Page 5 of Avenging Jessie (Black Swan Division Thrillers #3)

Five

Jessie

Back in her suite, Jessie ripped off the heels first—obscene things—and dropped them like twin daggers onto the carpet. Her feet already ached from wearing them after only a few minutes. How was she going to make it for hours at the gala?

Her shoulder blades were pinched from the tension of pretending.

Pretending to be calm, charming, and beautiful.

How unnatural that had felt. Once, she’d never doubted her looks and what they could do for her, in the field or in her personal life.

Now she didn’t see herself in the same way, and never would again.

The worst, however, had been pretending she hadn’t wanted to lean into Spence and kiss the hell out of him when he finished pinning her stupid wig.

She cursed under her breath and yanked the drawer on the nightstand open, pulling out her go-kit.

Comms, listening devices, miniature trackers, a lipstick camera.

She sorted them to calm her nerves and prepare for the evening ahead, each device offering a measure of control she no longer felt in her bones.

She’d trained for chaos. But tonight felt personal, and that could make her sloppy.

“You let him in too far,” she muttered, shoving another tracker into her satin clutch. “Should’ve kept your guard up. Should’ve shut the damn door and bolted it before you let him touch you.”

But she hadn’t. And now they were playing dress-up together, and somehow, it mattered.

Not just for the mission. Not just because of Keller or Brewer.

It mattered because when Spence looked at her the way he just had, he saw the woman underneath the bruised loyalty, the fractured pieces.

He didn’t flinch at the scars. He admired the fire.

A knock sounded from the connecting door.

“It’s time,” he said, voice steady.

Her fingers froze on the clasp of her clutch. She took a deep breath and counted to ten.

Another knock. “J?”

Pressing her lips together and steeling her spine, she went to the door, opened it, and froze.

He looked like he’d walked out of a billion-dollar gala advertisement—tailored tux hugging lean muscle, his dark hair slicked back just enough to highlight cheekbones that should be illegal. His eyes scanned her in return, as if memorizing the woman who now wore blush instead of blood.

Her pulse was skipping far too fast, and her breath felt stuck in her chest. She cleared her throat and yanked her emotional armor into place as she tugged the shoes from hell back on. “Well, you clean up all right.”

He smirked. That grin, so full of himself, made her knees weak. “You’re the one who’s going to turn heads. Ready to ruin some folks’ nights?”

“Hell, yeah.”

He extended his arm. It was a small gesture. Civilized. Gentlemanly.

And it felt like stepping off a cliff—without a parachute.

Jessie hesitated, kicking herself for feeling so…scared. Touching him, acting like his wife, it was too much.

And something she still had to do.

She yanked the armor closer. Layered more on. Then she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow.

The strength there was steady. Trustworthy. She hated how much she liked it. When was the last time she’d leaned on someone? Too long.

The limo waited downstairs, sleek and black.

The drive to the gala passed in a blur of streetlights and nerves.

Spence went over their cover stories ad nauseam, but she could barely concentrate, the feel of him next to her overwhelming.

He was wearing a subtle cologne of leather and cedar that teased her senses, making it hard to focus.

The ballroom sparkled and sucked them in. Gilded chandeliers, violins humming overhead, glittering gowns, men with medals and bloodstained secrets. Women with diamonds and claws.

“Let’s mingle,” Spence said.

He scanned for Hastings, and she analyzed security, being the good little operative he wanted.

She spotted Hastings near the bar—older, leaner, but the smile was the same. Smug. Predatory. Hunting for the next fool to manipulate. He rubbed his ruby ring, checked his phone compulsively. Just like he used to.

Her skin crawled. Her stomach twisted. “He’s here.” She kept her back to the traitor. “Ten o’clock.”

Spence casually glanced toward the bar. His body stiffened. “Shit. He’s heading this way. We can’t let him see you.”

“I’ve got this—”

“Jess.” He caught her jaw and leaned in. “Play the role.”

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. Wasn’t slow. It was strategic. A distraction. A cover.

And it set her entire nervous system on fire.

