Page 27

Ren

Las Vegas, Nevada

T he white sandstone manor in the heart of Summerlin was unoccupied most of the year—except for the full-time staff of seven.

This week, Winston Alawi was in residence as a guest of the owner, a billionaire casino developer.

Alawi would be speaking at a conference tomorrow, seeking aid for his country’s rare minerals mining business.

Ren rarely developed relationships with clients, but Dr. Alawi was a notable exception.

Ren not only liked Winston, he admired him.

Heir to his billionaire father’s oil empire, the man could be spending his days throwing parties on a megayacht.

Instead, he donned the uniform of his mother’s small African country and joined the fight for independence from corrupt warlords and insidious outside interests.

Like Ren, Winston had gone to battle for his beliefs.

The chess table sat in a bay window flanked by two high-backed chairs upholstered in crimson velvet.

Ren scanned the quiet street while Winston steepled his fingers and stared at the board.

One of Alawi’s personal security nodded from his spot by the front door.

Ren acknowledged him and checked the positions of the other guards on his phone screen.

Ren took every job seriously, but this wasn’t some self-involved celebrity or paranoid member of Congress. The threat to Winston Alawi was real and constant. He was stifling greed for the good of the people.

The house across the street, a three-story modular contemporary, was for sale.

Ren had instructed Alawi’s team to search the place and do a thermal scan.

Other than a stray cat on the roof, the place was a tomb.

Still, the sight of the dark building had Ren on high alert.

He watched on his device as one guard entered the empty house through the front door while a second went around back to do the hourly sweep.

“There’s no one around for miles, my friend.” Winston tipped his king, admitting defeat. “The fact that you can beat me at chess while simultaneously monitoring the patrol—it’s insulting.”

Ren returned the pieces to the board. “You’re just as distracted as I am, Winston. Big day tomorrow.”

A soft knock on the door jamb had both men turning. Winston’s wife, Aisha, stood in a thick robe, holding a little boy with a tear-streaked face. “Someone is overtired and refuses to go to sleep without a kiss from Daddy.”

Winston stood, kissed his wife, and then ruffled the little boy’s head. “Nigel, if I come read you a story after your bath, do you promise to go right to sleep?”

“Yes, Da.”

“All right then. Do as your mother says, and I’ll be up in a bit.”

When mother and son had gone, Winston said, “We can just manage a nightcap, I think.”

Ren walked to the liquor cabinet beside the room’s entrance. “I’ll pour. Louis VIII?”

“Please.” Winston joined him at the bar.

The bottle of Alawi’s preferred brandy was empty, so Ren set it aside and reached up to check the upper cupboard.

“There’s a new bottle there.” Winston pointed to the lower cabinet, and Ren bent to retrieve it.

At that moment, several things happened at once.

Out on the street, there was the sound of a crash, and peels of the car alarm pierced the night.

Winston Alawi turned at the sound as a bullet shattered the window, whizzed by Alawi’s head, and obliterated a wooden shelf above Ren.

Ren grabbed his client around the knees and pulled him to the floor, shielding Alawi with his body and belly-crawling to the room’s entrance. Ren kept them both low to the ground while Winston’s guards pulled him to safety. Another bullet penetrated the glass, then another.

With Alawi out of the room, Ren rolled behind a sofa as the shooter released a final desperate round into the room. Bullets broke the windows and exploded a modern sculpture on the mantle behind him.

After a drawn-out silence, Ren finally heard police sirens in the distance.

When his men confirmed that Alawi and his family were in the safe room, Ren left the house and ordered the guards to search for the shooter.

He raced across the lane to the vacant contemporary, triggering the motion sensor lights.

On the ground at his feet was a shell casing blown by the desert wind from the flat roof. Inside, one of Alawi’s guards lay dead.

Ren heard the distant rev of a motorcycle.

Racing back to the street, he paused. The single taillight of the bike was fading, but that wasn’t what held his attention.

Ren thought for a moment that, once again, his eyes were playing tricks on him in the darkness, but no.

Behind a dented Mercedes in a crashed Aston Martin with “What’s New Pussycat?

” drifting from the speakers, it was her—his woman. S.K.

Ren walked up to the driver’s window and waited. She looked relaxed and curious, almost as if she were studying him. When he could no longer bear the silence, he opened his mouth to speak, and so did she.

They both said the same thing at the same time. “Someone is trying to kill you.”

