Page 14

The first thing Tommy noticed when he woke in the all-white bedroom wasn’t the room, but the warmth pressed against his side.

Tessa.

Her head rested on his shoulder, her breath soft and steady against his chest. For a moment, the mission that had felt like a horror show felt distant, almost like it belonged to someone else.

He tightened his arm around her instinctively, his hand brushing the underside of her breast. He trailed his lips over her shoulder. She’d left the bandage off her wound, and he could see it was healing.

Last night, they’d both needed an anchor, a tether to steady them after the realization that Jessie wasn’t dead. Worse, she might be an active participant in something treasonous.

He refused to believe that his sister was anything but the morally upstanding person he’d relied on his whole life. There had to be more to it, and he knew it was going to be ugly, but he held onto that anchor even more now. The anchor that gave him hope that she had a good reason for what she’d done.

He couldn’t imagine what that would be. Couldn’t accept that she’d been alive all this time and misled them into believing she was dead. He wasn’t sure there was anything that could excuse that.

Tessa stirred, burrowing closer as if reluctant to wake and face the day. He brushed his mouth over her temple. “You’re hogging the covers,”

he murmured. The blanket was squarely over both of them, but teasing her awake came naturally.

Her lashes fluttered open. She squinted at him, her voice groggy but sarcastic. “That’s because you failed to keep me warm in this drafty old place.”

Sarcasm was good. “Is that so?”

He kissed her cheek, jawline, and ear, earning an annoyed huff from her. He pulled back the blanket and began trailing light fingertips over her bare chest, stomach, and hip. Her annoyance turned to squirming, and she slapped at his hand, laughing and pulling away.

He grabbed her and drew her under him, kissing her thoroughly. Of course, that led to more things, and soon they were entangled in each other and the sheets, finding a quick morning release.

Still breathing hard, she jumped when a knock sounded at the bedroom door.

“Breakfast is served in the dining room,”

came the maid’s voice. Tommy had learned her name was Moda. His driver at the airport was Randall. “Or would you prefer it in here, m’Lady?”

Tommy nibbled at her ear as she replied, giving a little squeal. “Dining room. We’ll be there shortly.”

“As you wish.”

Moda’s footsteps faded away.

Tommy rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow as he grinned down at her. “We didn’t order breakfast.”

“It comes with the place.”

She pushed at his shoulder and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Come on. We’ve got Russians to catch and ghosts to chase.”

His grin faltered. “Right. Russians, and ghosts. Can’t wait.”

They cleaned up quickly, and he held her hand as they wandered through hallways and landings until they found the dining room.

Breakfast was worthy of the estate, from poached eggs to freshly baked pastries that Tommy couldn’t resist. “So, this is how the other half lives,”

he said around a bite of quiche and a swig of freshly squeezed orange juice.

Tessa gave him a wry look over her cup of tea. “Finish your proper English breakfast. We have a lot to do.”

As soon as the plates were cleared, they went to an office. It didn’t look like her—more like a stuffy older man’s den--one who had too much money.

But money provided high-end technology. Tommy commandeered her laptop from the desk, his fingers flying over the keys as he dug into surveillance footage, cross-referencing it with timestamps from his previous sightings of Jessie.

He’d never thought to look before, but one of the videos he found from a security camera across the street from the cemetery showed a woman who could pass for Jessie. She was dressed in black and wearing a large, flamboyant hat and sunglasses.

While he continued digging for footage from cameras around the embassy, Tessa made phone calls.

Hearing only her side of them didn’t always make sense, but he lost himself in the following video clip from near the US Embassy in Bucharest—his last station.

His gut twisted as he watched what appeared to be his sister approaching an older man in an impeccable suit a block from the embassy’s parking lot the day he’d spotted her.

Their exchange was brief—a handshake, a few words—and then she’d climbed into a black Land Rover, and they’d driven off.

Tommy froze the frame on the license plate. “Got you,”

he whispered. He zoomed in on it—diplomatic plates.

It didn’t take long for him to trace the vehicle. It was registered to the LLC shell company he’d been investigating before the embassy riots—Kaltrain. A quick review of company records showed ties to a network of other LLCs and businesses he’d already connected to the Russian investors. The diplomatic tie was nonexistent, a cover.

Searching public databases, he combed through layers of bullshit records to find what he needed. He leaned back in the chair, catching Tessa while she was on hold. “I’ve got an address for this LLC.”

“Ilford?”

she asked.

He nodded, feeling the rush of adrenaline. Finally, they were on to something.

