If I stop doing what they want?—
Another buzz has me moving, pulling my phone out and peering down at the screen.
A change in plans.
“Shit,” I whisper as I scan the text, my mind running through the consequences in rapid succession.
All of my work over the last few days goes up in smoke in an instant.
I need new clothes, need to do something about my hair—it still looks like I hacked it off with a chainsaw and I’m not going to get away with wearing a beanie or baseball hat.
I need a wig.
Then I need to conduct at least a bit of reconnaissance, exits and entrances, hiding places, getaway routes, a surefire way to slip in that won’t cause suspicion and I have less than an hour to do it.
I want to whine and stomp my feet in protest, want to curse and rage at this being my life.
But I don’t have time.
I need to make my exit and do it without raising any red flags.
I tug down the brim of my hat, slink toward the shadows, and wind my way through the thankfully busy lobby of the office building.
Genen-core is in biotech and though I didn’t have time to do more than get the highlights, I know that Jace Henderson is the CEO, that it’s one of the fastest growing companies in the US, and that I’m supposed to be inconspicuous in the lobby, waiting for the sign that the package has been dropped off.
Then I need to retrieve it without arousing suspicion and pass it off.
But the location has changed.
Hell, itallhas changed.
My phone buzzes again with an incoming call the moment I step outside.
(See? They’re always watching).
“Hello?” I answer as I hurry to my car.
“You’ll need to locate Christina Dawson’s office,” the cold voice on the other end says, ice all but crawling through my phone’s speakers as I listen to my newest orders. “She runs an animal charity.”
I frown.
That doesn’t seem to fit our normal modus operandi.
“Her father owns Oak Ridge vineyards, where the fundraiser will be held this evening. Jean-Michel”—my eyes flare as I place the names, mostly because everyone knows how powerful Jean-Michel Dubois is—“will no doubt have security in place, but we’ll get you in through the temp agency that’s supplying workers for the event tonight.”
“Is he the target?”
“No. Christina is.”
My frown deepens because none of this feels right. “And what happens to her?”
“She’s about to have a really bad night.”
“I—”
“The drive is in your car,” the voice says, clearly having run out of patience. “Just download the files to her laptop and get out. They’ll be too busy dealing with the shitstorm that follows to worry about anything that’s happening with us.”
“But—”
