Page 96 of Hunted

Because that could only mean one thing. Something we’d collectively been dreading for days.

Addie dropped her grin almost as quickly as we did, her instincts reacting to our sudden silence. Her sea-blue eyes flicked between us as we each pulled our phones from whichever pocket they’d occupied.

My shoulders slumped as I read the notification, and I knew the same would be true of the others as well.

“What is it?” she asked, voice guarded.

“Doctor Rick must have gotten your results back,” Van said.

“And sent them straight to Varco, bypassing us,” Beck growled, slamming his phone down on the counter.

“You just got your first target, Deadly,” I said, my heart stalling due to the ice in my veins. “They’re sending you in—tomorrow night.”

[ 35 ]

ADDIE

PARAMORE – MISERY BUSINESS

I suppressed a scowl for the fiftieth fucking time since sitting down at this bar, listening to the discordant waves of saxophone, piano, and electric guitar as they assaulted my eardrums. I’d never liked smooth jazz—it was too inconsistent. Too unpredictable. The notes my mind predicted were never the notes the musicians chose to play, and I was left reeling with the itching, jaw-clenching vexation of an unfulfilled melody.

But jazz was a common selection for high-end hotel bars. Something about it just seemed to scream sophistication—or the pretence of it, anyway. Or maybe it was that it was essentially aural wallpaper. A complementary backdrop to conversations about money, business, or both. Something that didn't detract from the rich making deals to get richer.

It was always more, more, more with these people. And I hated that some small part of me still felt unworthy of sitting at their bar, in their fancy hotel, in their designer clothes. That a scrap of my soul felt like I wasn’t worthy of their attention, however fleeting it might be.

Like I wasn’t actually the wolf within their flock of sheep.

The bartender placed a glass of something disgusting, fizzy, and golden in front of me, and I nodded my thanks.

Ugh, champagne.

I hated their fancy wine, too. Everything about this place—this assignment—chafed at me. But it was a role to play. A job to do. One I was being paid for, though the Academy would take the larger cut.

“You’re slumping, Ice Queen.” Hunter Beckett’s deep drawl sounded in my left ear, where the communication device I had almost forgotten about sat.

My gaze flicked up to the hotel’s security camera above the bar, the lens I was certain my boys were watching me from, in the nondescript Ford Transit parked down the block. I switched hands, readjusted my grip on the flute, and unironically flipped them off as I took my first sip.

Faint snickers buzzed through the comms as carbonation fizz danced across the tip of my nose, tickling it. The bubbles’ tiny caresses taunted me, mocking me with their implied joy.

Champagne was for celebrating. Everyone knew that. But tonight was no celebration—at least, not for me. And though it was technically a new job which should warrant celebratory champagne, and I was actually outside the Academy’s walls for the first time in almost two years, I didn’t feel any joy at the prospect of what I had to do to earn more nights out—to earn my team more nights out—or to earn every breath that passed through my lungs from here on out.

My mark didn’t need to know all that, though. The six-foot, solidly-built business tycoon had already clocked me sitting here—supposedly stood-up—in that very same ruby-red gown Beck had almost ruined.

He’d noticed, because I’d engineered it.

I had assaulted three out of five of his senses in a matter of minutes, drawing him in with the desire to experience more.

More, more, more.

I had entered the lounge just after nine in the evening, my Louboutins striking the tiles in sure, sharp strides. The ca-clack, ca-clack, ca-clack of my sexy red soles—the ones Beck hand-selected—tapped out the cadence of my pace like the opening beats of a song. A song that wasn’t at all drawn out and contradictory like jazz—thus, targeting my mark’s audition.

Where others were chaos, I was fluidity and predictability. And clad in an unadorned gown of deep, blood red, I stood out in the sea of endless beige.

Beige walls, beige furniture, beige people.

Targeting his vision.

My path to the bar was direct and just so happened to breeze right past him—just as my team manufactured, unbeknownst to the mark, of course. But that straight shot allowed my rich, satin skirts to stir up the expensive-smelling musk-and-lilac perfume Stanley picked out specifically for these missions.