Page 108 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

“Did it?”

“No.”

I squeeze his hand. “So many things went wrong, Miles. But nothing important did.” I rise onto the toes of my not-so-appropriate-for-walking boots and press my lips to his uninjured cheek. It’s soft. And brief. It’s not the kiss we almost shared at the door, but it’s also not something I have ever done before.

When I lower myself again, Miles is staring at me. “That,” I say, “was for the most perfect terrible first date I’ve ever had.”

His smile appears. Not the one he wore all night while trying to convince me everything was fine. The real one. The one I know.

I begin walking backward toward the townhouse. “Now go home and get ice on your jaw, Agent Lancaster.”

When I reach my door, Miles calls out, “Reese?” I turn to look back at him.

He’s still standing beside his car, one hand touching the cheek I kissed. “I’m glad you came back.”

“So am I.”

Then I go inside with the knowledge that the date was nothing like the one Miles planned. Maybe a perfect night isn’t a night where nothing goes wrong. Maybe it’s what remains when everything does.

CHAPTER 19

DELAYED BY INTERNATIONAL CRIME

MILES

By Monday afternoon, Maxwell Shaw has survived two rounds of Julian Rooke’s vetting, and we are no closer to proving that Rooke is selling the identities of six living CSA assets.

We do, however, have a new lead.

Emerson stands at the front of the conference room with a web of names projected behind him. Rooke is at the center. Around him are confirmed clients, suspected clients, employees of Rooke Strategic Services, businesses his clients have used, and a growing collection of people who may have performed a single favor without ever knowing whose operation they were part of.

“The contact relay that handled part of Maxwell’s second-stage verification overlaps with one from a suspected Rooke transaction eighteen months ago,” Emerson says.

Nora adds a photograph to the display. A man in his early fifties wearing an employee badge.

“Daniel Acer,” she says. “Logistics coordinator for a commercial property management company. Clean financials. No criminal history. Nothing connecting him directly to Rooke.”

“Except?” Evelyn asks.

“A secure contact number used during Maxwell’s verification pinged a device associated with Acer for four minutes this morning. Then, it went dark.”

“Of course it did.”

I study the connections on the screen. We know Rooke sits somewhere behind them. That’s no longer the mystery. The problem is proving which people know they’re working for him, which are doing favors for someone who knows someone, and which have no idea they’re part of a criminal operation at all.

Rooke has built exactly the kind of network I would have admired if he weren’t using it to sell people’s lives.

Emerson points to Acer’s photograph. “He normally leaves work at six. Based on the activity around the relay today, we think he may make a handoff tonight.”

“Handoff of what?” I ask.

“We don’t know.”

Ledger sighs. “I’m noticing a theme.”

Evelyn looks at both of us. “Follow him. Identify whoever receives it. Do not intervene unless circumstances require it. If this is part of Rooke’s current transaction, I want to know how far the chain goes.”

I nod. It should be straightforward.