Do unto others…then disappear. A motto that had served him quite well.
Until recently, when the law had put a target on his back, making the world that was once his endless playground a damn sight smaller.
Sometimes he even let the cops think he hadn’t orchestrated his own arrival in Chicago. That he hadn’t been drawn here by news of a loose end, left undone during his last con. A living, breathing loose end named Gemma.
Austin showed zero reaction when the door at his back opened, allowing the bite of fall to swirl into the bar, cooling his neck. When Polly clicked past in high heels, however, reacting was a necessity. Any man who didn’t show a reaction to a modern, sexualized version of Snow White…well, that man would make the chess pieces in place around him suspicious. Suspicion was the enemy to cons everywhere. And being a formidable con of great reputation, Austin let the glass pause halfway to his mouth as he considered Polly’s ass on her way to the opposite end of the bar. Even threw in a conspiratorial salute to the group of businessmen drinking the liquor he’d paid for as they did the same.
Goddammit, he’d never felt an ounce of possessiveness over another human being in his thirty-one years. But just then, he wanted more than anything to walk up behind Polly, wrap an arm around her hips, and drag her back against his lap. Look those tossers right in the eye as he licked up the side of her smooth neck. Mine, you pathetic drunks. You wouldn’t last a minute up against the brilliance of how she thinks. How she reasons and makes decisions. Piss. Right. Off.
When the tumbler shook in Austin’s hand, he quickly set it down and looked busy going through his cell phone. He put the device to his ear and turned sideways, away from Polly, but at an angle that allowed him to watch her through the bar’s back mirror. He’d taken great pains applying the phony beard and gray wig so she wouldn’t recognize him, but he wouldn’t take any chances. If she made him, there wouldn’t be a hope in hell of him discerning her game.
Anxious. The hacker who had once breached the White House’s technological firewalls was actually anxious. Which made him…jumpy. Fucking hell, he didn’t do jumpy. Rule number one, however, was knowing the lay of the land before running an operation, and he had no clue what Polly’s game was.
A gut feeling told Austin he’d find out tonight.
…
Here, kitty kitty.
Polly Banks ordered a dry white wine and crossed her legs in what probably looked like slow motion to the handful of douche bags behind her. The bartender had already started to pour her drink of choice prior to her placing the order, however, which was troubling. It told her she’d been here one too many nights, and tomorrow called for a venue change. Not good. She was running out of nighttime haunts to locate her mark. After this, she knew of a single nightclub where Charles Reitman was known to frequent when in Chicago. After that, it would be back to the drawing board. Or keyboard, as it were.
Her time in Chicago hadn’t been designated simply to play house with the undercover squad. No, no. Each and every move Polly made was planned down to the tiniest degree and orchestrated with precise, thoughtful keystrokes. There was a debt that needed settling, and she’d come to Chicago to do just that. If her daylight hours were dedicated to aiding the same law enforcement machine that had ruined her fun and sent her to prison? Well. She’d be free of their confines soon enough. Free to navigate cyberspace at will, locating information and selling it the highest bidder.
Just as soon as she located Charles Reitman and got close enough to take back every penny he’d stolen from her fathers.
Yes, her vendetta against the man who’d swindled her fathers out of their life savings was pretty hypocritical. After all, her bread and butter happened to be blackmail. But Polly had a code that dictated whom she stole from and why. It was simple, really. If the fuckers deserved it, they were open season. Her fathers hadn’t deserved it. They’d barely made it into the black with their clothing line before the financial security had been swept out from under them like a rug. By Charles Reitman. The man who’d posed as an investment banker and vamoosed with six hard-earned figures, sending Polly’s family spiraling into bankruptcy.
Life had been hard after that. They’d lived in motel rooms, rationed food, and been turned down for assistance from people they’d considered friends. She’d watched the parents who loved her suffer, battle to keep her fed and clothed. Keeping her warm and safe when no one else would do the same for them.
And then it had gotten much, much worse.