Page 125 of Only the Wicked

Daisy’s face is grim. “Exactly. I’m clueless. And don’t forget…” She swipes to another image. “Just yesterday...”

The image shows Sydney in the bar, speaking with the man who identified himself as FBI.

“Everyone around you is playing an angle, Rhodes,” Daisy mumbles. “Everyone.”

The Icarus text flashes on my screen again. Someone knows I’m flying too close to the sun. And they’re warning me about the fall.

Chapter

Thirty-Four

Sydney

Three rapid knocks on the suite door sound. I hit mute on the television, silencing Gordon Ramsey’s infinite wisdom.

“Ms. Parker?”

The gruff voice is not one I recognize. Hotel staff wouldn’t use my name. I approach the door from the side.

“Yes? Hello?”

“It’s Howard Casey. I work with Mr. MacMillan.”

Security?

I crack the door open. The man standing before me wears navy dress slacks, a cream-colored golf shirt paired with a sports jacket, and black running shoes. With his short, trimmed buzz cut, he could be mistaken for military.

“I work with Mr. MacMillan,” he repeats. “Do you mind if I come in? I need to check the space.”

“You’re on his security team?” I study him with professional interest. Stance slightly wider than shoulder-width, weight balanced on the balls of his feet, right hand positioned for quick access to what’s likely a concealed weapon beneath his jacket. Not Secret Service protocol exactly, but similar. Private sector with government background.

“Yes, ma’am.” His eyes perform a quick scan over my shoulder—assessing threats, mapping exits, exactly as he should.

While I haven’t met this man yet, he was on the surveillance pics Quinn shared. I recognize his facial structure and the military bearing. I open the door wide and let him enter, curious to see his methods.

“Mr. MacMillan will return soon. I’ll do a quick walk through and be out of your hair in no time.”

“Not a problem,” I say, stepping toward the sofa, but uncertain as to what I should do.

The way he moves through the space is methodical—corners first, then central areas, maintaining sight lines to all entry points. Well-trained. Which means Rhodes takes his security more seriously than he lets on.

“Go ahead and watch your show,” he says as he passes through the perimeter, a device in his hand meant to detect any unexplained signals.

And that’s why we don’t have surveillance in this room.

“Is it okay if I head in?” he gestures with his head toward the bedroom.

“Go ahead.”

My phone sits on the coffee table, the screen black. We agreed I would limit contact with the KOAN team while I’m in this room—at least until I’ve confirmed we’re aligned with Rhodes. His disappearance act this morning has me wondering if he’s re-thinking, well, everything.

The suite door opens and Rhodes steps in, face bright red, hair wet, and T-shirt soaked.

“Did you go swimming?”

“Looks like it, right?” In three long strides, he’s in front of the concession area and opening a bottle of water.

“Is it hot out there?”