T hree hours later, Ren’s client and family were safely on their plane home, and Ren sat in the back of a British-themed pub on The Strip, nursing a Guinness. He’d taken a cab while Stella ditched her crashed sports car, and now he waited.

The door opened, and his breath caught.

It was the woman he knew.

It was a woman he had never seen before.

Her auburn hair was loose around her shoulders.

She wore tight black pants and a loose gray sweater with an open neck that revealed a hint of collarbone and smooth shoulder.

Carrying a small duffle, she slid through the crowd like a snake.

The men who noticed her tried to look twice, but she had already slithered past their prying eyes.

She signaled the bartender for a drink, and he hurried to fetch it as if she were his only customer.

She tossed her go-bag on the seat and slid into the booth across from him.

A waiter placed a tumbler of whiskey on a coaster before her.

When she looked up from the glass, Ren sucked in a breath.

The woman he had seen on and off over the past few years, Sofria Kirk, had soft brown eyes, eyes that conveyed a gentleness and naivete.

This woman’s eyes were silver, like a sea serpent, a mermaid, or some other mythical creature.

Fitting, he thought. If Sofria Kirk never existed, perhaps the person across from him was also a fiction.

She seemed to read his every thought as though his eyes were a teleprompter.

“How much do you know?” she asked.

“I know you’re not who you say you are and that you’ve been surveilling me for over two years.” Ren’s voice was Arctic.

“Closer to three.”

“Something to do with Project Bloodhound,” Ren said.

“Correct.” She swirled the whiskey in her tumbler.

“Oh, and I know you’re a liar,” he added over the rim of his glass.

“It’s my job. What else?”

Ren stared at the enigma opposite him. She wasn’t the demure Sofria Kirk or the sultry Sabrina Kittridge. Ren had a feeling this was the real S.K. He wanted to know more about her, so he shifted the conversation. “How old are you really?”

“Twenty-six. But I’ve been working for my organization since I was fourteen.”

“Hyperion.”

Her brows shot up. “How do you know that?”

“A guy came to see me. Spouting a bunch of crazy shit, which in retrospect has all turned out to be true.”

“What do you mean, a guy?”

“Said he had access to information. He wasn’t specific, but he was convincing.” Ren leaned across the booth and lowered his voice. “Tell me about Hyperion.”

Damn, she was good. Her face revealed nothing.

“Actually,” Ren amended, “Why don’t you tell me who you are first.”

She dipped a finger into her drink and bobbed the single ice cube.

“My name is Stella Keen—my real name.”

“Stella,” Ren repeated. The name felt good on his tongue. “How does a teenager get involved in wet work?”

She deadpanned, “They plucked me out of an Honor Society meeting.”

Ren replied, “So, a problem child.”

“Can we get back to the matter at hand? This isn’t a Hinge date, Ren. Someone is trying to kill you.”

“Something has gone FUBAR,” Ren replied.

“Thanks to you.” She sipped her drink.

“Me? What the fuck did I do?”

“Well, you like to make lists; let’s have a go. One: you blew my cover in England. Two: you’re investigating me online.”

“Turnabout is fair play.”

“Three: you’re nosing around in the Milton Abernathy murder.”

“So you know it was a murder.” Ren didn’t hide his relief that his suspicions were accurate.

“Yes. I believe he was sent information incriminating the person stealing the Project Bloodhound research.”

“Someone is stealing the plans?”

“You have an IQ of 156, genius. Keep up.”

Ren slammed his glass on the table and whisper-shouted, “You know what? Fuck off. I’m rock climbing, and an avalanche just came down on me.”

Stella took a breath. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll clarify. Milton Abernathy contacted you about a communication with Casper Capelli, correct?”

“No. He texted about a breakthrough with Pluto.”

“The dog?”

“The drone,” Ren clarified.

“You named your drone?”

“Can we stay on track, please?”

“Sorry, it’s just cuter than I remember you being.” Stella didn’t intend it as a compliment.

“Can we agree that I am not connected to whatever is going on in this vortex of chaos you’ve created?” Ren snapped.

Stella sat back in the booth and ran a finger along the lip of her glass.

“So the name Casper Capelli means nothing to you.”

Ren remembered the errant second text, and his face betrayed the truth.

Stella leaned halfway across the table. “You have heard the name.”

“Yes. Milton sent a second text. He clearly intended to send it to someone else.” Ren downed the rest of his beer. “He called me Casper.”

“Well, that answers that question.”

“What question?”

“Capelli’s also dead. He was killed over a year ago in a random mugging .”