Page 126 of Hard Heart

The “missions” part was a clue; Jez was sure of it. In all those words, that one was the explanation for why he’d abandoned her. He’d lived in Northern Virginia, near DC, near the Pentagon, near Langley. And that was where she’d gone to look for him. Or at least, for answers.

She’d struck out until she realised what Echo was doing in the basement. Echo minimised windows fast, but Jez was quiet, and she’d seen the CIA logo on her screen. They’d struck a deal. Jez would make as much coffee as Echo wanted, and Echo would find out what she could about Jez’s father, but she didn’t find much. A handful of foster parents who remembered a quiet boy passing through their home. A mention in a high-school yearbook, although all record of his graduation had been lost. Jeremy Pope had spent time in the US Army before moving to the CIA, and from there…nothing. Nothing until Jez had followed in his footsteps and joined the Army herself, but instead of the CIA, she’d stepped sideways into a military-adjacent unit with more leeway when it came to approach.

The point teams did what others couldn’t. They fixed problems by whatever means necessary, and they did it under the radar. Tread softly, hit hard; that was their motto. Point Team Golf, aka the Choir, was the first all-female team, although their boss was a dude. Rayner Chapelle, aka Pale, aka Church, aka Priest. The longer you stayed alive in that world, the more nicknames you got.

At the time of Jeremy Pope’s disappearance, his codename had been Jericho.

Priest found out what he could, stories told through whispers and late-night slipups, so Jez knew her father had dropped off the radar while working under non-official cover. Was he alive or dead? No body had ever been found, but Jericho had fallen silent.

Half her DNA and ninety percent of her personality had come from him, so she became her father’s daughter. His blood shaped her, and memories of Ruby lying broken on the bed pushed her on when her strength was ebbing. Anger became fuel. Sorrow became strength.

And now she found out that Ruby herself could have set those events in motion?

Make no mistake, the person responsible for her death was Eight. But if she’d brought him to the house, shared details of her life, let him in…

Ruby, what did you do?

Jez dialled Grey, but his long-suffering chief of staff picked up. Ava had been with him since he started his campaign, and the woman deserved an award for not quitting or throwing a brick at his head. Greyson Meyer wasn’t the biggest asshole Jez had ever met—think butt plug rather than fisting—but it had come as no surprise when he went into politics.

“I need to speak with Grey,” she told Ava. “It’s Jez.”

“He’s in a meeting.”

“Are we talking congressional committee or getting his nails buffed?”

There was a long pause. “I’ll fetch him.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

The next voice she heard was Grey’s. “This had better be important.”

“Your pedicure can wait.”

“I’m not getting a damn pedicure.”

“Haircut, whatever. Did you know Ruby was working as a prostitute?”

His silence gave Jez the answer, and she began rethinking her asshole assessment.

“You didn’t think it might be worth mentioning, say, ten fucking years ago?”

“Under the circumstances, I didn’t think it was necessary. We all knew Levi did it.”

“Except he didn’t, did he?”

“Ruby wasn’t bringing clients home. And it wasn’t even a regular thing—she just helped Tina out when a client wanted two girls.”

“Tina as well? Fuck.”

“There’s no need to be so judgmental. I firmly support a woman’s right to choose what she does with her body.”

“Even if that includes being murdered?”

“Of course not. Which is why I’m introducing federal legislation to legalise and regulate sex work—it’ll improve worker safety, be a win for public health, separate sex work from organised crime, and⁠—”

“I don’t care about your fucking legislation, Grey. I care that Levi’s sitting in prison, and that a killer with a reasonably taut ass was hiding in our house for five fucking days.”

“Say what?”