Page 129 of Seven
I killed the mic before my anger got the best of me and I told him something I couldn't take back.
My eyes cut back to the mirror. I hated the face that looked back—too much of it exposed. My skin itched with the lack of cover. I'd ditched everything in the car, changed in the back seat. The only weapon I carried was my small trusty blade strapped to my ankle. Thank fuck, guards here didn't pat anyone down. This wasn't that kind of event after all.
The invitation was bogus. So was the name I used. Viper was very good at creating QR codes and identities that didn't exist but checked out whenever needed. Although his chatty ass irritated me most of the time, he was one useful motherfucker.
I looked at my reflection one last time.
My cheekbones were sharp. My jaw freshly shaved. Hair slicked back, but it didn't want to stay in place, so a few wavy strands fell over my forehead and almost reached my eyes. I didn't mind. It'd be easier to hide from cameras. My eyes though gave me away as someone who didn't belong. Always too cold, too hungry. I forced them into softness. Practiced the smile. The old faded scar in the corner of my mouth pulled a little. I'd gotten it on my first job while running away from the pursuer. Face-planted in the debris while jumping off the building. It was the dumbest way to get your body marked.
The Bureau trained us how to blend in, showed us how to seamlessly fit into any crowd by mimicking various emotions. I just hadn't had the need to do this kind of work for a while. I'd been operating in the shadows for the past six years. Now, I had to look and act human again.
Let's go. Get in. Get out. No witnesses. No mistakes.
I turned, wiped my prints from the faucet with a paper towel, then tossed it into the toilet and flushed.
The ballroom looked like someone had set a jewelry store on fire and filled it with people who'd only ever seen violence or middle-class neighborhoods on TV.
Banners hung from the rafters, gold script on blue.
EmpowerHer: Uplifting Women Leaders
I almost wanted to laugh at this. The wife of a man who was a habitual abuser and a rapist was organizing the event.
Oh, the irony.
The air buzzed with the energy of a thousand rich people pretending to care about something for just long enough to be seen caring.
I walked in, let the first wave of sight and sound hit me, and then started counting threats. Four suited up guards—rent-a-cops with earpieces and dumb, fat hands. Two more in the corner, double checking the guest list against the entry scans. The rest were civilians—donors, trustees, political climbers, influencers. Every one of them in an expensive suit or a dress, every one of them moving through the room like they owned it.
I kept my head down and drifted left along the edge of the floor. A force of habit made me keep my face at an angle to avoid being caught on cameras despite Viper's promise to tamper with the feed enough to erase me from the footage.
My target was easy to spot.
Celine Valmont.
Emerald dress, hair in a classic twist.
She floated from group to group, always laughing at the right decibel. Right now she stood between two old men in tuxedos, their hands hovering in the air like they wanted to buy a piece of her and couldn't quite figure out the price.
I cut a straight line through the crowd, keeping to the blind spots, never stopping long enough for anyone to lock on me. My feet were killing me. I missed the boots. The shoes slipped on the tile every three steps.
I closed to ten feet, slowed my pace, took a glass of wine off a passing tray and pretended to sip. At five feet, I let the crowd push me a little closer, close enough to hear her voice.
She was talking about fundraising, about the need for new programs, about how this year's goal was to double last year's. Her words were soft but forceful, the kind that made men listen and feel like they were part of something meaningful even as they plotted their next dirty deal.
I waited for the two old men to laugh. When they did, I moved to stand next to her side, slipped my arm around her elbow and whispered in her ear with a smile on my lips, "Don't make a scene, Mrs. Valmont. Just follow me."
She didn't flinch when she turned her head to look at me. Her eyes landed on my face. She smiled back, dazzling and dangerous. "I'm busy." Her voice was low, meant for me only.
"And I have the means to ruin your and your family's reputation with one phone call," I murmured with an answering smile of my own, squeezing my fingers aroundher arm.
"I see." She nodded. "Of course." She shifted her attention to the men. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen. I need to handle something urgent."
They both bowed slightly and she walked with me without saying a word. She moved slowly and elegantly. But under the surface, I could feel her tension. Her chin was up, the smile fixed, but every now and then, her breath would hitch.
"Who are you?" she asked as we cleared the crowd.
"Someone who needs a minute of your time." I steered her gently, not enough for anyone to notice, but enough to guide her through a side door toward the kitchen.
