Maybe I’m just paranoid. I’ve used the drugs on other people. They’ve always held. I’ve gotten away with a lot worse things than what I did to Molly Masters.
“Luck,” I mumble, walking back through my bedroom, grabbing my keys from a drawer in a small table, opening a door that leads to a long tunnel, and stepping through. “Stay with me tonight. Just one more night and I swear, I won’t ever ask for anything again.”
It’s a child’s prayer. One I’ve muttered for decades. And luck has always held up its end of the bargain. But I feel like a liar. I feel like I’ve been asking for luck my whole life, always coming out the other end whole, yet unsatisfied with my gift.
Because I always come out just as empty as I went in.
I feel like Molly Masters will be my downfall. She is the opposite of everything I stand against. She will make me weak. Make me fail. Make me lose.
And isn’t that her job?
Right.
I come to a stairwell at the end of the tunnel and start climbing. When I get to the top I press my palm against the pad and a laser swipes across my print, granting me access to the house.
I end up in the garage, looking at the heap covered by a thick canvas tarp, stained and weathered by age.
Maybe the bike won’t even start? It’s been a while since I took it out. And I can’t go into town using the car. Not for something with so many witnesses. And my truck has been decommissioned for… personal stuff.
I rip the tarp off with a whoosh, dust filling the air and probably settling on my robot-starched white shirt, and get on.
But it starts right up. And I can’t help but wonder, as I give it some throttle and pull out of the garage, if that means my luck is still holding… or if it just ran out?
Chapter Fifteen - Molly
My dress is old, but still nice. I was in charge of security for a high-level foreign official a couple years back. The ballroom was extravagant, the finest chefs were flown in, and the china cost more than everything I owned at the time, including my car. I imagine tonight to be much of the same, minus the dinner.
I chose a long gown last time to hide my weapon in a thigh holster which can be accessed through a slit in the well-hidden pocket on the right side. There’s a pocket on the left too. Both are almost invisible and just in front of my hips, so anything concealed within can be hidden in the layers of the skirt. It’s strapless and intricately beaded from the top of the bodice to the tops of my thighs. It looks, to my dismay then and now, too much like a wedding dress for my comfort level. But at least it’s not white. It’s a subdued cream color.
And it hides my gun. So mission accomplished.
I actually put on makeup too. And my hair is up off my shoulders in a twist I did myself. I might not pass muster with tonight’s fashionistas, but I don’t have to.
I’m security. It’s a ruse. A costume.
“Blah,” I say to my reflection in the mirror. I turn away towards my bed where my gun is waiting. I check the barrel, make sure it’s loaded, then hike my skirts up and snap it into the holster. There are two extra magazines, just in case. But there has been no chatter at all about this party. Why Brooks feels the need for such heightened security is beyond me.
I slip my badge into my other pocket and then my feet into my shoes. They are flats, made to go with the dress, with rubber soles for silence and traction, and the same pretty beads that match the dress for appearances.
“OK, Masters,” I say, looking at my reflection one more time. “Let’s go.”
Atticus Montgomery has sent a car. It’s been waiting outside my house for the better part of an hour. When the chauffeur knocked on the door I was only mildly surprised. Montgomery is a control freak. One of those alpha males who likes to keep the illusion of superiority. And he wants everyone to know that I’m working with him. Maybe even that I’m working for him.
I don’t mind the ride. The idea of slipping behind the wheel of my five-year-old department sedan and driving to the party in a ball gown is ridiculous.
I’m thankful for the car. And Atticus Montgomery can make people think whatever they want. I’m not in his pocket. He can’t buy my cooperation with a ride.
So I walk downstairs, grab my house keys off the foyer table, stuff them in my pocket, drape the matching shrug over my shoulders, and walk outside to the limo. The driver is waiting at the passenger door and I wonder for a second if he’s been standing there the whole time, or he’s just so good at his job, he noticed me getting ready to exit and took up the position.
“Thank you,” I say as he opens it for me and I slip inside. It closes with a soft whoosh one only hears from a luxury vehicle, and then he walks around to get in.