Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 101840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“I’ll call Demarius to meet you outside. He’ll take you home.”
He stood and wiped his hands quickly, tossed the used towel in the nearby sink, before straightening his clothes and zipping his pants.
“Appreciate it, man. Take care.” He turned toward the stairs, seemingly unbothered by my dismissiveness.
“Wait,” I said, reaching for my wallet. I pulled out ten hundred-dollar bills and handed them over. “Thank you.”
He stared at the money for a beat before looking up at me. The pink of his cheeks darkened. “Yeah, er… thanks. See ya.” He took the money and hurried down the stairs.
After watching him go, I slunk up to my bedroom, feeling a strange sensation in my chest and stomach that didn’t have anything to do with the fact that I’d just let a man suck me off… and everything to do with the fact I already wanted him to do it again.
“Too bad,” I muttered to myself as I yanked off my clothes and tossed them in the laundry bin. It was a onetime thing, and now it was done. The next time I needed a quick fuck, there were any number of women I could call without losing a thousand dollars in the process.
Just like after the encounter at the Candy Bar, I vowed not to think of Jett again.
And just like after the night at the Candy Bar, I failed. Epically.
I kept reminding myself it was the skill, not the man. Anyone with a mouth that talented would’ve gotten me off. The stubble scratching my thighs, the masculine strength in the hands gripping my ass—those were just… details. Irrelevant details.
No matter how many times I repeated it to myself, I couldn’t get the kid out of my mind.
Three months later, I finally broke down and went to 47 Market Street. But the woman who answered the door said no one matching Jett’s description had ever lived there.
He was a ghost.
5
JETT
The Hamburg job came at the perfect time. I couldn’t get Locke Maris off my mind and had been on the verge of doing something very stupid, like knocking on his front door and begging him to fuck me, when Rocky called me in for an emergency meeting that stole all my focus.
Today’s shoes were Big Bird–yellow Crocs thrown on over thick, mismatched wool socks and worn with jeans and an MIT hoodie. Her ensemble, more than anything else, indicated how serious this case was.
“I need you to relocate to Germany for six to eight months,” she said, clicking her laptop keyboard until a giant case file flashed on the giant wall monitor at the end of the room. “We have a situation developing near Bremen, but we believe it involves water routes near Hamburg.”
As she began explaining the developing situation—environmental activists serving as a distraction for a weapons smuggling ring using the Elbe and Weser Rivers—I felt a familiar excitement wash over me.
This. This was why I’d joined ESP.
I wanted adventure and excitement, challenge and intrigue. I also wanted to help. To make a difference. To be one of the global good guys. And an opportunity like this was pretty rare for an agent without years of experience.
“Why me?” I asked, quickly adding, “I mean, I’m thrilled and totally here for it, but I’m curious why you picked me.”
“We think the best position for gathering intel is through an organization called Climate Direct-Action Network, which is primarily comprised of college and grad students. Your cover is Jonas Vogel, a disenchanted marine-biology student taking a gap year between undergrad and grad school to travel around Europe.” She slid a tablet over to me. “Here’s the bio, but we’re sending it to your portal as well. You have three days of travel to study it and become this guy. Your job is to get to know the other members through seemingly random meetings, like striking up conversations at pubs and stuff. Express your discontent with your country’s efforts at environmental policy, et cetera.”
As she clicked through various images of the leaders of the group and explained the situation, I got a clearer picture. My part in this wasn’t a rush. It was a long-game mission to gather intel.
“Why the urgency?” I asked when she took a moment to steal a sip of her coffee. “It seems inconsistent with a six-to-eight-month op.”
She blew out a breath and met my eyes. “That’s the second part of your mission. We already have an undercover agent in the group, a young woman from the office in Munich. The flow of intel from her has slowly dried up, meaning her reports went from detailed and helpful to vague and useless. We believe she may have been turned.”
“Is she okay?” I asked, surprised and concerned.
“Yes. We’ve seen her and have verified she’s healthy and safe. We’ve even offered to swap her out in case she needs a break for any reason. She insists she’s fine and still working hard in the effort.”