She wanted to shove him. Or maybe pull him closer. Her brain scrambled. This was wrong—it wasn’t supposed to matter. But the way his hand gripped her hip, the way his lips moved against hers...

All logic fled. She kissed him back. Just for a second. Just enough to sell the lie.

Just enough to lose control. To fall into his embrace, his mouth, and forget…

He pulled away, studying her face. Her breathing was fast. He ran a gentle hand along her arm. “You okay? I had to make him think you were just a trophy wife.”

Jessie blinked, tried to call up her best glare. Her voice seemed to have deserted her, but when it did finally show up, it came out breathy. “Next time, warn me before you shove your tongue in my mouth.”

He smirked. “Are you complaining?”

His touch was reassuring, but she still felt queasy as Hastings, acting as Keller, greeted someone a few feet away.

She drew back ever so slightly as unbidden memories from before Hastings’ betrayal mauled her.

She reached for a comeback that would mask her tumble of emotions. “I’ll put it in my mission report.”

Spence smirked and squeezed her elbow. “I’d believe that if your voice didn’t crack. Seeing him must be a kick in the stomach. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Hastings had been so charming, so sincere when he’d taken her under his wing.

And even though he was a traitor, she’d learned a lot from him during their months together.

He’d taught her spycraft and built her confidence in herself before everything went to shit and she learned his true character. “I will be.”

Needing air, she peeled away to weave through the crowd and find a quiet place to observe. She expected Spence to pull her back, but he didn’t.

Security wore all black, with obvious earpieces lending them credibility. They weren’t amateurs. She needed to stay sharp and focus on them, rather than Hastings—or her bloody, inconvenient attraction to Spence.

Clocking all the security guards in sight, she didn’t notice any acting suspiciously. After a few minutes, she grew bored but kept tailing the most elite of the group.

None made any motions toward her or Spence.

Two men near the corner of the ballroom caught her attention.

Both were ex-military types, all square jaws and lazy confidence.

She angled behind a group of drunk patrons making a commotion, slid past a couple leaving the dance floor, and positioned herself near them.

She could eavesdrop on them while still watching the half dozen posted security guards in the ballroom.

They spoke low, heads tilted toward their drinks and each other. “It’s almost ready,” one said. “They just need the targeting software. AI handles the rest. The drones are at the compound.”

The compound?

Gorlitz. Their asset had come through on that front.

The second man swirled his drink and stared at a gorgeous, model-thin woman on the dance floor. “Autonomous drones?”

“Smaller than a hawk, faster than a bullet. Facial recognition at five hundred yards.”

Jessie’s blood iced over. She pulled out her lipstick and snapped covert photos of both men with the camera.

Every spy instinct screamed for her to move, but this was her one chance to capture them.

She sent the images via encrypted signal to Spence with a message.

Two guys at the bar, talking drones at a compound. Could be the lead we need.

Spence replied almost instantly. Meet me in the corridor by the coat check.

She moved, leaving her cover behind, and stuck the lipstick cam in her bag. She kept her eyes forward, her posture elegant, and made sure every step was disguised in grace.

A man in a tux, bulging around his middle, asked her to dance. She politely turned him down. A waiter nearly backed into her with a tray of champagne. Someone else stopped her to ask if she knew where the ladies’ room was.

Every time, she felt panic bloom right below her breastbone. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to drop her cover and flee.

Once she reached the plush, carpeted entrance hall, the noise became muffled. She pressed her back against a wall and forced herself to take deep breaths. One, two, three. I can do this.

She pushed off and headed for the coat check.

A hand snagged her wrist as she passed an empty hallway. “Not so fast.”

It was one of the men. The taller one with the hawk tattoo on his neck. He yanked her toward him, making her trip in her heels, and shoved her inside a service room before she could scream.

“Your purse,” he demanded, holding out his hand.

This was going to get ugly. He outweighed her by eighty pounds or more and towered a good six inches over her. He could probably kill her with a single blow, and still be out the door before security blinked.

