Page 25 of Only the Wicked (The Sinful State #1)

Chapter Twenty

Sydney

The door closes behind Rhodes and I do a sweep of the suite, my fingers tracing along the underside of table edges where adhesive might still be tacky, checking light fixtures where a lens might catch a reflection, behind framed art with the practiced touch of someone who’s found surveillance this way before.

My movements are automatic, a dance I’ve performed across four continents.

The suite appears clean—it doesn’t seem like our team, or anyone else, set up surveillance. But just in case, I step in the bathroom, turn on the shower, and dial Quinn.

“Syd?”

“Yeah. It’s me. He left the suite five minutes ago.”

“We’re on him.”

An uncomfortable sensation settles into my stomach. “Had a feeling. Who’s here?”

“Jake and Noah. Staying in a room four floors below yours. Closest we could get.”

“It’s fine. I’ve told you he’s not dangerous.”

“Did you know he’s got security?”

“No.” I’ve seen no one.

“He’s with them in the lobby now. If the facial recognition is accurate, one is former secret service. He’s not playing around.”

Really? He seems so aloof. Clueless even. Is that all a game? Or… “Could security be standard for him?”

“Perhaps in cities. Insurance might require it.”

She’s right. Depending on what insurance his company has, given he’s the founder and his brain is partly what investors invested in, it’s not inconceivable.

“When he left just now, he greenlit my researching him. Since he’s opened the gateway, my plan is to pepper him with questions over the weekend.”

“Nice work.”

It is good work. I’m right where I need to be. The nausea roiling through is a side effect of having a conscience.

“How’s San Fran doing? Did she get the boot?”

“Not yet. She used the key card. Explored the offices. She didn’t find anything of substance. No file storage room.”

“You didn’t actually think there would be, did you?”

“Me? No. But Brie thought there would be files of contracts. Legal documents.”

“Rhodes has a save-the-trees reputation. There was a Business Week article about how if he had his way, his business wouldn’t own a printer.”

“I don’t remember that…”

I close my eyes and visualize the byline. “April 2021.”

“Look at that,” Quinn says under her breath. “So, what are your plans?”

“I’m going to change and head down to the bar. Scope the area. I think that’s where he’s meeting this Evie Thompson. If he sees me, maybe he’ll feel obligated to invite me to join them.”

“Jake will be close.”

“Not too close. Remember, you just told me he has two security guards. There could be others. And did you guys access this room before us?”

“No. Prior occupants had a late checkout, then housekeeping, then his security followed. Stayed until shortly before your arrival.”

“Warn Jake. Rhodes may be aloof, but he hired the best and they won’t be. They’ll pick up on a tail. You know, it’s interesting that he didn’t greet his security with me present. Maybe he doesn’t want me to know he travels with security.”

“Possibly. You have a device you can plant, right?” Quinn asks.

“Yes, but why would I? I’m here with him. He’s not planning on taking any meetings in our room. It’s an unnecessary risk. And if his team is professional, whenever we leave, they’ll sweep.”

“True enough.”

“He invited me to a gala tomorrow night. I’m assuming it’s associated with the Bastille Day celebration.”

“Look at you. Did you pack for this? I accessed the security cam in the lobby. Swanky.”

“Funny story. I’ve got an entire wardrobe from Neiman Marcus in the entry.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“Score.”

The icky feeling swirling in my gut climbs my throat. I’m not in this for the clothes. I’m not aiming to use Rhodes. My objective is to learn about the deals ARGUS is making. Not what the official, public information states, but to verify the rumors circulating through the intelligence community.

Yet there’s something else tangled in this discomfort—the realization that the man who quoted mythology and shared childhood stories feels real in ways that threaten my objectivity.

That hasn’t happened on an assignment before.

Usually, my cover feels like a separate skin I can shed when needed.

This time, the line between Sydney-the-operative and Sydney-the-woman is blurring in ways that make my training feel suddenly insufficient.

“Interesting.” Quinn says. “Rhodes car service stopped in front of the Russian embassy.”

The ickiness diminishes. A cold wave washes over me, numbing the conflicted notions.

