Page 5 of Only the Wicked (The Sinful State #1)

Quinn found his hotel reservation, proving her skills.

Yesterday I discreetly followed him through town wearing a floppy hat and a gray, long-haired wig and heard him ask the guy at the hardware store if there were any pharmacies within walking distance.

That’s when I learned his elbow is bothering him, and I figured if he’s not up for climbing, he’d go for the most challenging hike.

While I’d had my gear in my car, I’d been pretty certain it wouldn’t be a climbing day, and I’d been correct.

“What if your knee shattered?”

That’s extreme.

“What if you couldn’t walk?” Quinn’s not going to drop it.

“I wasn’t that far away from you. And it’s a beautiful summer day. Someone would’ve come by and helped me.” Like Rhodes did. He could’ve moved on, minded his own business. Instead, he stayed, made sure I was okay.

She shakes her head in disapproval. “I’m telling Hudson you need backup.”

“I do not need backup. It’s overkill and it increases operation risks. He might catch on. We’re in a small town.” My voice rises and I can’t stand that I have transitioned from victorious to beseeching. “It’s harder in a small town to remain unnoticed.”

She glares at me and I’m taken aback by her eyes. I swear, they’re almost purple. I’d ask her what shade but her stern expression tells me now is not the time.

“Fine. I promise. Fake blood from here on out.”

She exhales and heads to the spiral staircase.

“Come on down.”

I follow behind her, noting that her paisley skirt is so long she picks up the hem to prevent herself from tripping over it. The painted white spiral staircase leads to more shaggy brown carpet. Yes, architecturally the house is beautiful, but the design sensibility is questionable.

“It doesn’t impact you, but we might have another operator on the inside. In San Francisco.”

Attempting multiple angles is understandable, but it still feels like a slap, like they didn’t fully trust I’d connect.

“On the inside how?”

“She has an interview at a consulting company ARGUS hired for a human resource project.”

“That’s a slow take.” It’ll take a long time for someone working for a tangential organization to learn what’s really going on inside ARGUS, if they ever gain that level of access.

“True.” Quinn pulls out a chair in front of her desk.

The three monitors on her desk face the wall, so all she has to do is look to the side and take in the mountain view.

“But really, what do you think he’s going to reveal during a dinner conversation?

If we can get a full understanding of ARGUS’s resource needs, we can get a much better handle on what they’re doing. What kind of deals they’re making.”

She pulls out a file drawer with stacked boxes in the back and wires neatly bound in the front.

“I’m not saying you won’t get anything valuable. I’m always in awe at the CIA’s methods, questionable as they may be.”

“Wait a minute. It’s not like I dressed in a slinky dress or brought him back to my hotel room and drugged him.”

She stares at me like I’m irrational.

I throw up my hands. “We’re going on a date. He’s here by himself. It’s a prime opportunity to get to know him.”

“My point is, how close are you going to have to get to him to get anything valuable? And what’s involved in getting close?”

She’s not wrong. The chances of placing a bug on a guy like Rhodes MacMillan and it going undiscovered for over forty-eight hours is slim.

But it’s a contact. Men like Rhodes don’t meet the low-level consultants working on human resource issues.

Now, maybe if a coding phenomenon made it onto their payroll…

My gaze falls on Quinn’s waist-length twisty Rapunzel strands.

Maybe we should’ve sent her to ARGUS. With her skills and those stunning violet eyes… she might be the best option.

“I’m not saying your plan is a bad idea, I’m simply urging you to be realistic with your expectations.” She sounds like a mother.

“I resent the implication that my plan, that Hudson approved, is anything but aboveboard. I’m not doing anything they didn’t teach at Langley.” With a pointed pause to let my words sink in, I add, “The human connection?—”

“Is unreliable,” Quinn interrupts. “And may not be needed if you can hack into the right systems.”

She’s a hacker. It’s her perspective. It’s not personal.

“All I’m asking is that you trust me to maintain professionalism. Trust me to do my best for this team.”

I want this op to succeed. It’s a long shot, but if ARGUS is cutting the rumored deals, then the company is a national security risk. If he’s truly selling classified information to the highest bidders, and my assets were on some high-valued CIA asset list, then this is personal.

A bedroom door opens and Hudson steps out. He’s in a button down and khakis, and behind him there’s a desk with a single monitor. He removes an earbud and his gaze shifts between Quinn and me.

“You’re trusted,” Hudson says.

My eyes drop to his forearms with the sleeves rolled up, past his clunky silver watch, down his khakis to his bare feet, the tops barely visible in the thick brown carpet.

“We have no reason to believe you will be anything but professional. We’re a team with a common goal: to learn if ARGUS is selling secrets to the highest bidder.

Our resource on the West Coast has the same goal.

Even if nothing pans out from the human resource angle, she may overhear internal work discussions or find a disgruntled employee willing to share project details. And you may not get more than dinner.”

Unfortunately, the boss is right.

“We can’t expect a home run on every attempt. Investigations of this nature take time. We’re in on two fronts but neither are sure wins. We keep trying until we succeed. And we support each other. Copy?”

I nod, shoving my hands in my pockets. Quinn spins right and left in her desk chair, twisting the long skirt.

“In an abundance of caution, I’m bringing in backup.”

I open my mouth to argue with him, but he ignores me.

“I want backup nearby. This effort is not resource constrained, so there’s no reason to take unnecessary risks. That doesn’t mean I disagree with your assessment that he’s not dangerous, but we’ll be ready if his security shows up or if the parameters change.”

I’m skilled and trained, and the argument is on my lips, but I swallow it down because Hudson’s argument is reasonable.

“I’m going to head to the hotel. Plan to sit outside by the pool with a book on the off chance I might run into him before our dinner.”

“Rough life,” Quinn says, grinning.

I return her grin, letting her know I’m not pissed.

She bends down and passes me a zippered bag with two of the charging cords. “Throwaway phones, surveillance devices, the usual.” She shrugs. “I assume you don’t need a weapon?”

I don’t miss that her question is directed at our boss, not to me.

Still, I answer. “I have a personal handgun secured at the hotel. I’m good.

” I pause, unable to resist . “Though if you think Rhodes MacMillan is the type to require heavy artillery for dinner conversation, maybe we should reassess our intel.”

I’m halfway up the spiral stairway when Hudson calls, “Sydney, keep a tracker on you at all times. And call me in the morning.”

My brain immediately goes to the gutter - something about his commanding tone and that particular phrase combo strikes me as oddly sexual, deserving of at the very least a snarky “Depends on your performance,” response.

“Depends on—” I clear my throat, catching myself two words too late. “Copy that.”

Tonight, I might not immediately get valuable intel, but I’ll get a good sense of Rhodes’ character, and if he’s capable of selling out our country.