KC slid them on, struck again by déjà-vu as her mind tried to smash together her life as a spy—she’d written the lion’s share of the code that could package, encrypt, and transfer raw data from these glasses—and her life with Yardley, on whose nose the very same glasses had perched more than once as she tipped her head, batted her eyes, and tricked a target into telling her more than they should.
It was a lot. This was a lot.
KC sat down, then sat down a different way when she realized that sitting her normal way flashed everyone. While she’d been getting ready, agents had slowly filtered into the room, bringing things Yardley must have requested. There were a number of murmured conversations.
Yardley handed her a tablet, awake and preloaded with KC’s cover. There was a photo of her in thumbnail with the pink hair and the glasses, so KC could only assume the mirrors in this room had cameras. She read over the name they’d given her, the background, the objective. Surreal. KC had compiled cover documents like this for other officers. “There is absolutely no way this is going to work,” she said, mostly to herself.
But when she looked up, she was startled to discover Yardley smiling the big, nose-crinkling, double-dimpled grin that signaled she was on the verge of breaking into laughter.
KC’s breath caught. She hadn’t seen that smile in forever.
“Is it so strange, really?” Yardley’s voice had dropped below the murmur in the room, for KC’s ears only. “Are we that surprised right now to find ourselves here? Even when I thought you were a web developer and told you I was a finance bureaucrat, we’ve always respected each other’s competence.”
KC couldn’t disagree. However much their connection had been stress-tested and warped beyond bearing by the lies they’d told in the past, Yardley was right that it didn’t feelstrangeto be here with her, doing this. They knew and respected each other. It wasn’t everything they’d had, but it was something.
Although, from what KC had heard earlier, it sounded like Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins had formed a pretty tight bond, too.
“If you truly don’t think it will work,” Yardley said, “now’s your chance to call it off.”
“No.” KC rose to her feet, aware of every muscle in her legs as they adjusted to the sensation of four new inches of height tipped forward at a forty-degree angle. “It’s never been thechallengethat’s kept me from trying to convince straight older men that I’m a lusty coed.”
Then Yardley did laugh—her best laugh, with the tiny third dimple that sank in at the top of her cheekbone—and KC took a deep breath and let herself relax.
The mission would be fine. KC would do her best, and so would Yardley. Together, they were more than the sum of their parts. Like Henry and Eliza, they had something.
KC wished she didn’t already know they could never pull off the ending.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wally’s Steakhaus, Navy Yard, the District
Sitting with her legs crossed in the comms van, Yardley entered Wally’s Steakhaus through KC’s eyes.
Reaching forward, she adjusted the view on her monitors to lighten up the gloom of the dim interior. She hadn’t appreciated that these cameras and biometrics were so good. She could practically smell the Wally’s mélange of too-sweet sandalwood colognes, malbec, and charred steak.
No wonder Atlas was always so in control. They kneweverything. She opened her display to include face recognition scanning of anyone KC ran into, in case it was useful, and also because it was cool.
The sleek tech and how well KC was doing so far made Yardley feel extremely fat with confidence. She had never fumbled a mission, and she wasn’t going to start now.
KC had never even heard of Wally’s Steakhaus, but Yardley was a regular. Wally’s was where the power-mad and morally centerless denizens of politics and espionage liked to broker, plan, and gloat. After what had gone down with Devon Mirabel in the Starbucks, Wally’s would be buzzing. Already while monitoring KC’s cameras, she’d spotted the son of a KGB double agent who had a very loose job description as a “consultant,” two lobbyistswith horses in the arms race, and a billionaire who was on MI6’s watchlist.
And every one of them—along with several others—had noticed the fresh-faced Georgetown undergrad leaning against the bar.
KC. Aka Caitlin Parr, a poli-sci major in her sophomore year and a budding indie fashion influencer. Her false eyelashes kept bonking into the lenses of her glasses. She’d told Yardley she felt like one of those spindly, dying crane flies that drifted around the porch light in the summer, but she looked like a runway model in those heels, and she’d absorbed Yardley’s crash course on the dynamics and players at Wally’s with impressive speed.
“Who’s taking care of you?” Mr. Son-of-a-KGB-agent made the first bid for KC’s attention, leaning next to her at the bar and signaling the bartender. He was a bit over six feet tall, obnoxiously lantern-jawed, with a thick, unmovable swoosh of chestnut hair. Over the years, Yardley had witnessed him work his wiles on any number of young women, but KC’s pulse did not pick up a single beat when he brushed against her upper arm.
“I think the tender’s checking if he has any prosecco in my price range for the Aperol spritz I ordered.” Yardley could hear the winsome smile in KC’s voice. Hilarious. KC could deadlift two hundred pounds. She was the farthest possible thing from winsome.
“The sun’s down. Spritzes are for picnics.” The man snapped his fingers at the bartender. “Pour a flute of that 2014 Roederer Cristal for this girl.” He rested his arm on the wall behind KC’s head and leaned closer. The picture was so clear, Yardley could’ve counted the pores on his nose.
“Maybe I don’t like champagne.” KC laughed but acceptedthe skinny flute from the bartender like she was born to the club. She took a sip. “Of course, that doesn’t stop my roommate and me from stealing bottles from her dad’s events for girls’ nights. He used to be a congressman.”
Okay, that was impressively smooth. Tabasco had some tricks up her sleeve.
“Who’s your roommate?” The man pulled a sterling-cased vape from his suit jacket’s inner pocket and tipped it toward her. She shook her head.
“Elizabeth Corners.” This was the name of a college-aged senator’s daughter who attended Georgetown and kept a low profile. KC had dropped it to showcase her cover’s insider connections.
