Page 81 of Only the Wicked

“Yes, sir.”

Fuck.

“At the Round Robin bar?” The hotel bar at the Willard, nicknamed the Oval Office of Bars by Condé Nast, is an iconic Washington location. It’s not surprising Sydney would check it out, but one isn’t generally approached by the FBI when enjoying an afternoon mint julep.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll move my meeting.” Evie might not want a run-in with the FBI. “Tell your guys not to let Sydney out of their sight. If you can overhear anything…”

“Yes, sir.”

Chapter

Twenty-Two

Sydney

The blue field represents justice, as does the miniature shield with an eagle crest holding a sword and scales, and yet, I don’t trust the badge. There’s something about this pasty white man in a cheap suit that doesn’t sit well with me. Yes, he just came to my defense, but it all feels a little too convenient in this sparsely populated bar.

He withdraws his ID, a smug yes-I’m-a-badass expression on his freshly shaven face.

“Keep it out,” I say, pulling out my phone.

I snap a photo and smile.

“Later on I’ll call your field office.”

His eyes widen, his head jerks, and his fingers shift, all signs he’s surprised. But he’s not shocked, and there’s no worry.

No, his thin lips spread into a semblance of a smile.

“Why would you call my field office?”

“That’s the only way to verify you’re sporting a real badge, right?”

In reality, I will not waste time calling a field office. I’ll be sending this photo straight to Quinn so she can verify and, if true, determine who else within the government is investigating ARGUS. Because Caroline believes Rhodes MacMillan and his AI surveillance company are above the law.

Although, if I’m honest, our intel always felt shaky. It seemed to me that, at a minimum, the NSA would be all over ARGUS, possibly even serving as an invisible partner.

Ian Gregory’s gaze travels around the bar, over my shoulder and up along the ceiling and the inset lighting. He must’ve clocked the small security camera tucked away near a carbon monoxide detector.

“May I put it away?” he asks.

“Be my guest.”

“And may I sit?”

If you must is on the tip of my tongue, but confrontation isn’t the best approach when I need information.

“Please.”

He sits down and I search the area for the earlier jerk, wanting to see how he reacts to my welcoming a different man to sit.

He’s nowhere to be found within these olive-green walls.

“What do you want from me?”

The FBI agent’s lips press together in such a way that he hides the muted beige-pink lip color and puffs his pale skin. It’s not a flattering look. He rests an elbow on the edge of the bar, and leans, exposing his dress shirt and a sweat ring below his armpit.