Page 12 of A Touch of Treachery (Section 47 #3)

DESMOND

B eside me, Charlotte got to her feet. Her face was calm, serene even, but her aura exploded with color, burning like a sapphire sun over her heart.

The light was so intense and bright it made me wince, and sensations burst off her one after another—red-hot anger, rock-hard stubbornness, and most of all, a razor-sharp spike of determination that slammed into my own chest like a spear.

Despite the General’s orders, Charlotte wasn’t giving up her quest to track down Henrika.

Pride rippled through me, along with more than a little admiration.

Most people folded in on themselves like a paper bag rather than go up against my father, but not Charlotte.

Her inner strength was one of the things I respected about her the most.

Well, I wasn’t giving up either. I’d promised Graham to take down everyone responsible for his death, along with the other agents who had been killed on the Blacksea mission, and I would do anything to keep that vow, even defy my own father.

Then again, this would hardly be the first time I’d done that. More like the latest rebellious act in the never-ending game of tug-of-war between my father and me.

The General was practically vibrating with cold fury.

Well, I was just as pissed. He might be one of the leaders of Section 47, but he had no right to speak to Charlotte that way.

I’d gone on the mission too, and it was just as much my fault as it was Charlotte’s that we had failed, but my father had deliberately humiliated and demoted Charlotte in front of the others.

He’d been nothing but a giant, egotistical bastard.

The Jethro Percy special, in other words.

As far as I knew, my father had never met Charlotte before, and I was willing to bet his harshness had more to do with his dislike of Jack Locke than with Charlotte’s supposed failure.

Sometimes I thought the true legacy of Section 47 was all the anger, scorn, disgust, and derision we spies heaped on each other with our family feuds and old, deep-seated grudges.

“Desmond, with me,” the General barked out, getting to his feet and tugging down his suit jacket, even though it was already perfectly straight.

The last thing I wanted was to talk to my father, but he was my superior officer, and I had no choice but to do as commanded.

I looked at Charlotte. “I’ll see you later. At the diner. Okay?”

In addition to being an analyst, Charlotte also worked as a waitress at the Moondust Diner, which was a few blocks from Section 47 headquarters.

She had originally taken the job to help with her grandmother’s massive medical bills, although those bills had been paid off a few months ago when Charlotte had drained the bank accounts of Trevor Donnelly and Miriam Lancaster, the Section moles who had been feeding information to Henrika.

Despite being debt-free, Charlotte had kept working at the diner, claiming she did some of her best thinking there. Plus, she loved the food, especially the desserts.

“Charlotte?” I asked again.

She blinked. The burning aura around her heart dimmed, as did her blazing emotions. “Okay. We’ll talk later.”

Her gaze skipped past me and landed on the General. Power surged off her, and magic flickered in her dark blue eyes. I didn’t know what Charlotte saw when she looked at my father with her synesthesia, but I doubted it was anything good.

Even more telling was the way her eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

I knew that look. Charlotte was already doing those beautiful mental gymnastics in her mind, trying to figure out a way to thwart my father.

I’d been attempting that feat for years and had never even come close, but if anyone could succeed, it was Charlotte.

She stared at the General a few seconds longer, then nodded to me and strode out of the conference room.

Diego scooped up his laptops and followed her, as did Evelyn and Joan. Gia went next door to her office.

I spun around on my heel and marched out of the conference room. Charlotte had already vanished from the bullpen to return to level three, but I headed over to my desk. I needed a few seconds to brace myself for my upcoming meeting with the General.

Joan had already sat down at her own desk across the aisle. She stared at her screen, but the corner of her mouth moved. “Sorry, Dez,” she murmured. “I know that didn’t go the way you wanted.”

That was an understatement, although I appreciated her sympathy. Given our long-standing friendship, Joan knew all about my difficulties with my father.

Those familiar, heavy footsteps scuffed on the carpet, making my spine stiffen.

“Desmond, with me.” The General repeated his earlier command.

He strode by my desk, followed by his two bodyguards. The other cleaners and liaisons looked at me out of the corners of their eyes, and their auras pulsed with interest and speculation.

