That’s what is going through my mind as I stroll through the members’ lobby and spot Shep standing in a dimly lit corner, between an empty tufted leather chair and a bookcase filled with vintage titles. I know better than to assume he’s oblivious to his surroundings, but he’s almost statuesque in this upscale bootleggers’ lounge, studying something on his phone, like he’s waiting for someone to join him. He’s been through training at our camp, though he doesn’t take jobs for us. Not often anyway.
This isn’t the first time I’ve run into colleagues here, of course. But Shep is different.
He’s a closer. The guy who shadows the shadow, who assassinates assassins. You’d think that would make him hated by our kind. That assumption wouldn’t be completely off. It doesn’t earn him popularity in the well-liked sense. But someonehas to do that job, and he tends to extend mercy, which wins him respect.
Maybe it’s my paranoia, or all the cryptic things Axel said, or the fact that I haven’t given the client nearly as much as I would in a different scenario, but acid sloshes in my stomach and jumps to my esophagus, inflaming my insides with caution.
I think he might be here for me.
With all the poise drilled into me from finishing school, I smile and slide my hand over his bicep. “Hey. It’s been a long time. Good to see you.”
He immediately pulls me into a hug, like you would an old friend. And I suppose, in the detached, every-person-for-themselves-but-I’d-still-take-a-bullet-for-you-if-it-was-part-of-my-assignment way that assassins can be friends, he is. We did a big job together years ago, and it was messy. Our targets were rough and skilled and likely tipped off to our arrival. I shot one who was in the process of stabbing Shep in the neck. He still has a small white scar from where the blade penetrated. So, in an existential sense, he is here because of me.
I’d feel bad about the prospect of my death weighing on his conscience, but he’d be over it in a minute, and I’d be dead.
Keeping my voice low, I squeeze him back. “Are you working?”
“Just here for pleasure this week,” he replies. “You are though, right?”
That’s an interesting response. He’s not hiding that he knows I’m here on assignment, and I’m admittedly thrown off by that.
“I am,” I confirm, pulling back. “I’m dabbling in something different for a change. Helping the Noires with some translating.”
A knot appears between his brows so briefly that I’m almost not certain I saw it. And yet I am. He knew I was here onassignment, but he didn’t know the translation piece. I file that away because it means something.
“That sounds”—he searches for a word, a wry grin playing on his lips—“boring.”
A genuine laugh floats out of me as I hitch a shoulder. “It’s a day job.”
Most assassins live for the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline of the kills, the drugging swell of never being more than a silhouette of danger. So much so that sitting at a desk could be used as a torture tactic. That’s not my experience. I do love the rush, but I’ve enjoyed the respite from chaos—not that it’s been the vision of serenity, but it’s close. Or maybe I’m simply appeased by the rush I gleaned from the Noire king, who made me come three times and then banished me.
Or so I think that was his message. I’m not sure. The things I’ve heard about him, the way he was with me, and all the other issues between us clash with one another. I believe he’ll help me, but he’ll do it with me at arm’s length. As a man in his position should—I know that, but it doesn’t erase the sorrow.
I hid in my room all weekend, nursing my loneliness and researching as much as I could about KORT, nefarious media conglomerates, and Lev Popov—the Russian Mafia don who used a media source for something. But I didn’t share my findings—which were unfortunately not plentiful—with Tripp. I’m not sure why. I guess I thought I had time, and I foolishly hoped something would arise with Axel.
“To each their own,” Shep gruffs out, stuffing his phone in his pocket and crossing his tatted arms over his bulging chest. “How long is this day job?”
“Indefinite,” I answer.
He knows that could either be the truth or that I’m not at liberty to say.
“Well”—he scans the room with a heavy exhale that harmonizes with the soft jazz music, clinking glasses, and murmurs of celebrated subterfuge—“I was pissed about Claudia disappearing to do that whole Kratos mission, but maybe I get it now.”
I forgot he’d had an on-again, off-again fling with Claudia. Who doesn’t though? She must be in Kazakhstan now. I wasn’t briefed on the final details of the assignment. Some aren’t given until you’re in the field, but I’m guessing Kratos is the name of the secret society. From what I know, they’re a group of billionaires who collaborate on various projects and party regularly all over the world, which is exactly where Claudia would thrive, so she’s undoubtedly living it up. Shep’s irritation is warranted.
An ember of hope sparks inside me. His presence would make more sense based on that because Claudia was supposed to be the asset at La Lune Noire. She tends to do more spy work and long-term missions, so he’s probably used to sneaking in time with her. It would’ve been easy here.
I roll my eyes and extend a teasing chuckle. “I’d better get back to myboringday job. Maybe I’ll see you later. You said you’ll be here for a week?”
“Give or take. You know how it goes.” His obsidian eyes flick to me—emotionless and yet I read the threat all the same. “It depends if orders come in, but regardless, I won’t be here indefinitely.”
There’s a chill itching to break out on my skin, but I resist it, slanting my head with a syrupy smile. “Well, I hope you enjoy your stay.”
With all the calmness of someone who needs to return to work, I breeze through the lobby, deciding to skip lunch and head back to my suite to work from there. Maybe it is paranoia, but I think Shep just made us even by warning me my time isalmost up. I saved his life, and he’s affording me the opportunity to flee. Except I can’t.
I’ll have to get creative.
The next day, I meet with Amy—La Lune Noire’s head stylist and personal shopper—because she’s my best avenue into the computer system. Personnel access is restricted to the areas that link directly to an employee’s role. Amy’s is related to guests. Mine is not. But the wardrobe I brought with me is more limited than I’d prefer, so shopping in the late afternoon is a welcome method of gaining intel.
