Page 134 of Only the Wicked

I continue down the corridor as Rhodes’ voice enters my earpiece.

“Is this your final decision?” Romanovich’s voice comes through with crystal clarity. “Or is this your method of negotiation? This has much benefit to you. As I am sure you are aware, it would be unfortunate if certain secrets became public before the Senate Intelligence Committee’s upcoming review of surveillance technologies.”

Rustling sounds distort the audio momentarily. Is he deliberately creating interference by fidgeting with the device in his pocket?

“Do you wish for something more substantial than the preservation of your company?” Her tone is now honeyed, seductive even. “We can provide compromising information on those within your government who are...problematic to your interests.”

“I own ARGUS.” Rhodes sounds confident, unfazed. “Do you believe I can’t get information on my own?”

“Not this you cannot.” A chair creaks, suggesting she’s leaned closer. “Not everything comes from satellites or the internet. We have human sources—deep and long-established. All we ask is that we have a private arrangement. We shall pay you your fee, like any other client. But we understand you need an extra incentive for the additional risk an arrangement with our country poses.”

“Am I to take your word that your information is valuable?” Rhodes asks, his tone suggesting polite skepticism rather than outright rejection.

“No.” Papers rustle. “We have evidence. The information in this folder shows exactly who within the Senate Intelligence Committee has betrayed your country. Information I believe will be useful to you as you negotiate contracts.”

Static crosses the line, and the connection ends.

Voices down the corridor carry, and I rush into an empty room. It’s not an office, but rather a waiting room. To the side is a small desk with an old desktop computer. Based on the wires, it appears to be connected to the internet.

I follow Rhodes’ instructions, retrieving the compact-shaped drive from my evening bag. The USB connection slides out with a practiced twist—the design elegant enough to pass as luxury makeup but functional enough to breach security.

The computer is an older model running what appears to be a modified version of Windows—not connected to their primary security network, which makes it both a safer target and potentially less valuable. I insert the drive, power on the system, and wait the excruciating fifteen seconds for it to boot.

The machine awakens to a browser rather than requiring credentials—a careless oversight that works in our favor. The drive automatically executes its payload, a silent infiltration program that I watch deploy through a small progress bar disguised as an advertisement. The process should take twenty seconds maximum to establish the persistent backdoor.

Eighteen... Nineteen...

The door handle turns with a metallic click.

I kill the browser window, drop to the floor, and slide under the desk in one fluid motion—a maneuver I haven’t had to execute since training exercises at The Farm, and never in a gown. My heart pounds against my ribs as I curl into the shadows.

Heavy footfalls enter the room—masculine, deliberate. A chair scrapes nearby. Papers shuffle. Then a phone rings elsewhere, and the footsteps retreat. The door closes with a soft thud.

I count to twenty, not ten—a lesson learned from an operation in Moscow where ten wasn’t enough. I check the drive; the installation completed despite the interruption. I remove it, restore the computer to its original state, and slip out into the hallway, my pulse gradually returning to normal.

As I round the bend, Dristol spots me. He’s with Romanovich, and based on how close the two are standing, they are in the midst of a private conversation.

“There you are,” Rhodes says, capturing me with his arm, pulling me against him. “Have I told you how stunning you look tonight?”

“Yes.” I smile, casting a glance Dristol’s way.

Rhodes brushes his lips against my temple, then leads me down the corridor, back to the event.

“Dristol and Romanovich are tight. Did you notice?”

“Yes. It doesn’t mean their bosses are in on it.”

His statement is only plausible for Dristol—in Russian intelligence, someone at Romanovich’s level would never operate without authorization from above.

“They could be rogue elements,” he says, his hand tightening almost imperceptibly on mine.

In thinking about what I overheard Romanovich offer Rhodes, is it possible someone on the Senate Intelligence Committee sold a list of assets to Russia? Could the leak go that high up? I assume he declined the deal, but I’d love to know what the Russians have on our politicians.

We reach the entrance to the event room, pausing in a quiet alcove momentarily shielded from cameras and observers.

“Were you successful?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

I squeeze his hand in silent confirmation, allowing a genuine smile to surface. The adrenaline of a successful covert operation courses through me—a familiar high I’d almost forgotten since being relegated to the role of analyst.