Page 34 of Master of Lies

But Jed hadn’t died. Somehow, that cast-iron sonofabitch had crawled out of the totaled mess of a car under the bridge, and lived. Fucking up her perfect narrative.

Though she still had hopes of salvaging it.

Then Wex Boer, idiot extraordinaire, had boasted to his most powerful and dangerous client about his shiny new algorithm, and their captive, who held the key to it. What happened next was what any person with half a brain would predict. The bastard had swooped down and yanked Shane Masters out of their grasp. Ofcourse.

God, she was so sick of cleaning up stupid men’s messes.

But Shane wasn’t the only one who knew the SmokeScreen codes. Ethan Masters wrote them, and persuading Ethan to give them up was going to be the most fun she’d ever had. And there were other weak points. The sister, Freya. The niece, Holly.

Yes. Fun times ahead.

The perfect conclusion would involve a river of blood and a mountain of body parts of anyone who had ever insulted her. To say nothing of hundreds of billions flowing into her personal offshore accounts. She’d be content with nothing less.

And Wex Boer…well. She was sick of his undisciplined impulses. Last night had been one tantrum too many. That new face he was so proud of, that would be his punishment. She would slowly slice all the way around it with her scalpel. Then, she would peel it off him, while he was fully conscious. Staring at her with lidless eyes. Screaming with a lipless mouth. The image gave her a stimulating rush of endorphins.

She glanced over at the computer screen, and by pure chance, she saw it flicker into being. The blip on the screen where none had been before. The little blue icon that represented Freya Masters’ phone. Excitement exploded inside her.

Nicole grabbed the headset and listened to the call. The signal came from about thirty miles up into the mountains. It looked like a dead end road, and it was going to be slow going in that snow, but on the plus side, their prey would be easy to trap up there.

The conversation itself was of no particular interest. Freya calling to say happy birthday to the little girl, not ask for help or rescue. How sweet. Clearly, she cared about Holly, which was good. Beloved children were effective levers, in her experience.

And Nicole would do what was necessary to get SmokeScreen functioning. She was unbeatable with her scalpel. She’d spent a few years in medical school before they kicked her out. They were afraid of her. Too many jealous, nervous colleagues. But she had talent. She would have been a great surgeon. She had nerves of fucking steel.

Nicole paced through the house, running up to the master bedroom. Boer was lying on the bed, a damp cloth lying over his face.

“Wex,” she said. “News.”

“Leave me the fuck alone, you sulky cunt. I’m sick of your bullshit.”

Nicole thought of some entertaining things she could do with her scalpel to certain sensitive nerve bundles in his face. His eyes, too.

“I have a fix on Freya Masters,” she told him.

Wex jolted upright. The wet cloth fell. His face was red, swollen, and unpleasantly shiny from the ointment he had smeared on it, to speed the healing process. “What? Where?” he demanded.

“Up in the mountains,” she told him. “It happened just now. She turned it on to make a call. To wish Holly a happy birthday. Evidently, she just turned nine today.”

He laughed under his breath, grinning. The grooves in his healing cheeks looked red and painful. “What a dumb bitch,” he commented. “Get everyone we have here mobilized. We should kill Clearwater and take Freya to control Ethan. Finally, you get to put these special skills you boast about to use while I watch and learn. Are you finally ready to show me what you’re really made of, my killer bitch queen?”

Oh, yes. Her headache from grinding her teeth vanished as she pictured Wex’s shock on that fine day when she finally showed him what she was really made of.

She gave him a blinding smile. “That sounds just perfect.”

CHAPTER14

Freya

His sharp tone cracked like a whip, making me flinch. I grabbed the duffel bag and hurried to the bathroom. Once inside, I leaned against the door, trying to calm my racing heart and get air into my lungs. This was no time for a panic attack.

The bag, the clothes. Changing into them would give me something concrete to do. Something else to react to. Activity was good. It would ground me.

I pulled out the contents, piece by piece, marveling at how butt-ugly every item was. Selected for ugliness. Heavy, awkward, vomit-tinted shades of wool, waffle weave, fleece. I guess it made sense, in a way. They made the wearer invisible.

I pulled on the items that worked the best. I had to cuff the pant legs twice, and my wrist cuffs three times. There was a pair of boots, two sizes too big, but more functional than what I had. I pulled on both pairs of socks, and laced them up tight.

The pants were three inches too big in the waist but too tight in the ass. I rolled up the cuffs and pant legs and cinched up the belt to keep it all from falling off my body. And I quietly dissolved into tears the whole time. Oh please. Not now.Fuck.

I kept it silent, more or less, but I couldn’t stop the gasping, doubling-over, mouth-wide-open ugly-cry. Where was my inner sneaky femme fatale commando bitch when I needed her? She’d bugged out and left me sobbing in the bathroom…all because I’d gotten my tender feelings hurt by Jed-Fucking-Clearwater.

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