The mission hadn't always been about dirt-caked SUVs and rain-slicked wastelands. Two weeks prior, it was about silk, champagne, and the suffocating scent of expensive lilies.
The Unity Gala was the only night of the year when the Directors of Vane Tech and Apex Solutions pretended they weren't trying to bankrupt each other. For Adrien and Ashley, it was the only night the biometric keycard to the "Catalyst" vault would be in the same room as a portable skimmer.
"You look ridiculous," Ashley whispered, her voice barely audible over the string quartet playing a hauntingly slow waltz.
She was stunning in a floor-length, backless gown the color of dried blood, her crimson hair pinned up with a silver dagger-clip. Adrien, tugging at the collar of a tuxedo that felt like a straitjacket, adjusted his glasses.
"It's called 'blending in,' Ashley. Not all of us can look like a high-end assassin in our downtime."
"I am a high-end assassin," she reminded him, her eyes tracking Director Thorne across the ballroom. "He has the card in his breast pocket. To clone the signal, the skimmer needs to be within three inches for at least sixty seconds."
"Which means we have to dance," Adrien sighed.
"Try not to step on my toes, Goggles. I'm wearing four-inch heels that double as glass-breakers."
As the music shifted into a more intimate, rhythmic tempo, Adrien led her onto the floor. He placed one hand on the small of her back—feeling the cold steel of a concealed holster beneath the silk—and took her hand. For a moment, the mission blurred. The way the chandelier light caught the amber in her eyes made his throat go dry.
"You're stiff," she murmured, leaning in close so her breath brushed his ear. "Relax. Look at me like you actually like me. That's how we sell the cover."
"I'm trying," he rasped, spinning her as the Director passed within arm's reach. "Skimmer is active. Forty seconds to go."
Across the room, Leon was playing the role of a bored socialite, leaning against a marble pillar. He caught Adrien's eye and gave a subtle "thumbs up," while Lily—disguised as a waitress in an oversized vest—was currently "accidentally" spilling a tray of martinis on a group of security guards to keep them distracted.
"Thirty seconds," Adrien whispered. He pulled Ashley closer, their chests almost touching. The world narrowed down to the scent of her perfume—sandalwood and gunpowder.
"Adrien," she said softly, her expression softening for the briefest of seconds. "If we get caught tonight..."
"We won't," he promised.
Beep. The skimmer in his cufflink vibrated. Done.
"Data secured," he breathed. "Let's get out of—"
"Wait," Ashley interrupted, her gaze snapping toward the balcony. "The Director isn't leaving. He's heading for the private wing. And he's not alone."