She straightened, ignoring the pain in one of her ankles from twisting it. Tucking her pocketbook under her arm, she blinked her eyelashes at him and gave him her best innocent look. “Excuse me?”

He smacked her hand away from the purse and jerked it from its spot under her armpit. “Give me your goddamn purse. I saw you taking pictures. Who the hell are you?”

“Geez, take it easy. I took a picture of you because I thought you were cute.” She grabbed the bag, which resulted in a tug of war with him. “Don’t be an asshole.”

He slapped her, snapping her head back into the wall and stunning her. Stars danced in front of her eyes. “Don’t lie to me, bitch. Who are you? Who do you work for?”

Damn. So that’s how this is gonna go down. Blinking, she scanned the room, searching for a weapon. That was the only way she could level the playing field.

There were plenty of potentials, but her best option was the one she had on her. “Go to hell.”

She kicked his shin and went for the knife strapped to her thigh beneath the slit of her dress.

He was fast, though, anticipating her moves. He slammed her against the wall, bringing up a beefy arm and pressing it to her throat. His other hand flicked out a knife, smaller than hers but equally deadly. “Nice try.”

She jammed the butt of her palm into his nose, ducked under his arm, and scrambled past him. He grabbed her by the waist. She slashed with the knife, catching his bicep, and staggered as he clipped her shoulder with his.

Pain flared, sharp and bright to match her stinging cheek and blurry vision. She stumbled but didn’t fall. When he lunged again, she caught him between his legs with her knee.

He collapsed to the floor with a strangled curse, dropping the knife.

Jessie stood over him, shaking and ready to do more damage with hers, when Spence burst in. “Jess!”

“Got it handled,” she said, breathless and blinking away the spots in her vision.

“Fuck.” He eyed the guy, who was holding his balls and groaning, and turned to her. “What the hell happened?”

“He didn’t like me taking his picture.” She retrieved her purse and staggered on her bad ankle. Spence reached for her elbow, keeping her from falling. “If we let him live, he’ll cause trouble.”

The asshole was lurching to his feet. Spence propped her against a shelving unit, stepped forward, and kicked the brute in the head.

The guy went down for the count, his eyes rolling up in his head.

She didn’t flinch, but something in her chest squeezed at the sound of the man’s skull cracking tile.

His body spasmed once and stopped moving. Spence scanned her from head to toe. “You’re hurt.”

With quick, calm movements, he grabbed a clean cloth from a stack of towels on the shelf and some hand sanitizer. He cleaned the cut on her shoulder, every movement professional.

His hands brushed her skin, but there was nothing sexual in it—just care. “We’re compromised. We need to get out of here pronto and go underground.”

Jessie nodded, trying to force away the dizziness. His lips were close enough to kiss. The nod cost her, making the spots flare and the pain in her cheek burn. “Let’s move.”

Spence retrieved their coats, and she only put her shoes back on long enough to walk to the limo. Her eyelid twitched, and she fought the urge to curl into him and sleep. “I may have a concussion,” she admitted through gritted teeth.

He took her chin between his fingers and thumb and forced her to meet his gaze, studying her pupils. “Anything else I should know about?”

Plenty, but she didn’t have the energy to tell him. “I’ll be okay. I just need a minute to regroup.”

The physical violence had been bad enough, but the PTSD that surfaced thanks to what Mosai Hagar had done to her was worse.

She shivered, and Spence pulled her close, tucking her head under his chin. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

If only that were true. She knew it wasn’t, but she appreciated him saying it anyway.

Back at the hotel, they didn’t speak. Spence made sure their rooms weren’t compromised and then asked her if she was able to change on her own.

Feeling more like herself, she insisted she was. Now, she stared at the dress in the mirror. At the bruises blooming beneath the makeup. She peeled off the wig. Stripped away the armor. The performance.

And for a moment, she let herself feel it—the terror. The fury. The electricity still dancing through her limbs.

They weren’t safe anymore. But maybe that was the point.

She hadn’t come here to play it safe. She’d come to end this, and she’d do whatever it took to make sure she did.