My stomach rumbles—or feels like it does—and shit. I haven’t eaten since the tiny breakfast sandwich SwissAir offered before we landed and a single puff pastry at the party. “I’d kill for a club sandwich or a burger.Anything,really.”
“I’ll take care of it. I don’t need to…leave or anything, right?”Marina’s lips curve into a frown.“I’ve never seen her like this.”
“Emotional overload. And no. You don’t need to leave. She needs you. But from now until this is over, I’m staying here with her. Wren hacked the hotel reservation system so I’m listed as the second guest in this room and you’re staying next door.”
“What?”Sloane asks.
I programmed her voice into my phone after I talked to her in the bar, and her question appears in red text across the lenses of my glasses.
Skirting the couch, I take a seat next to her and hold her watery gaze. With every blink, a hint of brown appears around her blue irises. “You wear contacts? Your file didn’t mention corrective lenses.”
She doesn’t expect the question and shakes her head. “My file?”
“Sweetheart, I’m CIA. For a little longer anyway. And the guys I work for? They don’t take jobs unless they run a full background check on the client. I memorized just about everything in your file on the flight from Boston. And I know at least part of what’s in there is a bald-faced lie.”
Sloane jerks back, and if I could kick myself, I would. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I’m not accusingyouof lying. I have a pretty good idea why your file’s full of half-truths and fairy tales. But now that I’m here and we’ve seen how serious this is…I need you to tell me the truth. All of it.”
A few tears escape her lower lids, and she swipes them away with my handkerchief. The sight of it, the dark blue stitching all around the edges, gives me a strange warm feeling deep inside.
Nodding at the pill case, I start with a simpler question. “Did you take what you needed?”
She flinches and whips her head around as the wordKnockingflashes across my glasses.
“Don’t answer it,” I say sharply, stopping Marina in her tracks.
“But you told me to order room service—”
“I know. Doesn’t mean you throw open the door for just anyone.” What I wouldn’t give for my Sig right now. Dax had a pistol, ammo, a shoulder harness, and various other tools and weapons waiting for me when I checked in, but the gun is a last resort. One-handed shooting isn’t half as reliable as the movies and TV make it out to be.
Dipping my right hand into my pocket, I slide my fingers through a set of brass knuckles. My cross is pretty damn effective, but I’ll take whatever extra power I can muster.
I canfeelSloane and Marina watching me as I check the peephole and close my prosthetic hand around the knob. “Who is it?” I call.
“Room service, Mr. Griffin.”
Opening the door, I offer the uniformed bellhop a tight smile. “I’ll take it from here, thanks.” He nods, and I ease the rolling cart into the room before shedding the brass knuckles and pulling a ten franc note from my pocket instead. “For your trouble, mate.”
Marina takes over as soon as the door closes, setting a tall glass of thick green liquid in front of Sloane, my club sandwich and fries on the table next to it, and cradling her own plate like it’s a slice of heaven rather than simply chocolate cake.
“Sloane, you need to eat,” I say when I’ve double-checked the locks and joined her on the couch again. I didn’t think it was possible for her to look any smaller, but somehow, she’s managed to wedge her body into a ball in the corner of the sofa. She doesn’t react, and I glance over at Marina for help.
“You try getting a model to eat when she doesn’t want to.”
Snagging a french fry, I offer it to her, and she shakes her head. “No salt before a press conference.”
Is it my imagination? Or does she look at the fry like it’s theonlything she wants in this entire world?
I touch her arm so she’ll turn toward me. “The first time I saw a dead body out in the field, I puked on my SFO’s shoes.”
“SFO?” she asks.
“Senior Field Officer. My boss at the CIA. I was a junior officer, working in Afghanistan, and the Taliban killed one of our informants.”
“How long were you CIA?” Sloane reaches for the smoothie and takes a single sip. It’s a start.
“Almost ten years. Still am, technically. Though, I don’t expect I will be for long after this op.” A little wrinkle appears between her perfectly plucked blond brows, and I rush to explain, hoping she’ll relax, at least a little. “This isn’t exactly on the books. And what we’re about to do? Verynotlegal.”
“What are we about to do?”
