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SOFRIA KIRK STELLA KEEN

Hyperion Safe House

Northern Virginia

T he utilitarian apartment had all the style of a discount motel room.

Stella Keen sat on the powder-blue bedspread and stared at her laptop screen.

As much as she loved her job, she hated this assignment.

She had done everything in her power to smother the sparks that had flared between Sofria and Leo Jameson—no, Stella Keen and Leo Jameson.

Every minute they were together, it had been a struggle—walking the tightrope between flirtation and fruition.

There had been times when all she wanted to do was rip his clothes off.

He had awakened something long dead inside her, and for that, she could have killed him.

She allowed herself a brief moment to bask in the memory of Leo Jameson—messy dark hair and hazel eyes framed by thick glasses.

“Ren,” his friends called him, was a scientist she monitored, along with the Primary Investigator at the main lab, Milton Abernathy.

Both men knew her as the same identity. “Sofria Kirk, CIA Analyst,” had cleared both her targets.

Over the next several months—or probably years—she’d manage Dr. Arvin Barnett, monitoring his communication, research, and human contact. After checking the secure phone, she went to the bathroom and started the shower.

Someone in a very small circle of suspects was selling classified information, someone who had eluded discovery for years, possibly decades. The NSA, Homeland, and the CIA had all tried to out the spy with no success.

That’s where Stella came in.

Hyperion—her top secret agency—had been tapped to take over the investigation four years ago.

With a resigned sigh, Stella entered the code on the keypad in the locked hall closet. She then retrieved the materials for her new assignment and got to work.

As she resecured the door, her new phone rang as expected.

She answered with a clipped British accent, “Sabrina Kittridge.”

The voice on the other end of the line was high-pitched and nasal. “Oh, yes, Ms. Kittridge, it’s Doctor Arvin Barnett.”

“Professor Barnett, I’m so glad you called.”

“Yes, well, I received your email, and I’d be happy to meet.”

“Wonderful. My late father’s foundation generously supports scientific research, and your lab is on my shortlist.”

“Oh, eh, yes, wonderful, wonderful. You mentioned in the email you were coming to London.”

“Yes, next month. My solicitors demand too much of my time.”

“I could certainly make myself available for lunch or tea.”

Stella used her best sultry voice. “I was rather hoping we could have dinner. That way, I won’t be a slave to the clock. I can just be a slave to you, Arvin. May I call you Arvin?”

“Absolutely,” he sputtered before she got the last word out. “I’ll get a table at Padella, oh, or the Ledbury if you prefer, Miss Kittridge, or is it Lady Kittridge?”

“It’s Sabrina. Why don’t we have dinner at my hotel? I’ll be staying at the Savoy.” Stella walked naked to the bedroom. She muted the phone as she yawned.

“That sounds lovely,” Barnett replied.

“Shall we say the evening of July 28th?”

“I’m marking it in my calendar as we speak.”

“I’ll meet you in the restaurant at eight.

Looking forward to seeing you in the flesh, Dr. Barnett.

” She ended the call before Arvin Barnett could stammer out anything else.

Setting the laptop on the small desk, Stella glanced out at the afternoon sunlight dancing on the Potomac River and pondered her new role: Sabrina Kittridge, aristocrat.

After what was sure to be a painfully dull dinner, she would flirt her way to a tour of Professor Barnett’s flat and begin installing surveillance.

It was just another job. Stella didn’t know why she felt so repulsed.

Stella padded through the bedroom to the dresser and pulled out a pair of black yoga pants and a hoodie.

Food could wait. Work could wait. She hadn’t slept in over forty-eight hours.

As she lowered the blackout shades, Stella saw the voicemail notification on her old Sofria Kirk phone.

She squeezed her eyes shut, knowing she wouldn’t sleep until she checked it.

The message was from Doctor Milton Abernathy, the other scientist she had been surveilling as Sofria Kirk.

Abernathy wasn’t prone to paranoia or even suspicion—the man bordered on gullible.

As a result, she rarely heard from him. Abernathy explained that he had received some sort of video from a former colleague named Casper Capelli and asked that she come to Princeton to take a look at it.

He suggested ten a.m. the day after tomorrow.

Stella began to text Dr. Abernathy that she was not able to come to Princeton as she was starting a new embassy assignment but stopped mid-message. She typed the name “Casper Capelli” into the search bar, and the headlines populated. Stella muttered, “What the hell?”

How had Milton Abernathy received a video from a man who’s been dead for over a year? What was this mysterious message that bothered Abernathy enough to contact her?

Stella deleted the words she had typed and sent Milton a different reply. Then she shut off the phone and climbed into bed.

Sofria Kirk would be making an encore performance.