Page 53 of Only the Wicked

Chance of thunderstorms rises after three. Avoid the deluge. Get here before then.

* * *

After giving his text a thumbs up, I stare at the phone for a moment. Should I be questioning the project? I’ve discovered nothing about Rhodes that fits the profile of a man comfortable with betraying his country.

But not fitting a profile doesn’t mean he’s innocent.

I dial Quinn, press speaker, and set the phone down. I take a seat on the chair and begin working on my hiking boot laces.

“When do you leave for Asheville?”

“Whoa, no hello? What’s—wait, is shit going down?”

A door clicks in the background.

“No. You’re just catching me in the middle of something.”

“Should I call back?”

“The boys are packed. Ready to follow your tail.”

“Wait—boys? Plural? How many—” My hiking boot hits the ground with a thud. “Never mind that. We’re staying put.”

“What? Why?”

“Tomorrow’s supposed to rain, so he figured the spa here would be better than exploring a rainy city. He mentioned D.C. Loosely. I’m likely in but no guarantee.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Pause. “And don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you think I’m making bad choices. I can hear it in your voice, Quinn.” I pause, ensuring she notes my conversation change. “Anyway, did you access his phone?”

Technically, once she accesses his phone, my job’s obsolete. They’ll get more from monitoring his email and texts than I could from being in the same room with him. Phone access is a goldmine. Of course, it’s doubtful he’s going to freely talk about illicit deals. But he might talk about an upcoming meeting.

Scratch that. He’s a smart guy. He won’t talk about illegal activities around me. The only way he would is to couch the discussion in terms that a bystander wouldn’t pick up on. It’s possible Hudson will pull me; tell me it’s time to wrap it up.

Wrapping up means telling Rhodes I have a job interview and I’ll see him the next time we’re in the same city. Easy to do, but the idea of that plan delivers a sinking sensation.

The sound of knocking, no pounding, on a door comes through the speaker.

“What do you want?” Quinn barks.

“What’s the ETA? Do we have time for another round of Call to Action or are we hopping soon?” I recognize the voice as the one who placed a bet, and from the clearness of the audio, I assume he entered Quinn’s room.

“Cleared for another round,” she says.

The door clicks again.

“Who is that?”

“Jake.”

“Are they seriously gaming right now?”

“Yes, ma’am.”