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A lipstick. A phone with bunny ears—definitely a girly type. Money. Credit cards. ID—bingo!
“Got it,” I say.
“Spill.”
“Her name is Lucy Moor.”
Roey snorts in my earpiece.“There are worse names.”
“Twenty-one.” Only three years younger than me. “Resides in Virginia.”
“Wonder what she’s doing in New York. A tourist? Any indication?”
I pick up her phone—no password. Her home screen is an image of a teddy bear with a spray paint can in its paw. The picture folder is full of recent shots from outings with people. She is a party girl, by the looks of it. I keep scrolling through hundreds of photographs—people, places, parties, more parties, art, more art, dozens of pictures of feet. The hell?
I pause on one of the party pictures and check the date—six months ago.
“It looks like Miss Lucy Moor currently resides in New York,” I say. “All her pictures going back at least half a year are from here.”
“Any naked shots?”
“Creep.” I close the folder.
Roey laughs, and then Miller’s monotonous voice is in my earpiece, guiding me to his security website with her phone browser. I type in the code, activate the ghost tracker, and close it.
Now, we have full access to all the info on her phone. Our methods are not always legal, but neither are most of our targets. Lucy Moor might just be Reznik’s secret accomplice. The most innocent faces often hide dark intentions. You learn this serving at war.
I shoot the shit with Roey for some time until Lucy Moor stirs.
“Okay, Jace, you’re on.”
3
JACE
The girl frownsat me when she slowly sits up, shaking her head like she can shake off the buzz, then fixes her hair and looks around, confused.
“W-what’s happening?”
My pulse surges as her eyes meet mine. They are a lovely shade of blue and slightly unfocused, warm and calm like an ocean. Her voice is sweet but cautious, and something shifts in my chest at the sound of it.
“I was walking by,” I say, already feeling my guts twisting—I don’t like this particularly shady situation. Or schmoozing a pretty girl. Or lying while looking into her naive eyes. “You were talking to a gentleman, then started going down, like fainted, I don’t know.” I’m losing my train of thought as I gaze into her mesmerizing eyes. “And the man took off. I tried to call him over, but he just ran.”
She frowns, checks her pockets, then picks up her clutch.
“Ran, huh?” she murmurs, checking its contents—making sure nothing is stolen?—then looks around.
“Yeah,” I say, my heart nervously pumping. “You know him?”
“Diadia Tolia? Yeah…” Her gaze pauses on the dog, her features softening into a smile. “Ran, huh?” she repeats absently. I know she’s still disoriented from the sedative.
“Diadia means uncle in Russian. They must be close. Tell her to call him,”Roey instructs me.
“Yeah, kinda weird. Wanna call him?”
She shakes her head again, turning her gaze to me, her pretty puffy lips parted. “I don’t… No, no.” A cute frown etches her forehead. “Who areyou?”
She gives me an up-and-down look that’s more curious than suspicious.
