Shadow Bound. Rachel Vincent
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to read it. As were most people’s lives. Which was why I was the only one who could do this job.
Because I had no life. No past. Officially, I didn’t even exist, and if they ever figured that out, being seen with me could get Aaron killed.
“I need you to stay off their radar so you can be my emergency bailout, if this ends badly.”
“Fair enough.” Aaron sounded half relieved, half disappointed. He wanted to play badass assassin, but he didn’t really want the risk that came with it. “Give me a call if you need a quick escape.”
“I will,” I said, as he pushed open the passenger-side door. But we both knew I wouldn’t. There was nothing he could do to help me, if I couldn’t get out of Tower’s house on my own. The infrared lighting grid guaranteed that trespassers couldn’t gain entrance through the shadows. His heavily guarded exits made sure no one got in the traditional way, either. Once inside, I would be on my own.
“If you survive this kamikaze mission, we should get dinner. And beer.”
“Absolutely.” But that was another lie. I had every intention of surviving, but wouldn’t get the chance to hang out afterward, and I’d probably never be able to come back into the country at all, much less this particular city. If I accomplished what I’d set out to do, the price on my head would be high enough that preachers and Boy Scouts would fight one another for the chance to profit from my death.
“Good luck, man.” Aaron stuck his hand out and I shook it, then he stepped out of my rental car and closed the door. I watched as he walked into the patch of woods at the side of the road. One step. Two. Three. Then he was gone, not just hidden by the shadows, but transported by them. Through them.
I took a deep breath and checked my tie in the mirror again—I hadn’t worn a tux in years, and my distaste for formal wear had not faded. Then I shifted the car into Drive and pulled onto the street at the end of a procession of cars all headed the same place I was.
The queue of vehicles moved quickly, greased by proper planning and a well-trained workforce. When I rolled to a stop in front of the house, feet from the curved, formal steps, a man was waiting to take my keys while another spoke into his handheld radio, his steady but unobtrusive gaze taking in every detail of my clothes and bearing. They knew my face.
Before I’d even rounded the front of the car, a brunette in a long, formfitting peach-colored dress came down the steps toward me. She smiled like a pageant contestant and moved like a waitress, quick and eager to please.
“Mr. Holt.” She threaded her arm through mine and guided me smoothly up the steps, without ever faltering in either smile or stride. “We would have sent a car for you,” she said, leading me through a door held open by a man in service dress. She was smooth, and polished, and poised—an experienced people handler and a beautiful woman.
But she was not what I’d requested.
“Unnecessary. I wanted to see the city a bit on my own.” I stopped in the foyer, and she had no choice but to stop with me, because I still held her arm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m Nina. Mr. Tower’s personal assistant.”
“And you’re my escort for the evening?”
Her smile faltered a bit over my implication, and the dissatisfaction echoing intentionally within the question. But then she rallied from the insult and her smile beamed brighter than ever, if a little brittle now. “No, I’m afraid Mr. Tower has chosen someone else to keep you company during your stay. I’m just here to make the introductions this evening.”
Nina led me through the wide foyer, generically ostentatious with its soaring ceiling and gold-veined marble tile. Even in his absence, Jake Tower exhibited his own affluence and power like a peacock displaying plumage. Wealth was evident in the expensive furnishings and decor, while his power was even more obvious in the stream of well-dressed guests, several of whom I recognized from political pieces on the nightly news.
At the base of each curved staircase, dressed in black and carrying handheld radios, stood a member of Tower’s security team, monitoring the party in general and me in particular. I was unbound—I’d taken no oath of loyalty or service to Jake Tower—thus untrusted. They would watch me, prepared to intercept or incapacitate, until the day I bore Tower’s chain link on my arm, marking me as his to command.
And that wasn’t going to happen.
Once those milling in the entry had their chance to see me, Nina guided me into the main event. Into the snake pit, where every hiss would feel like praise and every bite like a deep, hot kiss. The venom would flow like honey, too thick to swallow, but too sweet to entirely resist.
I knew how extravagant and generous the syndicates could seem when they wanted something. I also knew it was all a lie. The party was an illusion, from every plunging neckline to each glass of chilled champagne. It was a show. A seduction. I was being courted by the Tower syndicate because I had something they wanted. And I would play along because they had something I wanted.
Heads turned to look when we entered the party. Hands shook mine and voices called out greetings, but the faces all blurred together. The names were a jumble of syllables I didn’t bother to untangle. These weren’t the important names. Not the important faces. Remembering would be a waste of effort.
So I smiled and nodded in the right places, agreeing when it was convenient, changing the subject when it wasn’t. I sipped from the glass placed in my hand and ate the hors d’oeuvres Nina insisted I try. But I tasted nothing and hardly heard the words that came out of my own mouth. I was too busy scanning the crowd for the faces I’d studied. The names I’d memorized. The important ones, not necessarily in power circles, but vital to my purpose.
And finally, nearly half an hour after I arrived, a soft buzz spread through the crowd and I looked up to find Jake Tower coming down the main staircase with his wife on his arm and two black-clothed bodyguards at his back. The host had arrived, late enough to demonstrate that he lived life on his own schedule, but not so tardy as to be truly rude to his guests.
“Let me introduce you to Mr. Tower,” Nina said, taking my arm again. She led me through the crowd toward the stairs as Tower and his small entourage descended into our midst.
At the base of the stairs, a glass of champagne was pressed into Tower’s hand, but he handed it to his wife before accepting another for himself. A heartbeat later, his gaze landed on Nina, then slid to me, and I swallowed a lump of eager rage before it could shine through my eyes and give me away. Tower wasn’t my target, but that didn’t mean I’d cry at his funeral. When the time came, I’d be raising my glass to whoever finally put the vicious, arrogant bastard in the ground, as would everyone else he’d ever tried to put his mark on.
“Mr. Holt, may I introduce Jake Tower and his lovely wife, Lynne. Mr. Tower, this is Ian Holt, your guest of honor.”
Tower offered me his empty right hand and I shook it, making eye contact for the first time. Trying not to show that I knew more than I should.
I shouldn’t know that Tower’s first name was actually Jacob and one of his middle names was David. His wife was really Gwendolyn, and before she married, she’d been a Pierce, a great beauty by all accounts, but not burdened with enough brains or initiative to ever get in her husband’s way.
“Mr. Holt, so glad you could join us. I hope you’re enjoying yourself so far?” Tower’s brows rose, and I nodded in reply.
“Of course. You have a lovely home, and an even lovelier wife.” I took Lynne Tower’s hand briefly, and she smiled, then silently sipped from her glass.
Over their shoulders, the bodyguards watched me, and their surnames filtered through my memory, triggered by faces matching the photographs and notes Aaron had fed me for days. The taller, darker man was Clifton, and the shorter, paler, broader one was Garrett. Their Skills, like their first names, were unknown, but based on their size alone, either could break a man in half.
The