Sighing, she rubbed sleep out of her eyes, the cold chill of failure sweeping into the furthest reaches of her body.
She was on her own, the mission one of utmost importance to the United States. Capture one notorious mercenary before he managed to assassinate a prominent American businessman intown on business. Stephen Wallace was rich and very influential, the founder and CEO of the largest internet services company in the world. He also had his share of enemies, especially since the man had foiled three attempts from foreign nationals attempting to break into the United States Government database. There were even reports he’d invented a type of computer security system that was impenetrable. Any country who got their hands on it could alter the balance of power. She’d been given certain specifics, but not the exact reason why the mercenary wanted the man dead. Need to know basis.
But she certainly had come to her own conclusions.
As far as the mercenary, the FBI had yet to learn his name, although there’d been countless rumors regarding his possible identity. Some said he was a lone wolf, taking missions to the highest bidders. Others said he was calculated, working with what had been referred to as a consortium. Either way, the man was considered lethal. In and out in less than ten minutes.
There were too many red flags flying in the back of her mind. She would hunt down this Officer Renier one way or the other. If he wasn’t who he said he was, the asshole would have hell to pay.
Mr. Wallace had missed his usual nightly Blackjack game, the reason for her roleplay in the first place. The man was a creature of habit, which was terrible given her effort to keep the man alive. And on the very night when she was going to guide him to safety then catch the bad guy, he’d been a no-show.
Or least she thought so. Who knows. Maybe he’d arrived later than normal when she was… fucking a stranger.
Hissing, she glared at the handcuff then around the room. There was no sign of good ole Pierre. Of course not. Who in the hell was he? Her mind continued to reel.
First things first. Deal with the predicament she was in. She wiggled with the metal, realizing that he’d adjusted the band, preventing her from sliding out as she’d done in the elevator. She would have to find another way.
The phone was on the other nightstand, not that she really wanted to call the front desk. There was no telling when the maid might arrive, and even then, she certainly didn’t want this public knowledge. She was already a laughing stock, at least in her mind.
Sophia opened the nightstand drawer, picking through the limited crap that was inside. There was a pen, one of the old-fashioned kind with a metal clip. Maybe, just maybe it would work.
As she finagled it into both hands, managing to break the clip with ease, she thought about Pierre, forced to admit to herself that he was one hot man and the sex had been amazing. His body was carved in all the right places, as if chiseled out of the finest French stone.
Even though the asshole certainly wasn’t French.
She knew her accents flawlessly, just like she did her weapons. While his dialect was masterful, she’d heard just enough inflection changes to know he was faking it. He was also damn good at playing a part, convincing enough to capture her once again.
Grumbling wasn’t going to do her any good.
After almost dropping the clip three times, she managed to slide the broken tip into the tiny hole. Another twenty minutes and she heard the click. “Fuck.”
Finally freed, she searched the entire room for any signs that this had even been his suite. Everything appeared neat and tidy, the same as after the room had been cleaned, which meant he did have something to do with the hotel or…
He was a criminal.
What if Pierre was the mercenary? She thought about the concept, hating every thought racing through her mind. The possibility was too disgusting, but plausible. Up to this point, the FBI had only seen two supposed photographs of the man affectionately termed ‘The Player’ given the assassin was well known for altering his appearance for whatever job he was performing. The photographs had been taken from surveillance cameras and from a distance, eliminating the possibility the man could be recognized on sight. There were no real labels on his attributes or characteristics. He was also a very graceful and brilliant chameleon. That pissed her off even more.
From what the FBI director had told her, the CIA was only remotely more well-versed in the assassin and his methods. The Player was a hired gun, reported as the most expensive in the world and always one hundred percent effective.
Was Pierre that savvy? She couldn’t risk not knowing.
The unknown assailant was on the most wanted list of almost every major country in the world. Everyone wanted a piece of him, including the United States.
What she’d learned was that The Player had a weak spot. A man with a conscience. His last target had lived through thefirst attempt on his life, enjoying his world for another three days. The assassin had also broken his usual protocol, leaving evidence at the scene, tracks made by heavy hiking boots. That certainly wasn’t enough to secure an identity at this point, but the mistake was to be noted. Sadly, the target had been extinguished on the second attempt, but at least he’d been alone.
The FBI was risking everything for this mission, completely out of their typical jurisdiction, but they hadn’t been able to stop Mr. Wallace from leaving the country. Sophia had taken a crash course in everything, leaving on a plane in less than forty-eight hours after FBI Director Jeff Montgomery had called her into his office. She was in way over her head but determined to hunt the fucker down, now more so than ever.
Maybe she was jetlagged. Maybe she was just psychotic.
Another set of red flags flew high as she dressed, grabbing her shoes and purse. The bastard had even gone through her clutch. Of course he had.
She remained incensed as she headed to her room, fortunately slinking inside without anyone noticing her. She immediately went to the safe, cursing the entire time she secured her weapon, laptop, and the burner phone she used to contact her director. Fortunately, it was still in the middle of the night on the East Coast, allowing her time to fix her giant fuckup.
Now, how the hell to do it.
After securing an internet line, she scoured the news sources from England to France, searching for any story indicating Mr. Wallace’s death. At this point, there was nothing. That didn’t mean a hell of a lot, but it was a start. She checked theinner office emails and there was no new information from the director either.
Next on her agenda? One long and hot shower, to wash off the disgrace. That might take several showers.
