Page 95 of Only the Wicked
Shame heats my neck and my cheeks, a sharp contrast to the chill that wrapped around me after the sofa.
She snorts. “Only source is from your bag.”
She’s referring to a small device I packed that appears to be an old school recorder, one that if someone discovered, I could play it off as triggered in my bag and pull out a cassette to throw away.
“He’s onto me.” My eyelids close, hating the admittance.
“Pack your bags. Go.”
“I don’t think I’m in danger.”
“Syd…we’re flying free here. You’re in the lead. You make the calls. But as a reminder, your life isn’t worth intel. We’re not building a criminal case.”
“I know.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Like a nicked scab, the pain of the past bleeds.
Four assets dead.
You’re out.
To this day, I don’t believe I was in danger when they pulled me. No one else agreed.
“Did you get anything on the FBI guy?”
“He checks out. We could be looking at an off the books op.”
Off the books for the very reason KOAN is watching. The fear he has too much on the government for them to open a formal investigation. If he can access information on any one in the world, who’s going to openly look into him?
I could ask if we’ve still got someone in San Francisco, but it doesn’t matter. My focus should be on my role.
“Who are you Syd?”
My eyes sting and I blink away the emotion. Teary eyes are not a good sign. I need to nip it.
“Who’d he meet with?” Quinn brings me back to the call with a reminder.
“I don’t know. The meet moved. Did anyone tail him?”
“No. He met with a Russian diplomat before his meeting. Outside the embassy. Then he got in a car. We lost him in traffic. If you’re compromised, get out.”
Standard, fair advice.
Quiet replaces the low shower hum.
“Gotta go.”
I push up from the ground and cum smears my thighs.
That’s a touch of reality I’d rather not dwell on, and as luck would have it, I don’t have the time to spare. I’m back in the bedroom, tucking my phone away in the side pocket with tampons and maxi pads when the bathroom door opens and steam billows out.
“My turn?” I ask, stepping past him without waiting for an answer.
He grips my arm, and ever so slowly, I raise my gaze to meet his.
“That was….” He’s impassive, but he wouldn’t mention it if he didn’t have questions and possibly regrets.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I enjoyed it.” The truth in those words burns worse than any lie I've told him.