Tessa paced, the phone pressed to her ear as she worked an angle. She held up a finger to him as her call went through. Posing as a CIA employee, she introduced herself, putting the call on speaker for him to hear. “Dr. DeAnna Wyn.”

She was using her professional librarian voice. “I’m Contessa Vulpe from the Counterterrorism Department at the CIA. I’m following up on your meeting with Jessica Mendoza last year. Could you tell me about that discussion involving the superconductors she inquired about?”

The woman on the other end took a moment before responding. “I’m sorry. Who did you say you are?”

Tessa repeated her fake credentials. They’d been real at one time. “I’m following up on Ms. Mendoza’s files. Can you confirm the manufacturer of the superconductors?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You met with her on July seventeenth, correct? She had concerns about the ones your company placed in a set of military computers. Those are top-secret, special orders. You don’t remember?”

The accusation riled the doctor, and her reply was gruff. “I can confirm that I spoke to her. She wanted to know the process for the orders and how many had been shipped to the Department of Defense. She had clearance papers, so I shared that information. Until you have the same papers, this conversation is over.”

“I can put you through to my boss right now if you’d prefer to speak to him. He’s the grumpy, stressed-out director of Intelligence. Not a pleasant fellow, but it’s up to you.”

Dr. Wyn seemed to weigh her options. “I’d have to look up the details.”

“Did Ms. Mendoza ask about a man named Viktor?”

A pregnant pause filled the air. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

“Because she’s dead.”

There was a gasp, followed by a rushed response: “I’m sorry,”

the doctor said. “I can’t help you.”

The line went dead.

Tessa cursed under her breath, slapping the desktop with her palm. “I can’t tell if she was unnerved about the name or about Jessie being dead. She must not have seen the video or realized from the social media outcry afterward that she’d spoken to the victim of it.”

Tessa tapped her phone against her chin. “I sure would like to get a bug on her phone. We might have to go to Arizona after all.”

“Not necessary.”

Tommy clicked the mouse several times and entered the woman’s phone number into one of his software programs. “I learned this from a Chinese hacker. All I have to do is sync the software with her number…”

The laptop speaker suddenly picked up the sound of a ringing phone. Tommy grinned at Tessa. “Looks like our doctor is making a call.”

They could only hear her end of the conversation, and Tommy made sure to record it so they could replay it once they were done. Whoever picked up listened as the doctor gave them a replay of her conversation with Tessa. The person asked several questions, none of which the doctor could answer, about Tessa’s true identity or why she would be asking about the superconductors or Viktor’s name. It was obvious by her tone, which became more high-pitched and panicky, that whoever she spoke with had concerns that made the doctor even more uncomfortable.

The call didn’t last long, but it was enough for him to get the recipient’s number. After it ended, he fed that number into another piece of the software program with a database the CIA would be envious of. He watched as it filtered through millions of phones until it found a match. His screen lit up, a soft confirmative beep emitting from the speaker.

“Kaltrain,”

he muttered. Satisfaction made his grin turn predatory as he met Tessa’s eyes. “The same LLC as the Land Rover.”

She moved to peer over his shoulder. Her breath tickled his ear. “Can you cross-reference it along with that number to the name Viktor?”

“On it.”

He fed the information into a public search engine. Sometimes, the simplest way was also the quickest. A dozen hits came up, three of them with the name Viktor Renard.

“Renard,”

Tommy read aloud. He switched screens, scanning a website for one of the dozen LLCs he’d been investigating. “Why does that sound familiar? Ah… there you are.”

He tapped the screen as a photo appeared from a publicity shot at a board meeting. “V.C. Renard. He’s one of the board members but listed as absentee the night this photo was taken. His picture doesn’t appear in any of this company’s PR or social media, even though his name is on all the documentation and paperwork.”

When Tessa didn’t say anything, he twisted to look at her. Her face had gone slack, pale. “What is it?”

She swallowed. “Renard means fox in French. My last name—Vulpe—means fox in Latin.”

“That’s a weird coincidence.”

“There are no coincidences in this line of work.”

“You think there’s a link between you and this Viktor guy?”

The laptop chimed with a traffic alert. He opened the notification box. “The Rover just pinged a traffic cam.”

A side-by-side map showed the location. “It’s here. In London.”

When he met her eyes, he saw she didn’t believe this was a coincidence, either. “Not Ilford?”

she asked.

He shook his head. “It’s near Heathrow.”

The airport.

That rush of adrenaline spiked. Had someone—Jessie?—followed them here?

“We might be able to catch it,”

she said, detached again and seeming to read his mind.

He closed the laptop, swiped it off the desk, and stood. “Let’s go.”