This single piece of information transforms everything—my objective, my conflicted feelings, even the luxurious suite.

Rhodes visiting the Russian embassy isn’t just confirmation that KOAN’s suspicions were valid; it’s validation that the version of Rhodes I’ve been connecting with is one facet of a multi-faceted identity.

He’s presenting the face he wants me to see, similar to me presenting him with my cover identity.

“Alright.” Quinn’s tone shifts to professional, triggering a similar shift in my mentality.

I’ve been having fun with one version of Rhodes.

A version of him that by his own admittance hasn’t seen the light of day in decades.

I bonded with that version of him. But the man who built a billion-dollar empire has an entirely different persona, and Caroline was correct when she pitched me on KOAN.

As an active mega donor, the government won’t investigate rumors about Rhodes or his company.

Politicians won’t bite the hand that feeds them.

We need to find out exactly what kind of deals ARGUS is structuring, and if Russia is one of its clients, our mission is critical.

“From here on out, only contact me through the portal. Keep one tracker on your person at all times. I checked the charge on your tags and you’re good. You said he gave you permission to research him?”

“Yeah.”

“Be wary.”

“Why?”

“Classic projection. He might be doing a deep dive on you. Even if he didn’t request it, by showing up in D.C. with him, his security team will be doing one.”

“Right.” Maybe I should’ve used an alias. But no. I can’t second guess myself. If the rumored capabilities of ARGUS are correct, there’s too high of a chance they’d smoke out an alias. “I’ll take my laptop down to the bar. Get him used to seeing me working. I’ll claim I’m job hunting.”

“Good plan. And, Sydney?”

I pause, waiting for the “be careful” warning. “It might be tempting to accept a job he offers, if it goes there, but think twice. You’ll be getting in deep, and no one asked you to sign up for a long-term undercover gig. Deep UC with someone who can track every detail of your life...that’s a lot.”

She’s right. My employee agreement is for remote work with travel.

“If you decide to go for it, there’s a resume on the portal that will likely land you a job.”

I’m getting ahead of myself. He hasn’t suggested I move to San Francisco. Yes, he asked for my resume, but he made it clear it wasn’t for a position at his company.

No, I need to stay focused. This weekend I’ll get a clearer picture of ARGUS capabilities and any black-market client roster, and when he boards a plane on Sunday, I’ll regroup with the team.

One project leg at a time.

I step into the living area of the suite and peruse the clothes he’s purchased, flipping over price tags that scream Rhodes got ripped off.

The black V-neck dress with pin-thin straps and a low, semi-fitted waist that drapes away from the bodice and skims my ankles is pure femininity, and tempting, but instead I select a straight, cream skirt; white, fitted tank; and a plush, cream cardigan, deciding that the cream color sets off my olive skin and dark hair.

The gold Prada sandals lend a luxurious, casual touch.

I don’t have a briefcase or tote that will blend with my laptop, so I unwrap the light gray Chloe handbag and gather my laptop, and head down to the hotel bar.

A man in a tan business suit with no tie meets my gaze from across the room.

The absence of a tie has me thinking he’s a power player.

It’s the men who don’t feel obligated to tie a noose around their neck that are the ones with the real power and influence.

The others who conform to uncomfortable apparel are struggling to fit in and make a name for themselves.

That’s a piece of education my pricey Penn diploma awarded me.

I order a sparkling water with lime and crack open my laptop.

The bar’s polished mahogany gleams under amber lighting, casting everyone in a flattering glow while making it harder to discern subtle details.

The gentle clink of ice against glass and the murmured conversations create an acoustic blanket that would make most surveillance difficult.

I’ve strategically chosen a spot at the bar that allows me to see anyone entering the establishment.

Restrooms are to the back. There’s only one access point.

At this time of day, the tables are mostly empty. Given the suits, I’d expect the table of two women to my left and the table of one man and two women one table over from them are here on business and they have time to kill either before flights home or before a work dinner.

I don’t see anyone who strikes me as security. Rhodes’ security detail is likely in his proximity.

The man with a tan suit approaches.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Actually…” I nudge the laptop, “planning on getting some work done.”

