Page 4 of Fox in Plain Sight

3

This wasn’t going to be quite as easy as he’d thought at first.

For starters, the IP address Nick had traced had led him to the Foggy Bottom neighborhood of D.C., an area that not only housed George Washington University, but also the George Washington Medical Center and numerous government buildings ranging from the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund to the Federal Reserve Building and the Department of the Interior.

In addition, the address wasn’t a private home, or even an office. It was a coffee shop with free WiFi access. Anybody with a laptop could hook into the coffee shop’s free internet and be on their IP address. An extremely odd choice for the computer genius with whom Nick had been at odds during the last few weeks. Why would somebody risk working on an open internet connection where others might be able to listen in? Or was it pure genius, hiding in plain sight?

Nick glanced around the coffee shop. At least two dozen students, young doctors, and suits were hunched over their laptops, working, surfing, and reading. At first glance, none of them looked like a hacker, but then, what exactly did a hacker look like? He knew that appearances could be deceptive.

Was he the scruffy student, who was balancing his laptop on his knees while eating a muffin with one hand? Or the young woman in the white doctor’s coat and the dark circles under her eyes, eyes that kept falling shut while she stared intensely into her computer monitor? Maybe the heavy-set black guy in the gray suit was the man in question, trying to divert any suspicion by looking all businesslike with his manicured nails and trendy haircut.

In short, it could be anybody.

This would take some time. He might as well get comfortable and find a corner from which to watch the comings and goings. Sooner or later, his CIA training would kick in, and he’d pick up on the tells his suspect was giving off. He’d learned that nobody could hide his true nature forever. Particularly once they relaxed and let down their guard, their true self emerged, and Nick would be there, waiting for him to make a mistake. He’d waited three years to get this close to the information he needed; he could wait a few days longer.

Behind the station where the baristas were taking orders and preparing fancy custom coffee drinks, it was buzzing like a beehive. Like a well-oiled machine, the employees shouted drink orders to each other: single shot this, no-foam that, half-caf the other. Even one of the employees could be his guy. They all got breaks during their shifts. Anyone of them could go in the back where they kept supplies and spend a few minutes on a computer. It would be a great cover. And who would suspect a minimum-wage barista?

“Double shot, no-whip mocha for Nick.”

Upon hearing his drink called out, Nick pivoted and snatched his overpriced coffee from the bar.

“Ouch!” he hissed and set it back down.

“Sleeves.” The employee behind the counter pointed to a basket with cardboard cup protectors, before calling out the next drink. “Triple shot, grande latte for Michelle.”

“Thanks.” He slipped a sleeve around the hot paper cup, took his drink, turned on his heel—and instantly froze.

Only his extremely fast reaction saved him from colliding with the young woman who’d approached the counter for her latte. Instead, Nick jerked backward, hitting the counter with his back. The impact made him involuntarily tighten his grip on his coffee cup. The plastic lid popped off and the hot mocha splashed over the rim, spilling over the front of his T-shirt.

“Shit!” he cursed as the hot liquid touched his skin.

Instinctively jerking back from the burning coffee, his elbow hit something behind him. Nick shot a look over his shoulder just as the latte the barista had called out for the next customer spilled onto the counter.

“Well, great!” the woman he’d nearly crashed into grumbled beneath her breath. “I really needed that latte.”

Yeah, and he needed not to be making a spectacle of himself.

Way to stay under the radar, Nick.

Setting his half-spilled drink onto the counter, he flashed the barista who was already cleaning up the mess a quick smile. “So sorry, I’ll pay for it, of course.”

“No worries, I’ll make another one.” She looked past him. “Michelle, just a minute, okay?”

“Thanks,” the female customer—Michelle presumably—answered.

Nick nodded. “Much appreciate it. But I’ll pay for it.”

He turned around to face the woman the barista had addressed and froze once more, when he caught something flashing silver. Instinctively, he focused on the pendant around her neck. A spotlight from the ceiling reflected off the shiny surface, giving it emphasis when at any other time Nick wouldn’t have given the item a second glance. It was probably not even made of silver, maybe just of steel or aluminum. But its shape was undeniable: it was a tiny Guy Fawkes mask, the same kind the hacker cooperative, Anonymous, used as their symbol.

This couldn’t be a coincidence. What were the odds of somebody wearing this type of keepsake in the same coffee shop he’d traced the hacker to? Nick was no betting man, but he would put his money on this woman.

Slowly, he lifted his eyes and looked at her for the first time.

His breath hitched, air fleeing his lungs. Red lips was the first thing he saw. Full and plump, slightly parted, showing perfectly straight, white teeth. Her skin was olive as if she came from the Mediterranean. There was a golden sheen of perspiration on her face. Not surprising, since it was muggy as hell in the city, and even in the air-conditioned interior of the coffee shop, it was warm.

Blue eyes framed by dark lashes looked at him, assessing, questioning, curious. But he didn’t let that deter him from scrutinizing her, because it wasn’t the ex-CIA agent in him inspecting her, it was the man in him, the one whose blood was rushing to his groin with a speed he couldn’t quite comprehend. All he knew was that this woman intrigued him on so many levels, the least of which was a professional one.

In dark blond waves, her hair fell to her shoulders, drawing attention to her spaghetti-strap top with the built-in bra that accentuated her firm breasts— which were the perfect size for her lean five-foot-seven frame. Her cleavage was of the same olive skin as her face, a skin that tanned easily. And perhaps without tan lines. Not that his mind should go in that direction. After all, he wasn’t here to pick her up. Not for any romantic reasons anyway. Though, of course, to further his mission, he needed to get close to her. Just how close he didn’t know yet.

For an instant, he wished that this woman wasn’t the hacker he was after, but simply a regular customer of the quaint coffee shop. But the pendant and the computer bag that was slung bike-messenger-bag-like across her torso suggested otherwise.

“Uh… sorry… uh…” he stammered, both to convey the hapless man, but also because for a second he did feel just a little bit tongue-tied at so much physical perfection. “Uh, Michelle, is it?”

She tilted her head to the side, suspicious now. “How—?”

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “The barista called out your latte; the one I spilled. Sorry about that again.”

Michelle seemed to relax. “No worries.” She motioned to his torso. “At least you spilled your drink on yourself and not on me.”

Nick flashed a warm grin, knowing that it was one of his special assets, one that made women feel comfortable with him. “Yeah, bit clumsy of me, wasn’t it?” He reached for a napkin from the counter and patted the stain on his shirt, but there was no way of removing it. All he could do was pat it as dry as possible. “Well, guess that one’s ruined.”

Michelle chuckled. “Brown looks good on you.”

Nick winked and used her light-hearted response to draw her in further. “Yeah, sure, have your fun. Laugh at the guy who’s just made a fool of himself in front of a pretty woman.”

The resulting blush on her cheeks looked good on her and confirmed that his charm was working. This would be the angle he could use to get to her and find out what she knew. With a bit of luck, he’d know in a few days—maximum a week—whether she could help him get what he needed.