“I get it,” she says. “I know they want it back, but we both know I’m dead if I turn it over.”
I glance around the bar, looking for any cameras or mics so I can determine just how much Mr. Smith will hear about what went down tonight between us. There’s nothing obvious, but I can’t rule it out so I keep up the charade.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but if you need help, I can—”
“You’re not here to help me. No one can help me. But I had no choice. I’d already be dead if I didn’t take it.” She doesn’t give me time to respond but instead says, “Just go away already,” before settling back into her cocktail.
I stay at the bar long enough to finish my wine and close out my tab, then I slide off the stool and walk out of the bar.
Once I’m in my car, I drive on autopilot to the small apartment that was set up for me. There’s no doubt Mr. Smith has already heard about the scene we made in the bar. I don’t think what happened tonight would be enough for him to pull me out, but he’ll be watching closer than ever now.
* * *
It’s three days before I make my next move. I’m hiding across the street from her house, awaiting her arrival home. The second set of instructions came the morning after Amy confronted me at the country club. I was right. Mr. Smith was not happy with me.
Timetable moved up due to your inability to follow simple directions. Use whatever means necessary to locate and retrieve any digital device including cell phone, computers, tablets, hard drives, etc . . . If it can store digital information, take it from her. I shouldn’t need to remind you how sensitive this information is and how you are to handle it.
We’ve thrown away any semblance of being subtle and the warning there is clear—the information I recover is for his eyes only or I’ll find myself in the same place Amy Holder has found herself. I’m not to befriend her, get close to her, draw things out. I am to take everything from her. Immediately.
Amy’s headlights shine across the yard as she swings into her narrow driveway, the right side of her car barely missing the trash can. It’s a five-martini minimum night for sure.
The car cuts off but the driver’s door doesn’t open.
Minutes tick by and she’s still not out of the car. I wait until ten minutes pass before I leave my hiding spot and slowly walk down the driveway to where she’s parked. As soon as I get close enough to the car, I see her slumped form draped over the steering wheel.
Opening the driver’s-side door, I catch her before she falls out onto the concrete. I dig through her purse to find her keys, shoving them in my pocket. Grabbing Amy underneath her arms, I drag her from the car and up the driveway. She loses one shoe and then the other. I almost want to flip off the camera I know is pointed at me, but I resist and keep my body turned away from the street as much as possible. It’s slow and steady until we get to the front door. Blessed silence meets us as I get the door unlocked and open.
I don’t stop moving until I get her to the couch. Once she’s lying down, I go back outside to grab her shoes and purse, and take a moment to search her vehicle. It’s as clean and empty as the day she drove it off the lot.
I start snooping around her house because, at this point, I wouldn’t put it past Mr. Smith to have someone peeping through the windows to make sure I do. The house is as immaculate as her car. There is no technology here. There is a landline phone but no cell, computer, or tablet of any kind. And no chargers that would indicate the tech exists but is just not present. There is one television, but the only channels it receives come from the antenna attached to the top. I check all the usual hiding spots, but it is as if nothing past 1980 has ever entered this house.
I even search for notebooks or notes or scratches of paper in case she went the old-school route. Nothing.
I sit in a chair and watch her sleep for a little longer before finally calling it a night and letting myself out of her house.
* * *
Amy relocated to a hotel in downtown Atlanta the day after I searched her house. That was four days ago. I’m in my car watching her stumble out of a corner bar the way she does when she’s had at least four martinis.
I’m getting new instructions almost daily, since Amy’s behavior is changing just as rapidly. The latest tells me Mr. Smith has lost all patience.
Amy is out of control. Bring her in immediately. Non-negotiable.
Bring her in immediately. This is new for me. And bring her in where? Do I grab her and wait for someone to approach me? Stuff her in my trunk? Mr. Smith is acting as erratically as she is. He is freaking out, and I have to wonder how much pressure he’s getting from Victor Connolly to resolve this matter.
Hopping out of the car, I cross the street, maintaining a reasonable distance behind her.
Amy steps into the street as soon as the crosswalk turns green. Her bright-red coat billows behind her as she knocks into people not getting out of her way fast enough. She nearly trips on the curb when she gets to the other side.
She’s making a complete spectacle of herself.
Ignoring the group of sightseers ahead of her, she barrels her way across the sidewalk in front of her hotel.
Amy pauses there, and I veer to the right so I’m off the street but not standing too close to her.
She’s planted herself right in the way of foot traffic, and she’s jostled by the pedestrians trying to move past her, spinning in a circle until she comes to a stop facing me. Her eyes lock on mine.
The recognition on her face is clear.
She raises her hand, pointing a finger at me. “You. What are you doing here? I thought I told you to go away.”
I shrink back a few feet, edging toward the corner, but before I can slip away, she moves a little closer and yells, “You can go back and tell that cocksucker Smith to go fuck himself. He’s not as clever as he thinks he is. He’s been screwing over people for years and I’ve got all the details! I’ve got so much shit on him. More than he even knows!” A scowl stretches across her face, and then she flips me the bird before turning around and waltzing into the lobby of the hotel as if she didn’t just lose it out on the street.
The shock of what she just said about Mr. Smith washes over my face, then I school my expression into the blank slate I’ve spent years perfecting, because I know I’m being watched right now. I scan the street, looking for the older guy Mr. Smith has planted here. This will be the first he hears that sensitive information she stole wasn’t just from a client. He will, no doubt, be furious to learn this. He barely trusts me to see what she took on Victor Connolly, so there is no way he would have sent me on this job if he thought there was a possibility I would be retrieving information on him. The last thing he would want would be for me to recover something that could be used against him. Something I could use against him.
For years, I’ve been looking for information on him. Anything at all that will clue me in to who he really is. He’s right to worry about what I would do if info about him came into my possession.
You do whatever you have to do to save yourself and the job. That piece of advice Mr. Smith gave me early on has stuck with me. It’s the advice I let guide me on every job.
This job is far from over.
I follow her inside, sticking with the plan I’d made. It takes a few minutes to get to the door that leads to housekeeping. I find a bag in one of the supply closets that has a hotel maid’s uniform stuffed inside. I change quickly, then pull my dark hair up in a tight bun. Digging through the bag, I find the mic and earpiece at the bottom. Once I have the mic clipped to the inside of the collar of my uniform and the earpiece pushed inside my ear, I’m ready to go.