Except Tashi was sitting across from me in this limo, her eyes still bright from the tour’s success, her skin flushed from champagne and adrenaline, and every instinct told me to stay.
“Go,” she said, reading my face. “Handle it.”
For the first time in my life, I would rather not attend to duty. But I left the limo and double-timed it into the hotel, all the while regretting leaving Tashi there alone.
I took a private elevator to the security nest, where access was only granted to select personnel. I found Neville sitting at a multi-screen setup, running different programs that I assumed dug through data.
“Well?” I said, more gruffly than I intended.
“Aren’t you grumpy?”
“This better be good.”
“Hot date?” Neville said. He eyed my $6500 jacket, an indulgence to keep up with my peacock brothers.
“I didn’t bring you here at your inflated retainer for editorial. What do you have?”
He raised his eyebrows and swiveled to face his screens. “It’s sophisticated work, keeping the feeds intact but routing a stream to another location.”
“Which location?”
“I’m still working on that. But, Ares, this isn’t just top-tier work, it’s government agency grade.”
“What kind of agency?”
“Spy agencies.”
The words hit me like a bucket of ice water. “Why would?—”
“I can’t tell you that, Ares. Is there something I should know?”
“Nothing that hasn’t been made public in the last six months.”
“Well, what I found out was that before Ms. George checked in, the security feed in her corridor had been disabled. We have no film on who entered that room and sabotaged that microwave.”
“Did you check the key card access?”
“Again, wiped.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Before she even arrived? Before that room was assigned to her? It doesn’t make sense that the microwave sabotage happened before her room got assigned.”
“Maybe she wasn’t a target?” said Neville.
I shook my head. “You’re saying that the saboteur planned an attack against the hotel, not Tashi. But it doesn’t feel right.”
“I’ve always trusted your instincts, Ares. Back in Afghanistan, you always knew when we were about to get hit. But maybe your instincts are dulled by all your high living, eh?” He cast a skeptical glance at my jacket again.
“I haven’t lost my edge, Neville. Keep digging and make yourself worth your retainer.”
He scoffed. “For that crack, you owe me a bottle of Macallan, thirty years old.”
“Just the thirty? It’s only five thousand a bottle.”
“I’m not greedy,” Neville said.
“Keep digging. Find something actionable. Then you’ll have earned that whiskey.”
I walked away, nagged by implications and shadows.