“Oh, what company are you with?”

I narrow my eyes, studying this man and his thin rope necklace. He’s not D.C. That’s not the look of a lobbyist. Why is he approaching me?

“Don’t want to say?” With one dose of his smug smile, I feel unclean. “Or a beautiful woman like you…” He makes a show of looking at my ringless left hand, “You can’t be single.”

Ugh. What a blowhard.

I catalog the details: fake Rolex that doesn’t quite sit right on his wrist, a tan that’s too orange to be natural, suit that’s expensive but poorly tailored, brand logos on his leather loafers.

He’s trying too hard to project success while missing the subtle markers that would make it convincing.

A wannabe player who likely exaggerates his Pentagon connections—dangerous only in his desperation to seem important.

“I’m not single. If you wouldn’t mind.” I push my laptop screen further back for visibility, but purposefully don’t wake the screen, as I don’t want this sleazy specimen seeing my name or any other identifier.

To my dismay, the tan suit slides a bar stool back and sits one stool over.

“My name’s Daniel. Let me buy you a drink.” He holds up a hand. “I hear you, you’re not on the market, but?—”

On the market?

“Sir, there’s a lot of room at the bar. The lady is here to get work done.

” Tan suit and I both direct our attention to a man in a navy suit with a pink and navy striped tie.

I estimate he’s in his mid-forties, with trimmed, dark hair combed to the side.

It’s conceivable he works for the hotel, although there’s no name tag.

“Fine. Fine. I can take a hint.” He nods his head like he’s soothing us both and moves to the opposite end of the bar.

“Sorry about that, ma’am. Daniel can be…” He cocks his head to the side. He doesn’t need to say more.

“Is he your friend?”

“No. He’s a salesman. Does a lot of work with the Pentagon.”

“Say no more.” He’s probably a lowlife who seals the deal with drunken nights out, and if friendly doesn’t work, gathers compromising photographs of his client’s escapades.

“I’m Ian Gregory. Iowa State congressional representative.”

I shake his hand, assessing. His title fits.

He’s wearing a professional suit, but it’s not too nice.

There’s no noticeable accent, which fits for the Midwest. And he naturally assumed the position of protecting the little lady sitting by herself at the bar.

One glance at the gold band on his finger, and I sense his wife would be proud.

“Nice to meet you, Ian. I'm Sydney. I’m here for the weekend with a friend.”

“Oh. Nice. Hitting the tourist spots?”

“If work allows.” I smile, softening my comment aimed at getting him to move on, and then, to be cordial, I ask, “Which spots do you recommend?”

He hits the D.C. top five, and opens his phone, swiping up to show me where to go to get the best handmade ice cream.

He’s relaxed, and I almost miss it, but I catch the black device fall from his palm as he moves closer to my stool. The movement is smooth, practiced—a drop technique I recognize because I’ve used it myself. Time seems to slow as I track the device’s trajectory toward my handbag.

Who the fuck is this guy? He’s attempting to plant a bug on me?

It’s not me he’s after. Obviously, it’s Rhodes.

My instincts kick in before conscious thought can interfere. I snatch the device mid-fall, the motion so fluid it could be mistaken for adjusting my position on the stool. Our eyes meet, and in that fraction of a second, I see his recognition that his game is blown.

Rhodes knows I’m former CIA. I don’t have to play this off.

I lift the slim rectangular device and tilt my head, raising one pointed eyebrow.

“Ian Gregory. Who are you really?”

His Adam’s apple bobs, and he glances over his shoulder.

Is he here with someone? The gross tan suit?

He reaches into his jacket pocket. I tense, calculating the distance to the exit, mentally mapping the positions of everyone in the room who might be part of his team. We’re in a public spot, but that doesn’t mean this couldn’t go sideways fast.

He removes a black leather badge holder, and opens it, displaying an FBI badge.

My mind races through the implications. Whatever Rhodes is involved in has attracted attention from the very agencies we believed wouldn’t touch ARGUS due to political donations. My fingers hover near my phone, ready to send an alert to Quinn if needed. The game just changed completely.