“Good luck,” Joan murmured, her gaze still on her laptop.

I nodded at her, then headed after my father, bracing myself for a tense, angry confrontation. The Percy family special, in other words.

I stepped inside an elevator with the General and his bodyguards. One of the men punched the button, and the elevator rose. I leaned against a wall and studied the other two men, both of whom stood at rigid attention while my father scrolled through screens on his phone.

I hadn’t seen either man before, but they were clearly Section cleaners like me. Enduros, most likely. My father always employed the best of the best, and he wouldn’t trust his life to anyone he found lacking, especially when it came to their paramortal powers.

The elevator stopped, and the door slid open.

The two guards stepped out first, making sure the corridor was clear.

I held back a derisive snort. As if my father couldn’t take care of himself.

He too was an enduro, and he hadn’t risen through the Section ranks by being anything other than exceptionally deadly and completely ruthless.

Perhaps that was the reason the General and Jack Locke had been such bitter enemies.

Charlotte’s father had been one of the few people who could go toe-to-toe with the General.

One of the bodyguards waved his hand in an all-clear signal. My father put his phone away and left the elevator. I trailed along behind him.

Many of the Section levels had a similar layout of a long corridor that led to a central bullpen, but level four was different. The corridor here split in two directions. The interrogation rooms and holding cells were off to the left, while the offices of the Section leaders were to the right.

I trailed my father and the guards down the right corridor, which opened into an enormous round space, like a circle inside a square.

The gray walls and carpet were the same as in the level-five bullpen, although someone had spruced things up here with floral-printed couches.

Fresh-cut flowers perched in crystal vases on the high tables along the walls, next to a few potted trees.

The faint, perfumy aroma of the flowers, along with the hushed atmosphere, reminded me of a funeral home. My nose crinkled with disgust.

No security cameras were embedded in the ceiling, and I didn’t sense the telltale hum of any electronic listening devices. The big bosses might like to spy on all the analysts, charmers, liaisons, and cleaners, but they didn’t want anyone monitoring their own questionable actions.

Thick wooden doors were set into the wall, along with glass windows that revealed offices and a large conference room.

A gleaming brass nameplate on a door read Maestro , but the office inside was spartan, with only a closed laptop sitting on a desk, and it revealed no hints about Evelyn Hawkes’s true identity.

The other offices were similarly furnished, but no one was toiling away inside. Like my father, most of the other Section leaders either worked remotely from home or moved from one station to another, handling crises around the world.

The General went over to a door directly opposite Maestro’s office and punched in a code on a keypad.

The door buzzed open, and he moved through to the other side.

One of the guards gestured for me to follow my father, then stepped forward and pulled the door shut behind me.

Through the window, I watched the two men take up positions on either side of the door, still protecting my father, even though the fourth level was one of the most secure places inside Section headquarters.

The General strode forward. His wing tips barely made a whisper on the gray carpet, which was much thicker and nicer than what was in the waiting area outside. Somehow the faint scuffs made his footsteps even more ominous than usual.

He stepped behind a wooden desk that stretched along the back wall.

The General sank into a black leather chair, and the padding let out a soft sigh, indicating just how luxe and comfortable it was.

In contrast, the two chairs squatting in front of the desk were plain metal frames that looked like they belonged in an interrogation room.

Metal bookcases bristling with history, military, and other nonfiction books stood along one wall, opposite a gray couch and a mini fridge on another wall.

A high wooden table covered with gleaming liquor bottles and crystal glasses stood in the back corner, and a shiny black metal filing cabinet was in the other corner.

An open door led to a gray tile bathroom. Folded white towels were stacked up on a long counter, while travel-size soaps and shampoos ringed the sink. This space looked more like a hotel suite than an office, and it was cold, functional, and sterile, just like my father so often was.

The only things out of place were the cardboard boxes piled on the couch and a smaller, battered, open box sitting on the desk.

“Moving in?” I drawled, leaning a shoulder against a bookcase.