Page 25 of A Touch of Treachery (Section 47 #3)
CHARLOTTE
J oan gave Desmond and me each a set of clothes to put on, along with the appropriate accessories, then shooed us out of the armory so she could finish packing our gear. Diego stayed with her, still cataloging everything.
Desmond and I returned to level five. He veered into the bullpen to check in with Evelyn and Gia, while I headed into the locker room to get changed.
I stripped off my clothes and donned a powder-blue cashmere sweater, along with black leggings lined with microfleece. Wool socks and sturdy yet fashionable black boots completed the ensemble.
Next, I hooked a silver necklace with a sapphire pendant around my neck and pinned a silver snowflake brooch studded with white crystals to my sweater. I rubbed my finger over the sparkling crystals, which reminded me of the diamonds in Joan’s sword brooch.
I studied my reflection in the floor-length mirror on the wall.
I looked like a skier ready to hit the slopes.
I made a face. Not my usual super-comfortable, super-low-key style, but the luxe look would let me blend in with the rich resort guests.
Sometimes I thought the worst part of being a spy was the unfamiliar wardrobes.
Donning a disguise didn’t help me get in character and make me feel like the person I was supposed to be—more like a kid playing dress-up who was desperate not to be discovered.
I made another face in the mirror, then left the changing room and shoved my regular clothes into a locker. Behind me, the door creaked open.
I grinned and turned around. “Are you finally ready to put on your ski suit—”
My words died on my lips. Desmond hadn’t entered the locker room—General Percy had.
He stopped a few feet away and crossed his arms over his chest. “Ms. Locke.”
“General.”
Percy’s gaze trailed over my outfit and comms jewelry. He did a double take at the fluffy black pom-poms attached to my boots, but other than that, his face remained unreadable. For once, even my synesthesia was quiet, and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“I’m giving you a second chance with this mission, Ms. Locke,” Percy said. “Do us both a favor, and don’t screw it up.”
My tongue itched with the urge to remind Percy that he hadn’t given me anything. If the General had his way, Joan would have been going on the mission with Desmond. But Henrika had singled me out, forcing Percy to go along with her request.
Once again, I wondered why— why had she done that?
Why was Henrika so eager for Desmond and me to come to the resort?
She’d tried to kill us multiple times in the past, but now here she was, letting us stroll into her lair.
Henrika could want to murder us in person, face-to-face, but Section agents would move in the instant Desmond and I were dead, and Henrika was too smart to risk getting captured just to enact some petty revenge on us.
Desmond was right. Henrika wanted something from the two of us, something she could only get if we were alive and right in front of her. But what could that be? What was Henrika’s goal?
I might be a synth analyst, but this was a rare occasion when I just couldn’t figure out what someone truly wanted . And I desperately needed to figure it out, since Desmond’s and my lives depended on the answer.
“As difficult as it might be, you would do well to put your instincts aside and not follow in your father’s footsteps on this mission, Ms. Locke,” General Percy continued.
My eyebrows shot up at his snide tone. “What does that mean?”
“Jack Locke was one of the most reckless cleaners Section 47 ever employed. He had a patent disregard for authority, along with rules and regulations that are designed to keep agents safe.” Percy shrugged. “You reap what you sow, and eventually, that blatant disregard got him killed.”
Anger exploded in my chest, and words poured out of my mouth before I could stop them.
“And here I thought my father died because you jumped the gun on the Mexico mission. You’re the one who sent in a second squad of cleaners to try to kill Feliciano Salvador before the ransom exchange was complete and my father was freed. ”
I finally managed to stop talking, although I silently cursed my loose lips. Grandma Jane had taught me never to reveal any information I didn’t have to, but everything about General Jethro Percy rubbed me the wrong way. Pompous, arrogant, overbearing jackass.
Percy’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that? Have you been accessing classified information, Ms. Locke?”
“As you said, Section has rules and regulations.” I sidestepped his question. “Analysts are supposed to stick to their own work, targets, and assignments, not go poking around in other people’s files.”
Even before I had met Desmond, I would always bend a few rules if it meant getting more dirt on the criminals I was tracking.
Such regulations certainly weren’t going to stop me now, especially when I was going to be face-to-face with someone who might finally be able to shed some light on my father’s death.
“But?” General Percy snapped.
“But people talk, even Section agents who should know better, and I’ve had numerous conversations with people about the infamous Mexico mission. Why, Henrika Hyde even claimed to know something about my father’s death, if you can believe that.”
It was a wild, reckless jab on my part, but to my surprise, the blow landed.
A shadow passed over Percy’s face, and he grimaced, as though he was worried about something.
But what could that be? Jack Locke had been dead for fifteen years.
My father couldn’t interfere with Percy’s plans anymore, and I was certainly no threat to someone so powerful inside Section 47.
But my first swing had connected, so I decided to keep punching. “Maybe I’ll ask Henrika what she knows about the Mexico mission. Maybe she’ll indulge me with a secret or two while she’s playing all her other games with Desmond and me this weekend.”
General Percy shrugged off my words. “As you said, Henrika loves to play games. I wouldn’t believe a word she says, especially about a years-old Section mission that had nothing to do with her.”
LIE, LIE, LIE!
My inner voice shrieked, and my entire vision exploded with red, as though I was drowning in a river of blood. The sensation was so strong it rocked me back on my heels, and I had to blindly clutch a locker to keep from falling on my ass.
Through the haze of red, I saw Percy frown. I gritted my teeth and blinked and blinked. Slowly, the red faded from my vision, although my head kept pounding from the sheer, raw force of Percy’s blatant lie.
The General’s eyes narrowed again. “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded in a sharp, suspicious voice.
“Nothing,” I muttered. “These stupid boots are just pinching my feet.”
Percy frowned again. He clearly didn’t believe my excuse.
The locker room door opened, and Desmond stepped inside, clutching a duffel bag. He stopped short when he saw me facing off with his father.
“Something wrong?” Desmond asked in a sharp, suspicious voice that was an eerie echo of his father’s tone.
“Of course not,” I lied, releasing my white-knuckle grip on the locker. “Your father was just wishing us good luck on the mission. Isn’t that right, General?”
“Of course,” Percy replied in a smooth voice. “A little luck never hurt anyone.”
Desmond arched a chiding eyebrow at his father. “You don’t believe in luck . Only information, preparation, and training.”
The General ran a hand down his suit jacket. “Yes, well, perhaps I’m mellowing in my old age.”
Desmond snorted in disbelief. Me too. If I had to use one word to describe General Jethro Percy, it would not be mellow . Controlling. Secretive. Dangerous. Duplicitous. But never, ever mellow .
Desmond hefted the duffel bag in his hand. “I need to get changed so Charlotte and I can get on the road.”
The General’s left eye twitched at the curt dismissal in his son’s voice. “Very well. I need to check on a few final things. I’ll see you in the garage.”
Desmond turned his back to his father and moved over to one of the wooden benches between the rows of lockers.
He placed his duffel bag on the bench, then sat down and tugged off his shoes.
Desmond ignored Percy, who stared at his son with a strange mix of pride, wariness, and something I could have sworn was a touch of fear.
The General noticed me watching him watch Desmond, and his chin jutted up, even as he peered down his nose at me.
Danger-danger-danger , my synesthesia whispered.
General Percy wasn’t doing anything threatening, but the longer he looked at me, the more I could have sworn he was plotting the best way to get rid of me as soon as possible.