These guys aren’t patient.”
Daisy is how they’re getting me out of the hotel without making a scene.
“If you have Daisy already, Sydney isn’t needed.”
“Change your mind, Rhodes. It doesn’t have to be like this.” Miles won’t meet my gaze, which makes his plea so half-hearted I ache to shove my fist into his clean-shaven jaw.
I look to Sydney for direction. How do we work this so she stays behind? I don’t want her used as a negotiating device. All kinds of horrific movie images come to mind. I shouldn’t have sent my security home. I thought after a fight with Miles, I’d have a few hours to convince Sydney to join me on a flight back to the West Coast. No security needed. This is insanity.
What about Syd’s team? Are they still listening?
Syd’s gaze meets mine, steadfast and calm.
“I need to go to Daisy,” I say, stating what’s obvious to me but may not be to Syd. I can’t let someone who works for me get caught up in this craziness. “If they leave you out of this,” I look from Sydney to Miles, “I’ll go without a fight.”
Sydney flattens her palms against her thighs. “Let you go alone? No. Besides, if they leave me here, I’ll call the authorities.”
Jesus fucking Christ Syd, why did you have to say that?
Miles snaps his head up, finally looking directly at her. Recognition dawns—she’s a risk and can no longer be dismissed as a random.
“You guys just keep fucking up.”
The irony of his statement isn’t lost on me. In his worldview, standing for principles is the mistake. Growth and expansion are the goals. Refusing to compromise is the failure. How did we land on such divergent paths?
“You’re both going to go and you aren’t going to fight us because it’s the best option. When you get to your destination, you’re going to listen. With an open mind.”
As we move toward the door, Sydney slightly ahead, a notification flashes on my phone. The Override Protocol indicator shows 87 percent completion—approximately twelve minutes remaining before the system fully deploys. The digital genie is escaping its bottle. All we need is for the right person to stumble upon it and make a wish. But will anyone stumble on it? Because it certainly sounds like Miles here has warned his partners.
One of the security men opens the door, gesturing us through with practiced professionalism. As we step into the hallway, Sydney’s hand brushes mine—a momentary contact that communicates more than words could. A silent promise. Whatever comes next, we face it together.
Chapter
Forty-One
Sydney
The parade of black SUVs slices through the rainy streets like a funeral procession—which it might become if I don’t find a way out of this. In any other city, three identical vehicles might draw attention, but in D.C., black SUVs are as common as coffee shops. Even the protesters huddled under dripping umbrellas, their “Protect Our National Parks” and “Save the Sequoias” signs wilting in the rain, barely glance our way.
I clock the men in the front seat as we glide down Massachusetts Avenue—past embassies that offer diplomatic sanctuary to those in danger, past the Naval Observatory where the vice president’s residence is heavily guarded, past landmarks that represent the democracy these men are actively undermining. With each passing minute, we move through populated areas toward Rock Creek Park.
The man beside Rhodes hasn’t spoken since we left the hotel, but his hand hasn’t moved from his jacket pocket either. I can feel the weight of his attention on me—not as a person, but as leverage.
