Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Interesting.
“He’s remarkable,” she continues, a softness coming over her features. “More remarkable than even I anticipated. But remarkable things need to be understood. By the public. By the world. And yes, by the people who think they can control him.”
“People like Conrad Marsh?”
Her expression doesn’t change, but I catch the slight tightening around her eyes. A nerve touched.
“Mr. Marsh is the CEO. He has his priorities. I have mine.” She stops walking and turns to face me fully. In the dim light, the shadows carve her face sharply. “What I’m saying, Ms. Baxter, is that your approach intrigued me. Most journalists want the story Global Dynamix is selling. You seem to want something else.”
“I want the truth,” I repeat then wince internally. I’m starting to sound desperate. And I am desperate, in more ways she could ever know. I need this interview, I need this mission, or I’ll probably be consigned to a desk in the corner for the rest of my career.
“Yes, you keep saying that.” The corner of her mouth curves upward. “The question is whether you’re prepared for it.”
Before I can respond, she reaches into her clutch and produces a slim black card. She holds it out between two fingers, like an offering—or a dare.
“My email,” she says. “If you’re serious about this piece, send me an email with your proposal. It will need to be vetted by Vanguard, by myself, and by Mr. Marsh. If you manage to pass all three, then you pass Go.”
I take the card.
“That easy?” I can’t help but ask.
“Nothing about this will be easy, Ms. Baxter.” She finishes her champagne and sets the empty glass on the edge of a nearby planter. “I’m giving you an opportunity to prove yourself worthy. What you do with it is entirely up to you.”
She starts to walk away then pauses, looking back over her shoulder. pale grey eyes catch the light from the party, making them seem almost luminous.
And then, she’s gone, gliding back into the crowd like she was never there at all.
I stand alone by the reflecting pool, the black card heavy in my hand, trying to figure out what just happened. Almost there, so close, and all that jazz.
I turn to face the shadows so no one can see my face as I speak.
“Bayo?” I whisper. “Please tell me you got all that.”
“Every word,” he confirms. “It sounds promising, but I wouldn’t want to be stuck in an elevator with her.”
“Yeah.” I look down at the card, running my thumb over the embossed letters. “Me neither.”
Across the courtyard, I spot Vanguard again. He’s still surrounded by admirers, still smiling that perfect smile, but for just a moment, his gaze finds mine through the crowd. He doesn’t acknowledge me, doesn’t nod or wave or give any indication he remembers our conversation.
But he sees me. I know he does.
And so does the woman who made him. I can feel her watching both of us from somewhere in the party.
I sigh loudly, and Bayo says what I’m thinking.
“Time to go write that proposal.”
CHAPTER 3
MIA
It took all weekend to work on my proposal, a step-by-step document outlining my goals and objectives for the interview with Vanguard, with some samples of previous works that could follow the same format and examples of my questions. I sent it to my boss, Roger Mank, first to get his approval. Poor sod hates being bugged on the weekend, but he read it through. Then, I sent it off to the email Van Veen gave me.
Now, it’s Monday, and I’m heading to work, hoping to God I’ll get some sort of news soon before our monthly debriefing.
The Tube is packed this morning, bodies pressed together in that uniquely British way where everyone pretends they’re not touching even though my arse is pressed against someone’s hand and my boobs are squished against a woman’s back. I get off at Vauxhall and walk along the Thames, the autumn wind cutting through my leather jacket. The River House is a large, brutalist building on the south bank of the river that everyone knows is MI6 even though no one’s supposed to say it. All bulletproof glass and geometric angles, it looks like a fortress designed by someone who wanted spies to feel like accountants. Despite the sprawling corporate façade, there is something thrilling about clocking into that building every workday.
But I don’t work at MI6, not really. Oh, I’m a spy alright, a trained assassin for the government on days when they might call for it. But to them, I’m a NOC, so I don’t really exist, nor does anyone else on my team, except for head honcho Roger, who manages to toe the line between government darling and agency outcast.
No, where I clock in is at the top floor of a converted Victorian warehouse in Southwark, accessible only by a cargo lift that groans like it’s dying and occasionally does die, leaving you trapped inside for a few hours before the chain-smoking maintenance guy pays a visit. There are no sleek offices here; instead, we get mismatched furniture, radiators that clang in protest against the London damp, whiteboards covered in photographs and red string alongside digital holographic screens, and the perpetual smell of Tabby’s Earl Grey tea and Bayo’s burnt toast. It looks like an underfunded university department crossed with a nan’s attic—which is exactly the point. The kind of place no one would ever suspect housed Britain’s most deniable operatives.