Page 138 of Only the Wicked

Chapter

Thirty-Eight

Rhodes

“You ready?”

Sydney stands before me in black Lycra leggings and a loose exercise top that hangs off one shoulder exposing the thin black line of her sports bra. Her glossy hair swings in her high ponytail as she strides across the room to peer out the window.

It’s the morning after the gala, and in a perfect world, she and I would be enjoying a leisurely morning with breakfast in bed. But the world is far from perfect, and we’ve been up since dawn preparing for my meeting with Crawford.

Everyone within KOAN believes the senator is going to reveal he’s involved with Russia. I’m skeptical we’ll get anything of value. Men like Crawford are experts at the game. If he plans to force my hand, to do an underhanded deal that benefits one of his benefactors, his encouragement will be shrouded and vague. Before he was a senator, he was a lawyer, and as such, he’ll always be wary that anything he writes or says may show up in a court of law or be blasted on social media.

“I’m ready. Are you?”

She peers out the window, presumably scanning the street.

“We’re in position. Is your earpiece working?”

I tap my ear in the affirmative, and she says, “Confirmed.”

She’s talking to the team, not me.

“It’s go time. Head on out through the lobby and get in your car. Your security team is downstairs waiting,” the male voice in my ear says.

My security hasn’t reached out to me, but they aren’t necessarily supposed to. It’s five minutes prior to the time I requested a car.

“I’ll be going out the back.” Syd blows me a kiss, and I pause, standing in the circular entry, aware others are listening. “You nervous?” she asks, probably misreading my hesitation.

“After last night? No.” A blush blooms along her cheeks and my cock twitches at the memory of taking her hard and fast, her palms planted on the hotel window, gown hitched to her waist.

“Alright then,” the male voice says in my ear. “It’s go time.”

With one last glance at Syd, a breath of fresh air against the D.C. backdrop, I head down the hall. In the lobby, I inform Smith, the contracted weekend security detail, that he’s not required. He appears happy enough to be dismissed on a Sunday, and I can’t blame him. I could bring him with me, but having another person in the room with us won’t set up a particularly conducive environment for Crawford.

KOAN will be parked outside in a turquoise van plastered with tourist stickers and environmental protest logos. The vehicle is a masterpiece of covert design: solar panels disguised as roof racks to power the equipment, while the sixties-era curtains hanging in the windows conceal directional microphones and signal boosters. The van will blend perfectly with the traffic arriving for the afternoon’s environmental protest, and I have to say I’m impressed they managed to commandeer such a perfect surveillance vehicle in a few short hours on a weekend.

Sydney will listen in the vehicle with the team. The earpiece nestled deep in my ear canal is virtually undetectable—a custom design that operates on frequencies specifically chosen to bypass standard security sweeps. The silver disk in my pocket, disguised as a challenge coin, is a marvel of miniaturization: a full-spectrum transmitter with enough battery to broadcast our conversation for six hours and sensitive enough to capture whispers from across the room.

It’s a fascinating piece of tech I’d like to study further, but first, I’ve got two meetings to get through. First the senator, which isn’t a particularly big deal for me, although I’m hopeful we’ll gain something valuable from my time, and then I move on to a confrontation with Miles. He and I are most likely in for one of our knock down drag out meetings of the minds. Then when all that’s over, I’ll talk to Sydney and see if I can’t convince her to return to California with me, although I’m smart enough to know her willingness will depend on what we learn.

Senator Crawford lets me into the Hart Senate Office building himself, as it’s Sunday.

“Nice party last night,” he says in greeting, his tone casual, as if we’re just two friends.

“It was. Your wife is lovely.” The words flow easily, a professionally cordial response.

I’m not lying, although I wonder how Sydney is reacting in the nearby van, hearing me exchange pleasantries with her former lover. Last night at the gala, I watched her face carefully as Crawford introduced his wife—searching for any crack in her composure, any hint of the history between them. But Sydney was flawless—poised and sincere.

It shouldn’t bother me, this ghost of a relationship from before we met. I have no claim to her past. Yet something primitive stirs when I look at Crawford—this man who knew her before, who shared something intimate with her while married to another woman.

Crawford bows his head at the elevator bank and rocks back on his heels. “Thank you for agreeing to meet here. Glenda likes to sleep in after a big night.”

“Understandable.”

The elevator dings, and the sound amplifies the awkward silence.

“It’s quiet here on a Sunday, huh?”