Page 33 of Only the Wicked (The Sinful State #1)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sydney

He strides to the window and stares at the view of the Washington Monument like it has all the answers. I remain seated, acutely aware of the tactical disadvantage.

How do I come back from this? What’s my next step?

Arms folded, his back to me, he claims the high ground without even trying. In a low tone that forces me to strain to hear him, he asks, “How much did they pay you to sleep with me?”

I rise slowly, reclaiming some semblance of equal footing. The plush carpet silences my approach as I position myself where he can see my reflection in the glass. There’s power in making him look at me, even if it’s just my reflection.

“It wasn’t like that. I promise.”

You did your job. There she is. That’s the inner Syd who gets me through the downs—the same voice that talked me through that extraction in Istanbul when everything went sideways and I had to improvise with a paperclip and a tourist map.

We’re sluts for hire now? And that’s my conscience dressed in Caroline’s disdain.

Classic Farm analysis—favoring the ethical implications over the operational success metrics. This is why field agents and analysts rarely date. Different frameworks.

My chest aches. Yet another sign I screwed up because I’m emotional and that wasn’t the assignment. In fact, the assignment is to not get emotional. But it happened.

I left the CIA to join KOAN because I believe in the mission. There’s a need for an investigative team searching where the government either can’t or won’t. When powerful people have no accountability, they can’t be trusted.

“Should I leave the room and let you pack?”

I lift my head to find he hasn’t moved, his back to me, anger wafting off him like steam from a hot spring.

There was never going to be a relationship between us. Get it together and focus on what’s important.

Tell him the whole truth. It’s your best bet.

“I applied for an intern position within your company. I didn’t get the position.”

“You had to have lied on your resume.”

“I did.”

“It’s amazing. The arrogance you and your team must possess to believe that you could pass our filters.”

The urge to tell him one of our teammates got past his glorious filters is strong, but I won’t tank the team.

I’m down, but I’m not terrible. Besides, while I believe him, or at least I find it impossible to believe he’d sell state secrets that could lead to deaths, it’s not up to me to kill the operation. I’m an operative, trusting leadership.

“Anything else you want to add?” He’s itching to kick me out. But I won’t leave like this.

“The plan was for us to have a casual meet. Then once again in D.C. A coincidence that couldn’t be ignored. And perhaps I could get hired with an in from the CEO, or I might observe something useful. Intelligence gathering is slow and the plans evolve in real time.”

He’s still giving me his back. Classic avoidance.

Outside, dusk blankets Washington, D.C., transforming the monument into a glowing white sentinel against the darkening sky.

The suite’s climate control hums softly, keeping the room at precisely 72 degrees—a stark contrast to the emotional temperature between us.

The faint scent of his cologne, woody and understated, still lingers in the air between us, a ghost of intimacy now turned hollow.

The crystal tumbler he’d been drinking from earlier sits abandoned, amber liquid catching the light from the desk lamp. I can’t blame him for turning away.

“When I slept with you, it was because I wanted to. Every single time. I chose to be as real as I could be with you. I loved having sex with you. Probably the best sex of my life. Freeing at a time…” My gaze drops to the floor.

He doesn’t need to hear how much I needed my time with him.

“Everything I told you about me is true.”

“Except your employment.”

“True. I left the CIA willingly when another job became available.”

“You were dealt a raw deal. Pushed out of the field.”

How does he know that? It’s not publicly available information.

His refusal to turn around and face me shows that he’s disgusted by me, and I won’t change that, but maybe if I share the ugly reality, that it’s not about my career, it’s about lives…

“Four of my assets died. The station chief believed my cover was blown. I was reassigned for an indefinite period. When I told you my boss was an asshole, that’s true. I don’t know that I would consider it a raw deal. While I’m curious about your source, I’ll stay on task.”

In the window’s reflection, I can see his profile. Stern. Unforgiving.

Stay on task.

“My assets weren’t the only ones killed. Assets and CIA officers throughout Europe, the Middle East, and Africa were terminated. Most looked accidental. Some were assassinations. Straight out murder. Someone sold a list to our enemies.”

“And I’m suspected?” Now he turns around, incredulous.

