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“A year ago? Why is this happening now?”

“There was an envelope with a Post-it note in Milton’s trash. Looks like Capelli mailed the video on a flash drive that was delivered to the wrong address. The neighbor had been away on a year-long sabbatical and only returned the letter to Milton recently.”

“Jesus.” Ren removed his glasses and cleaned them on his shirttail.

“Capelli has no connection to Project Bloodhound, and his murder would have most likely gone unnoticed and unsolved,” Stella said.

Ren caught up. “Except he told Abernathy he saw something suspicious. He sent a video, which Milton just received after a year.”

“Whatever was in the clip he sent to Abernathy got them both dead.”

“Abernathy never showed me the video. I don’t know what Casper Capelli saw,” Ren said.

“Whoever is stealing the research assumes you possess or have seen the video. The thief is trying to close the circle.”

“Stella, no one is trying to kill me.”

“That bullet into Alawi’s home? It was meant for you. Think about your position in the room versus your primary. Your shooter is clever. If he had succeeded in killing you, it would have looked like a failed assassination attempt that took out a bodyguard.”

Ren recreated the scene in his mind. Stella was right. The bullet landed to Alawi’s right, splintering the wood where Ren’s head would have been had he not ducked down to retrieve the fresh bottle of brandy.

Stella continued, “What better way to cover up a murder than to make it look like someone else was the target? When he didn’t respond, she added, “What’s going on in that head?” Stella asked. “You look like you’re trying to solve one of those math problems that fills an entire chalkboard.”

“Why are you here in Vegas?”

“I went dark after England.” She shrugged. “I got bored.”

“Another lie.”

“Fine. I’ve been following you. I couldn’t live with the fact that I made you a target, okay?”

Her confession nearly had him reaching for Stella’s hand. Ren reminded himself that he didn’t know this woman. What’s more, he didn’t like her.

Instead, he asked, “And you? Why are they trying to kill you?”

“I have my suspicions, and if I’m right, I’ll most likely be dead in a week.”

Ren leaned across the booth. “I might want to kill you, but I’m not going to let anyone else do it.”

Stella hid her smile. “And how do you propose to stop them?” she asked.

Ren glanced over Stella’s shoulder out the plate glass window as a black SUV slowed. “I can protect you.”

“Oh, thank God. Finally, a big, strong, handsome man to rescue me.” She batted her lashes to drive home the sarcasm.

“It wasn’t a sexist comment, Stella. I protect other people for a living. I’m guessing you don’t.”

The bell above the door rang as more tourists entered the bar.

“I protected you,” she snapped.

“How so?”

“Why do you think the sniper missed that shot tonight?”

Ren recalled the sound of the car crash and blaring alarms just before the bullet smashed into the wall. He cocked a brow at Stella.

She smiled. “You’re welcome.”

Ren remembered that smile, that hotel room, that night, and his blood heated. Stella Keen was a liar and a snake, but she had managed to do something no woman had done in nearly twenty years.

Stella read his mind again. “Now you’re thinking about something naughty.”

“So all that flirting you did as Sofria Kirk, trying to guess what my name Leo was short for—you knew my given name all along, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I’ve always known. Galileo .”

“Man, did I get suckered.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. In my experience, women’s cup size and men’s IQs are inversely proportional.”

“I think it was your ass.”

Stella blushed. “We have more pressing matters to deal with.”

“Agreed. Let’s move.”

Stella finished her whiskey. “I’m going to freshen up. You find us a car.”

“That works. Out front in five?”

“Make it three.” With that, Stella stood from the booth and sauntered to the loo in the back hall. Ren watched her go and fought a wave of arousal as he recalled their night in that hotel room. Anger at his own lack of self-control had him throwing cash on the table and marching out of the bar.

Out on the street, Ren surveyed his options. Vegas was like an urban set for Big Brother; CCTV cameras were everywhere. At the curb, a woman stepped out of a sleek Maserati. She shot him a seductive smile, but Ren was more interested in what was behind her.

A jolly fellow in an Elvis costume was shouting to a group of tipsy tourists.

Three minutes and a hefty tip to the tour guide later, Ren and Stella were crammed into the front seat on the lower level of a double-decker bus on “The Viva Las Vegas Tour.” The bus inched along in bumper-to-bumper traffic as the tour guide led carousers in an off-key rendition of “Jail House Rock.”

When Stella didn’t speak, Ren asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I think someone on the government side of Project Bloodhound is dirty. They are stealing the drone research to use for their own purposes. Casper Capelli and Milton Abernathy are dead because they saw something incriminating. Now, the spy wants us dead for the same reason.”

The bus slowed, and the revelers cheered. The tourist behind them leaned his head between their shoulders and said in a trademark Boston accent, “This place has a dance floor. We can bust a move.”

Ren and Stella leaned away from the beer breath and nodded enthusiastically. When the group had disembarked, Stella turned to Ren. “What’s the plan?”

“I’m arranging an exfil.”

“We should split up,” she said.

“I disagree. Two heads are better than one. We can watch each other’s backs and figure out who the traitor is.”

Stella grabbed a loose lock of hair and tucked it behind her ear. “I work alone.”

“And yet you followed me halfway across the globe.”

Ren watched her golden skin pink before she looked away. “That was different. I felt responsible.”

“You should.”

“I was doing my job,” she repeated.

“You spied on me for three years. You led me on. You stabbed me. Now we’re playing by my rules. So get ready to partner up.”

She held up a hand. “Sorry, that’s not how I do things.”

Ren leaned in. “There’s something else. You know, that text I mentioned? The one Milton meant to send to Casper Capelli but mistakenly sent to me?”

“What did it say?” Stella mirrored his movement.

“He identified the person in the video. Milton called him “The Ostrich.”

Stella sat back. “Doesn’t ring any bells, but it’s a man they both know. That’s helpful.” Stella’s silver gaze narrowed. “When you were at Milton’s house the day he died, did you see his phone?”

“Yes,” Ren replied, unaffected.

“When I searched his house, the phone was gone.”

Ren said, “I took it and gave it to Twitch to see if she could recover anything, but no luck.”

If he hadn’t been looking closely, Ren might have missed the flash of sadness that crossed Stella’s face at the mention of the cybersecurity expert. Stella—or rather Sofria—and Twitch had been friends.

“I need to see that phone,” she said.

“Why?”

“I think Cappelli left Milton a voicemail. It would be over a year old, so I’m hoping the killer missed the call log when he deleted the text exchange.”

Ren checked his phone. “Steady’s cashing out at the Bellagio. He’ll meet us at the airport in an hour.

Ren stood and stepped over her into the bus aisle. “I’m going to grab a taxi.” He bent down, his mouth an inch from the shell of her ear. “So if you want to see that phone, tag along.”

He heard her stifled groan of frustration and wiped the smile from his face as he stepped off the bus.