And everyone else, come to think of it.
She took comfort in knowing that once she used the thumb drive sewn into the lining of her blazer to upload the virus, Morrison wouldn’t be damning anyone anymore. His “party boy” persona was just a ruse to cover up the true depths of his depravity. She was certain of this because sometimes, when he thought she wasn’t looking, she saw his lips thin, his eyes narrow, and an ugly look of malice would slide over his face. At those times, she seemed to be seeing the true man. Spider…
Morrison’s mouth slid open, and out came a mighty snore that reminded her of her father’s ol’ bluetick coonhound—who’d had the uninspired name of Blue and was now buried out back beneath the willow—and how the dog used to fall asleep on the front porch, snoring loud enough to wake up half the county. Only ol’ Blue had been a good boy. Roper Morrison on the other hand…
The thought hastened her journey across the room. After reaching her destination, she slid a hand inside her blazer and tugged a loose string in the lining. The thread unraveled, revealing the pouch that held the thumb drive.
If she’d thought her heart was racing before, now the damned thing was trying to break the land speed record. Every muscle in her body clenched, and her teeth threatened to explode beneath the pressure of her jaw. Closing her eyes and counting to three, she forced herself to relax and inserted the thumb drive into the USB port on the side of Morrison’s laptop.
Done!
Now, all that was left to do was wait. Wait as the program on the drive automatically booted up Morrison’s computer. Wait as it went through the algorithms necessary to break through the password. Wait as the virus began to upload. Just, wait, wait, wwwwwait.
She hadn’t realized she’d curled her hands into tight fists until one of her nails pierced the skin of her palm. Sucking the sting away, she thought of Dagan. No doubt about it, he never got this nervous. He was Mr. Calm-Cool-and-Collected. And if he could see her now, he’d shake his head and say I told you so.
Well, he could take his I-told-you-so’s and shove them where the sun never shined. John Wayne supposedly said once that true courage was being scared to death and saddling up anyway.
So…giddyup.
She glanced over at Morrison, happy to see him still out cold and sawing logs. Then a flash on the screen drew her attention to the computer. The virus was in, and the laptop powered down.
It’s done!
A ragged breath leaked out of her, and she gave herself a second to fully appreciate the magnitude of what she’d accomplished. Then she quickly unplugged the drive, slipped it back into its hidey-hole inside her blazer, and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. She texted two words to the group at the flat: Virus loaded. She thought about adding booyah, but ultimately decided against it.
Her teammates would make sure to pass her text on to the Black Knights in Chicago, then they would pack their belongings for a fast retreat across the pond.
I did it! I really did it! Chelsea Duvall, master spy! She liked the sound of that. Now, to get the heck out of Dodge…
She was halfway across the room when Morrison called her name. Her spine snapped to attention one vertebra at a time. Slowly turning to him, she ignored the ice water running through her veins and donned a pleasant smile. “I, uh, I hope you don’t mind, sir.” She adjusted her glasses. “I just came in to check on you. That must have been one heck of a party last night, huh?”
“Come here, Chelsea.” He beckoned her with a flick of his bony fingers.
Despite every instinct telling her run, she continued to play the part of the dutiful and long-suffering PA. Walking to the edge of the sofa, she gritted her teeth when Morrison’s hot, clammy hand curled around her bare calf.
She knew she should have worn slacks today instead of the pencil skirt that ended just below her knees. “Can I get something for you, sir? Some aspirin? A glass of water, maybe?”
“A little fur from the cat that scratched me.” His voice sounded rusty, but he grinned up at her, wiggling his eyebrows. She was convinced the hair on his head had migrated south. His brows were thick and bushy and seemed to march across his forehead like two gray caterpillars. “There’s a bottle of bourbon in my top drawer. Fetch it for me, would you, darling?”
She smiled down at him, despite her clenched jaw. When Christian said dahling in his English accent it was downright swoon-worthy. When Morrison’s said it? Yup. She had to fight the urge to retch.
“Of course,” she told him, happy for any excuse to escape his marauding hand. His fingers had slowly inched up her leg until they were behind her knee, caressing softly.
Gag a maggot.
Roper Morrison was the lowest, most vulgar man the good Lord ever strung a gut through, and as she hustled over to his desk, Chelsea thought she could still feel his hot, sweaty fingers on her skin. However, a quick glance at his laptop reminded her that all the indignities she’d suffered in his employ were worth it. She’d planted the virus, and Morrison…er…Spider was going down. Booyah!
On second thought, she should have added that to her text message. Who cares if it would have made Dagan point and say, See? What kind of trained field agent texts something like that?
Her. That’s who. The impulse to shoot a fist in the air and indulge in a hip shake was strong. Instead, she satisfied herself with grabbing the bourbon. Her eyes caught on the myriad cheap phones in the drawer. Burner phones. If she didn’t already know that Morrison was a slimy, criminal piece of dog shit, that would have been enough to convince her. He probably had a different phone for every awful venture he was involved in.
Shutting the drawer, she walked back to the sofa and handed him the bottle. The old man reclined against the leather cushions like some sort of over-pampered sultan.
Which makes me what? One of his harem girls? She’d sooner swallow a bag full of rusty nails, thank you very much.
“You really should eat or drink something to restore your electrolytes, sir.” One thing she’d learned was that Morrison liked to be fussed over.
Fussing was an easy enough thing to fake. All she had to do was ask herself, WWMD? What would Mom do? Because her mother, bless her sweet soul, was the queen of doting and fussing.
Morrison waved her off, then twisted the cap on the bottle of booze.
“I’m going to run and fetch something for you anyway,” she lied.