Niall had raised an eyebrow, probably amused by a sullen teenager’s demands.Money?he’d asked.We pay our interns well.
No,she’d answered.A ticket out of this town.
He’d looked questioningly at her.One way?
She’d nodded.Tomorrow. Today, if you can.
She was still grateful that Niall had never once asked about her home situation. Maybe it was because he worked for a spy group and already knew everything there was to know about her. Or maybe it was because he’d recruited before from the kind of run-down town she came from, because he knew those towns were full of people yearning to escape.
Whatever the reason, he’d said,We can arrange anything.
She hadn’t believed him. Nor she did understand whowewere. But there had indeed been a black car waiting for her outside her driveway by the time she arrived home an hour later. She hadn’t even bothered stepping back inside the house.
“You sound especially unhappy today,” Sydney now told him. “It must be a very good mission.”
“Don’t get me started,” Niall replied. “You’re headed to London. We need you to play at being a bodyguard for some parties.”
“Sounds like babysitting to me. Who’s celebrating?”
“One Eli Morrison.”
A tremor of excitement and fear jolted through Sydney at the name. “You’re putting me on a Morrison operation?” she hissed through her teeth.
“If we do it right, it’ll be the last Morrison operation.”
Sydney could recall the CIA targeting Eli Morrison at least four times in the past, each a fresh attempt to put the man behind bars, each failingbecause they couldn’t get close enough or gather enough evidence or were defeated by some high-ranking official secretly in the tycoon’s pocket. Sydney had seen news footage of the man at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new children’s hospital in Hamburg at the same time his operations delivered thirty tons of cocaine through the city’s port; of him shaking hands with France’s president for a photo and then, hours later, hearing intel reports that he’d beaten a hostage to death with a hammer; of him resting in a chair, sipping wine, while his men massacred an entire family at an undisclosed location. He was the kind of man that haunted Sydney’s dreams, the type who understood how to hide his monstrosities behind a good suit and posh accent and powerful friends. The kind who knew how to slip through the cracks.
“Mission details?” she asked.
“We have the rare opportunity to get two operatives into his inner circle—and you’re going to be one of them. Morrison needs to see someone he will underestimate, someone he’ll relax around. You’re one of our brightest, kid, and with all due respect, there’s not much on you interesting enough to dig up.”
“And who am I bodyguarding? Who’s the second operative?”
Niall hesitated. “He’s a bit famous,” he finally said.
Her excitement shifted to skepticism. “That so? Anyone I’ve heard of?”
“Does the name Winter Young ring any bells?”
Sydney stared blankly, then squeezed her eyes shut. She must not have heard that correctly. The billboards outside her house were still playing videos of his face.
“Hello? Still there?”
“You’re sending a pop star as our in?” she said incredulously.
“Air your grievances to Sauda, not me,” he said with a sigh. “But we’ve never been successful at getting an agent this close to Morrison. Winter Young has been personally invited to put on a private concert for the birthday of Morrison’s daughter, and it’s the best opportunity we’re ever going to get.”
“No.”
“I know you hate musicians, but hear me out.”
“Youareputting me on a babysitting mission, aren’t you?”
“If it helps, we had a chat with him in the car and he seemed pleasant enough, if a little sarcastic.”
“I can’t wait,” she said.
“It’s like you two are the same person, really.”
