Stacey. My spine automatically straightens at the mention of my mentor—the woman I consider a mother. She took me in as a teenager and molded me into the agent I am today. Her involvement means this mission matters.
“You mean councilor member Moore?” I ask, though I know exactly who Jason Moore is. Fifth District representative. Charming public persona. Rumored connections to organized crime that we’ve never been able to prove.
“Yes, Emily, that Jason Moore.” Greg nods in approval, seemingly proud that I know my politicians. “I have it on good authority that the Nightshades have him in their pocket. Soyour mission tonight is to find as much damning evidence on Jason as possible. Bonus points if it links him directly to the Nightshades.”
My heart jumps at the mention of the Nightshades. At the unspoken mention ofhim.
“The event is held at a private theater downtown. The building is owned by an international entertainment company—which, surprise surprise, is secretly owned by Jason. So if he’s hiding anything, odds are it’s stashed in the office he no doubt has in that building.”
Makes sense. If no one knows he owns the place, then no one would think to search for incriminating evidence there. A classic hiding-in-plain-sight strategy. Very smart of the councilor.
“Get enough dirt to put him in our pocket… or resign.”
He means blackmail. Enough to make him flip and feed us information that could indict Rafael and the others.
Greg slides an ID across the desk. “You’re Carol Walker, art collector extraordinaire. Mid-thirties, more money than sense.”
I nod, picking up the fake ID bearing the face of a woman who shares just enough of my features to make the deception believable. But something nags at me—a flaw in the plan that seems glaringly obvious.
“But I think you’re forgetting something, Greg.” He raises a brow, so I continue. “If Councilor Moore is in cahoots with the Nightshades, and this annual event is so exclusive, then wouldn’t they be there too?” That means my cover is blown before I even walk through the doors.
“Trust me, we’ve got that part handled. The Nightshades don’t attend this event anymore. In fact, the last time they did was years ago. I think they believe they’re above it now. So don’t worry. You won’t run into anyone who knows your real face,” he assures me, and I relax a little, finally going through the dossier in depth.
“Get whatever you’ll need for the event and charge it to the card.”
His tone is final, and I take it as my cue to leave. Closing the file, I rise and make my way to the office door.
“Oh, and Emily?” he calls, stopping me at the threshold. I turn back, meeting his gaze with what I hope is confidence rather than the gnawing anxiety clawing at my insides. “I’m counting on you this time. Don’t disappoint me.”
I nod and step out. After the failure two days ago—after Rafael slipped through our fingers yet again—I can’t afford to screw up again. Iwillget the dirt on Jason Moore. By legal or illegal means.
The agency doesn’t need to know all my methods. Sometimes the end justifies the means.
My taxi crawls along behind the line of luxury cars inching towards the red carpet entrance. Thank God I did my homework on Carol Walker, because this level of pretention requires serious preparation.
I reach up to adjust the chin-length blonde wig with its artfully styled fringe, then fish out my oversized designer sunglasses from the clutch and slide them on. Perfect. This disguise, combined with the small mole at the corner of my lips, should render me sufficiently unrecognizable if my picture somehow finds its way online. More importantly, it should make me a convincing doppelganger for the real Carol Walker.
Because yes, Carol Walker isn’t just a cover identity. She’s a real person and the legitimate owner of the invitation I’m using to gain entry—currently…indisposeddue to a fraud case with the bureau. Her misfortune, my opportunity.
My heart beats slow and steady as I stare at the entrance line. This isn’t my first rodeo, so I’m not nervous.
“The queue must be long as hell. You’ve been out there over thirty minutes,” Katie croons in my ear.
I hum and tilt my head slightly, adjusting the discreet earpiece. “Shut up,” I murmur under my breath.
My eyes meet the driver’s baffled gaze, and I flash him a small, apologetic smile. Damn it. He probably thinks I’m nuts since I've been whispering to myself since I got into his car.
Katherine seems unusually excited about tonight’s operation, chattering in my ear since I left headquarters. She’d begged to come with me, but this mission is cleaner with a single operative. Less variables, less risk. So instead, she’s perched in a surveillance van three blocks away, serving as my eyes and ears—and apparently determined to provide unwanted commentary on every aspect of the evening.
The taxi finally pulls up to the red carpet. A man in an impeccable black suit, with the telltale wire running from his ear to the back of his collar, opens my door and extends his hand.
I tilt my head at him haughtily—like any arrogant art collector worth her salt would. “Thank you, darling,” I purr in my most convincing British accent, slipping my hand into his.
He looks momentarily stunned, and I chalk it up to the flash of creamy thigh revealed by the dangerously high slit in my dress as I step out. “Ohh, sexy.” Katie sighs in my ear.
I keep my face composed as flashes from countless camera bulbs almost blind me. Thank fucking heaven for the sunglasses shielding my eyes. Dropping the attendant’s hand, I lift my chin high and strut down the carpet like I own it.
I hear the murmured confusion among the photographers—no doubt wondering who the hell I am—but their uncertainty doesn’t stop them from capturing my entrance from every possible angle.
