Page 130 of Only the Wicked

The woman before me stuns in black lace that hugs every curve, diamonds glittering at her wrist like captured stars. Beautiful, daring, and trained in deception.

I so much want to trust her. More than that, I want her to be the fun, carefree woman I met on vacation—the one who challenged me on the mountain, who looked at me as just a man. I want to spend time with that woman again, and I want to do it far past the conclusion of this weekend. But, as the Rolling Stones noted, we don’t always get what we want.

In less than thirty minutes, we’ll be walking into the Russian embassy—a surveillance fortress. Where my refusal to buy a highly desired database will make me an inconvenience to people who don’t tolerate inconveniences. Where Sydney will attempt to plant surveillance software that could be interpreted as espionage if discovered.

The stakes have never been higher, and trust has never mattered more.

Yet, who can I trust? My partner Miles showing up at the Russian embassy, when he’s not even supposed to be in D.C., feels like a betrayal, regardless of his motives. We’ve been friends since Stanford, survived the lean years of ramen and shared apartments, built ARGUS from nothing but lines of code and caffeine-fueled ambition. Although, we also fight like brothers and aren’t prone to caving during disagreements. Still, why would he show up there?

My best guess is he’s looking for leverage to force me to agree to a public offering—he’s been pushing for it relentlessly since our last valuation—although I can’t be entirely sure that’s his end game. The Miles I knew five years ago wouldn’t go behind my back like this to make a point. But power and money change people, reshape priorities, erode principles.

The thought makes my stomach turn, but I can’t dismiss it. He’s my friend, but he’s convinced I’m wrong about keeping ARGUS as a private entity, convinced that my “ethical concerns” are holding back the company’s true potential. If I confront him, he’ll tell me he’s saving me from my worst impulses, just as he did when I refused the China contract last year.

What he doesn’t understand is that some lines, once crossed, can never be uncrossed. Some technologies, once unleashed, can never be contained.

And what about Sydney?

Here she is, wearing my mother’s diamonds. Agreeing to play a role that will help me uncover exactly what’s going on. But how to know if I can trust her?

“It’s not a setup.” Yes, I read the message.

There are those who claim they succeeded in business by developing the ability to read upside down papers across conference room tables. The ability to read phone screens at all angles is my generation’s form of upside-down pages.

And ARGUS takes it several steps further. Our neural networks can reconstruct partial text from reflection patterns in glass, predict message content from subtle finger movements on virtual keyboards, even analyze micro expressions to determine if someone is communicating truthfully.

I’ve created systems that can extract secrets from the smallest digital traces—and yet here I am, reduced to reading over someone’s shoulder like a curious teenager. The most sophisticated surveillance technology in the world, and human trust still comes down to these primitive observations. The irony would be amusing if the stakes weren’t so high.

Her phone lights up with an incoming message.

Are we working together? Or will she walk away to discuss with her team?

“Can we take a few minutes? Before we leave?”

“Certainly.” The muscles in my chest loosen with the word, although I’m not certain what she’s planning to do. It’s her eyes, the softness in her words. I hope I’m reading her correctly.

She dials a number and sets the phone to speaker, holding the device in her hand in such a way that the light reflects off the diamonds circling her wrist.

“Hello,” a man’s voice says.

“This is Sydney.” Her voice shifts subtly—more formal, clipped at the edges. Professional Sydney reporting in. “I got the message.”

“Where are you?” The man’s voice is authoritative, with the measured cadence of someone accustomed to command.

“I’m in the hotel. With Rhodes.” Her eyes flick to mine, a silent question in them. “And you’re on speaker, Hudson.”

A beat of silence—milliseconds long but heavy with the unspoken risk assessment happening across the connection.

“Copy that,” Hudson says, though I detect the slightest modulation in his tone. “It’s good to update you both.”

I position myself closer to Sydney, my shoulder nearly touching hers—a subtle claim to partnership that won’t be visible over the phone but sends a message to her. We’re in this together, or not at all.

“Quinn identified communications between congressional staffers and known Russian operatives. When I looked at the list of names, I recognized one of them—Benjamin Dristol.”

The name means nothing to me, but Sydney pales.

“Chief of staff for Senator Crawford,” she explains. “Any communications from Crawford?”

“Not that we’ve seen but…”