“ARGUS. Not necessarily you.”

He rubs the back of his head. It’s a gesture I’m becoming familiar with, one that relieves frustration.

“I didn’t take the assignment lightly. But it’s important to me that we find the source of the leak.

My assets? Our officers? My colleagues? They were good people.

With families.” I swallow hard, remembering the notification procedures, the carefully worded letters that never actually explained how someone died serving their country.

“We’ve lost more assets and officers in the last six months than in the history of the CIA program. Eighteen people.”

My entire career upended because I might have been next on the list. If we don’t find the source—a source that no one in the government apparently believes exists—additional names may be added to the memorial wall at Langley.

He drops his head back, looking to the ceiling.

“When I developed ARGUS, it was because I saw a need. Existing surveillance systems and communication databases possess an unwieldy amount of data. I developed ARGUS to allow the good guys to better use the resources available to them. My goals are for good.”

“Who are the good guys? In your opinion.” Because that’s the problem. No one goes out there aiming to be the bad guys. In geopolitics, good and bad hinges on perspective.

“Fair question.” He steps across the room and sinks into an armchair. His hands fall to his thighs. “I don’t believe we’ve applied our technology to anyone possessing the data that would reveal CIA operatives.”

“But it’s possible?”

“It’s not a zero-sum possibility.” His left thumb raps out a beat and his head tilts. “I’ll help you. If we’re aiding an entity that is taking out US operatives, I want to know.”

“Russia would be an obvious choice.”

His gaze roams the room. “Are we being recorded?”

My gaze travels to my bag. “Doesn’t your security check?”

Wrinkles form around his eyes as he squints at me like a judge weighing my veracity. And he’s right to question.

“When we learned your security team was on site, we scrapped surveillance plans.”

He nods twice, thoughtful.

“An investor in my first company requested that I meet with the Russian embassy today. The investor has no hold over me. Doesn’t stand to gain from the meeting.”

“Do investors often ask for favors?”

“It’s not uncommon. This particular investor invested when no one else would.

He earned his money back, but you don’t forget the initial investors who give you a chance.

You don’t want to say no to them, but sometimes you have to.

” He releases a long sigh. “A few active investors and my partner have been pushing for ARGUS to go public. I’ve held my ground.

Refused. The meeting today felt like something I could give this particular investor. ”

“And?”

“The embassy contact blackmailed me. And before you ask, no, I don’t think the investor put him up to it.

His Russian contact probably said something innocuous like they’d appreciate some private time with me if I have it to spare.

” He leans forward, elbows on his thighs, and looks me directly in the eyes.

“Tell me more about KOAN. Perhaps we can work together.”

The slither of an opening is like a ray of light in a storm. This is the best possible option—for the team and for the operation. My cracked heart… That’s just Mata Hari.

“Are you familiar with the definition of koan?” I ask, noticing the leather-bound copy of Joseph Campbell’s “Hero with a Thousand Faces” on the coffee table. It could be the hotels, but it reminds me of a small personal detail tucked away for this assignment—Rhodes reads mythology and philosophy.

“A paradoxical question without a clear answer, meant to provoke enlightenment.” His eyes narrow slightly as he answers, appreciative of the reference. “Fitting for a group that operates in gray areas.”

“The answers aren’t always obvious,” I agree. “Sometimes you have to sit with the contradiction.”

For a brief moment, I glimpse something in his expression—a flash of the intellectual beneath the businessman, the thinker behind the tech mogul. And then, there it is…the connection between us. The energy, the charge.

“Don’t mistake me.” He gestures between the two of us.

“There’s nothing between us. What I’m proposing is strictly professional.

If you’d like to join me as my plus one at the Bastille gala, that’s fine.

I assume attendance plays into your operation and will give you an opportunity for more intel. But…”

His right eye squints and his head shakes in the negative.

Right. The message couldn’t be clearer if he’d written it in skywriting.

“I understand.” I swallow down a mix of complicated emotions I’d rather not examine.

“Purely professional.” I adjust my watch—my father’s old Cartier, the only personal item I never leave behind— recalibrate, reset boundaries .

“The mission parameters have changed, but the objective remains the same.”