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It was my first time visiting the Tokyo branch of Astor Stone, Inc., a private investigation firm named after its founder and my boss, Astor Stone. The PI angle is bullshit, though, although we do, on occasion, take random cases to avoid suspicion.
In reality, Astor Stone, Inc. is a private security company that contracts with the US government to assist in foreign affairs by conducting top-secret clandestine operations all over the world. Astor receives his orders directly from the Department of Defense, and he filters those orders down to his agents, like me. Astor hand-picks each of his mercenaries, most of whom served either in the military or in high-ranking government positions. We are trained to be covert, lethal, and to accept death before revealing who we work for and what we do.
We followed Aiko down a long, windowed hallway with sweeping views of downtown Tokyo. At the end were two massive hand-carved wooden doors with long gold knobs.
Aiko stopped and gestured to the doors. “He’s expecting you.” With that, the man turned and walked away.
The office, the size of a basketball court, was basically a box of windows—every wall floor-to-ceiling glass. Everything in it was black and gold, with accents of fine leather and crystal. It was as breathtaking as it was intimidating, as most say of Astor Stone himself.
Astor looked up from the leather couch where he was sitting, whiskey in one hand, pen in the other. Wearing a double-breasted suit, he was leaned back, an ankle over his knee. His slick ink-black hair shone under the dim glow of the lights.
The man sitting across from him slid his whiskey onto the table, stood, and crossed the room, his eyes locked on Courtney.
“Nice work, Mr. Montgomery,” the man said, though his focus never left her.
I watched as he extended his hand, she accepted, and together, they turned and walked out of the room without a word said between them.
But before the heavy doors closed, Courtney looked over her shoulder, and with tears swimming in her eyes, she mouthed,thank you. I dipped my chin and watched the doors close.
Mission complete.
“Nice work, indeed,” Astor said. “Sit. Would you like a drink?”
“Where are they taking her?” I asked, nodding my assent while settling onto the couch.
“That was David, with the US government.” Astor poured two fingers of whiskey from the crystal decanter next to him and handed it to me. “I’ve got my private jet ready for them. Courtney will be back home by morning, and your payment will be transferred to your account within the next ninety minutes.”
I knocked back the drink.
“Any casualties?” Astor asked.
“No.”
“Anything I need to know?”
“No.”
“Are you well? Any injuries?”
“No.”
“Good, because I’ve got another job for you.”
My brow cocked. The only downside to working for Astor was the lag time between jobs. But not now, apparently.
His black eyes narrowed on me. “This one is not as cut and dried or as easy as delivering Courtney back to the States.”
“I’m intrigued already.”
Astor grabbed a remote and the room fell dark. As the automatic window shades buzzed down, a projector screen lowered from the ceiling. Another few clicks and a woman’s face filled the screen.
My reaction was immediate, visceral—and alarming.
“Her name is Sophia Banks. Age thirty-eight, single, no children, currently living in Alaska. Miss Banks is an informant for a secret Russian militia group called the Black Cell Unit, which has been dormant for twenty years—or so we’ve been led to believe.”
Unmoving, I considered the woman on the screen, completely enraptured.
The photo, which appeared to be some sort of surveillance picture, was taken from a distance. Sophia was sitting in a coffee shop, her fingers with long dark-red-tipped nails wrapped around a ceramic mug. Her hair, the color of honey, cascaded over her shoulders in loose waves. Her lips, a dusty pink that matched the scarf wrapped around her neck, were pursed in a full pout as if she were in deep thought.
