Page 8 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)
EMILIA
“A ballet performance.”
The words fall flat from my lips as I stare at the dossier. Of all the missions they could give me, it has to be this pretentious bullshit.
“Not just any ballet performance.” Greg leans forward on his desk. “It’s an annual event hosted by Jason Moore. Everyone who is anyone would kill for an invitation, but not everybody gets one. It took the intervention of the new director to get you this invite.”
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. So your 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 of him .
“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. I will get 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… indisposed due 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.
At the end of the walkway, I turn and give them my best British royalty wave: hand vertical, wrist twisting slowly, fingers still.
Inside, the lobby is warm and softly lit. And just ahead, there’s a station where a woman is checking guests in using a tablet. “Name, please,” she asks absently, not bothering to look up when I step in front of her.
“Carol Walker,” I answer, maintaining my accent. The real Carol is from South London, after all—born and bred—even though she now lives in the States. An American accent would instantly blow my cover.
Her head snaps up, eyes widening to saucers. “Miss Walker! It’s such an honor to meet you.” She hastily transfers everything in her hands to her left, freeing her right for an eager handshake.
I accept the gesture, forcing warmth into my smile when all I want is to bypass this interaction and get on with my mission. “A fan?” Katie whispers unnecessarily.
“I really shouldn’t, but…” The woman glances around furtively before extracting a book from somewhere under her table. “Could you possibly sign this for me?”
“Of course, darling.” I take the book—an autobiography of Caroline Mary Walker. Great. She’s that kind of fan. “What’s your name?”
“Stella,” she breathes, practically crawling over the desk to watch me write: ‘For the lovely Stella. Love, Carol.’ Her excitement borders on concerning, and I briefly worry she might pass out.
“Thank God you actually looked Carol up,” Katie says in my ear again.
Lord give me strength .
I sign with a flourish, replicating Carol’s signature as precisely as possible, then return the book to Stella’s waiting hands.
“Thank you so much. Enjoy your evening,” she gushes, clutching the book like a holy relic .
I give her a regal nod. “Where might I find the ladies’ room?”
Stella points eagerly, and I thank her before heading towards the innocuous doorway right next to the hall entrance.
“Why the bathroom detour?” Katie asks as I open the door.
I lock it behind me and check the stalls—empty. Then I subtly glance around for surveillance. There—a tiny camera nestled in a ceiling corner.
What kind of fucking pervert puts a camera in a restroom?
I take my burner phone from my purse and raise it to my ear like I’m answering a call. “Oh my God, Katherine. You’re driving me crazy,” I growl with genuine irritation.
Katie and I don’t always get to be in the field together. Sometimes she’s the one out there while I feed her intel. Other times, like now, she’s in my ear. But she’s never been this chatty, this distracting.
“I’m so sorry! But Jack Petrov is leading the ballet score and I’m just so excited for you. I ramble when I’m excited—you know that!”
“Since when do you care enough about ballet to know who’s who?” I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see me. “I’m taking out my earpiece. I’ll contact you when I leave the building.”
“Wait, no—I’ll behave, I promise ! Carol!!” Her protest pierces my eardrum as I discreetly turn my head away from the camera, pretending to scratch an itch while removing the device. Then I drop both phone and earpiece into my purse with a sense of relief.
There . Now I can really focus.
I fluff my wig, pull out my tube of red lipstick, and reapply it even though it’s still flawless. This isn’t just for looks. The red wax is coated with pigments from my azalea petals and is potent enough to knock a man out for several hours upon skin contact .
One kiss is all it takes.
Sliding the lethal cosmetic back into my purse, I walk out of the restroom and into the hallway, just in time to catch the tail end of the welcoming speech.