Black is My Heart (Humorous Thriller, Completed)

Chapter 5

"Are you sure that's short enough? She doesn't look very slutty."

Bradley, my assistant, appraised Snow as she tugged the hem of her knee-length black skirt down over her ass, and she gave him an exasperated look.

"I have to pass as a businesswoman."

"She's not Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman," I told him.

Mack glanced up from her laptop. "No, that's Dan."

Dan wasn't playing a prostitute tonight, but that hadn't stopped her from wearing a leather skirt that was more of a belt. And Bradley was right in his observation, though I'd never admit it because his ego was quite big enough, thank you. Snow looked nothing like a lady of the night. No, she had more of an executive-assistant vibe going on, which was perfect for this evening's excursion. She'd put her mask on now. Stoic resignation, which would turn into a convincing smile when Clements came near. In some ways, I envied her ability to block out her feelings. My shitty childhood had left me inherently suspicious, sometimes bolshy, sometimes evasive, and unless I knew a man well, he'd better keep his hands off unless he wanted his nose broken. Snow, on the other hand, dealt with years of abuse by simply refusing to feel at all. That trait, combined with Oscar-worthy acting skills, had made her a rich woman. A very rich woman. She was two years younger than me, and if she chose, she'd never have to work another day in her life. But one thing everybody in the room had in common was that we loved the thrill of the chase.

"I'm no Vivian," Dan said. "I don't need a man to pay my way."

"And if you drove a Lotus, you'd crash it," I pointed out.

"Hey, you'll be grateful for my skills behind the wheel later."

"Quit with the bickering," Bradley grumbled, fastening a gold bracelet around Snow's wrist before he turned his attention to me. "And what are you wearing? Is that polyester?"

"I need to be forgettable."

"Couldn't you add a tiny bit of colour?"

My glare gave him his answer.

"Honestly, you're so unadventurous."

And that was exactly how I liked it, at least in terms of attire. Dull and unmemorable when the need arose, I wore my own mask every time I left the sanctuary of my home turf. I could be a real-estate agent or a waitress or a scientist or a dancer, and although I fought like a tiger, my spirit animal was a chameleon.

But I couldn't afford to dwell on the past today. No, I had to tuck all those emotions away and focus on the task at hand. Put that cold veneer back on. The men on Capitol Hill called me the Ice Queen, but I rarely dressed in white. Despite Bradley's best efforts to introduce the entire fucking rainbow into my life, I stuck with shades of grey that reflected the shadows I lived my life in, and dark hues that matched my soul and my little black heart.

Tonight's plan was simple. One of the surveillance operatives following Perkins, Clements's assistant, had overheard him on the phone earlier, arranging a meet at the parking garage at nine p.m. All we had to do was intercept the girl and replace her with Snow. Because Snow's electronic goodies would get confiscated, I'd follow them to the evening's assignation and sneak in with a camera. Snow would do her thing, and boom—we'd have the photos we needed to make Rhonda Swanson-Clements seventy-five million bucks richer. Our fee wasn't bad either. Dan had negotiated one and a half percent if we solved the problem. Even split with Snow, that would buy a lot of cake.

"Clements is on the move," Dan said, tucking back her hair to reveal the earpiece that gave her a direct line to the surveillance teams. "Heading towards Fairmount."

Why didn't we just follow him and his Kerrane girl, you ask? Because trying to sneak into a high-rise apartment to film a dirty movie when neither of the stars was a willing participant in the plan added a layer of risk I didn't want to take. If there was a problem, Snow would cover for me and vice versa.

And there were always problems. No matter how well-planned a job was, we still had to factor in an appearance by Mr. Murphy of Murphy's Law fame. He loved to ride along and make our lives just a little bit more interesting. Like the time my gun jammed in the middle of a firefight in Iraq, or that moment an escaped dog almost blew a six-month-long operation when he sniffed out a surveillance operative, or the lightning strike on our plane in... Yeah, you get the picture.

Tonight, we were as ready as we could be. Earlier, we'd arranged the vehicles and licence plates we'd need—some ours, some "borrowed"—and we'd all either walked or driven through the parking garage to get an idea of the layout. Six storeys, two cameras per floor, plenty of dimly lit corners, and a security office at the front. Yesterday, we'd mapped out the locations of each of Clements's buildings and worked out the most suitable entrances and exits. The apartment blocks were middle-of-the-road. Utilitarian. Functional. Not slums but far from luxurious. CCTV covered the first-floor doors, and each had a supervisor who hung out in the lobby at odd times of day. Annoyingly unpredictable.

"Guess we should be leaving too, then," I said.

The prospect of seeing Mr. Clements buck naked didn't exactly fill me with joy, and the sooner it was over, the better.

We filed downstairs with Bradley still fussing around, spraying perfume and muttering about heel height and lipstick and looking good for the cameras. It didn't matter. Clements didn't have great eyesight, and whatever pictures we gave to Rhonda, they wouldn't show Snow's face.

"Got everything?" my husband asked as he walked past, dressed to party with a Colt M45 in his shoulder holster and three spare magazines clipped beside the knife on his belt.

Snow nodded. "Knife, condoms, GHB... Yes. Where are you going?"

"Off to rescue a teenage runaway from a crack den. The parents got threatened when they tried it themselves."

"You get all the good jobs," I grumbled.

"Want me to pick up dinner on my way home?"

Mrs. Fairfax had the day off, which meant we had to fend for ourselves. "Unless you'd rather I poisoned you with my cooking?"

"I don't mind making something," Snow offered.

He eyed her up and grimaced faintly. "Should I get pizza? Chinese? Mexican?"

"Yes."

"I'm not going to three fucking restaurants."

"Chinese," Dan said. "And make sure you get fortune cookies."

Or not. Last time, mine told me I'd get a big break in life, and two days later, I'd cracked a rib in a fistfight. What predictions would be revealed tonight? I wasn't sure I wanted to know.