I’m surprised he made that kind of mistake. Bentley’s the kind of guy who has three defense plans spinning before a problem has a chance to rear its ugly head. It’s his job to always have control of whatever situation he finds himself in. It’s how he’s made his fortune. It’s why the CIA taps his shoulder when it needs a problem solved “under the radar.”

He heaves a sigh. “If this video gets into the hands of the media, they’ll blow apart what we’re doing over there. It will cause irreparable damage to Alliance as a whole. And we’ve made so much good progress. So I think you can see why I need you here. It’s delicate. And it needs to be handled swiftly.”

I nod. Everyone talks, eventually. Everyone except me.

So Bentley needs me to get answers out of a corpse, it would seem. “What exactly am I looking for? A jump drive? A microchip?”

Bentley pops open a cigar box on his desk and pulls out two Bolivars, rolling them between his palms. “VHS tape. This shop owner used an archaic system for his surveillance.”

A fucking dinosaur in the world of recording mediums. “How many copies are there?”

“Just the one now, I believe. We found the video file of the recording on the shop owner Ned Marshall’s phone. Nothing came up on Royce’s phone. I’m guessing he had no clue this was happening.”

One day, I’d love to sit back and watch Bentley’s computer whizzes at work, digging up all this data, seeing what they can find and how fast. But that’s all interesting-to-know information, and I prefer to keep curiosity at bay and work on a need-to-know level. “What’s the official story?” Obviously the cops are going to be crawling all over a double homicide.

“Marshall has been linked to local motorcycle clubs for years, doing all their ink. SFPD assumes it’s either a random robbery or tied to one of this guy’s associations, so they’re sniffing over there. Royce will likely be written off as unfortunate collateral damage.”

“That’s good.” Having to watch my shadow for police always complicates things. “Has anyone searched their houses yet?”

“Royce moved back in with his mother after splitting with his girlfriend recently. He’s still in boxes. We slipped in and lifted his computer, to see if he was shooting his mouth off to anyone else. My guess is he felt the need to unload his resentment with Alliance on someone and figured the old man wouldn’t give two shits about what he had to say. Which means we need to focus on the tattoo artist if we want to find that tape. His house, the shop, anywhere it may be hidden. And you’re the only one I trust to get the job done right.”

My gaze flickers to the silver mark peeking out above his shirt collar, a glimpse of a time when his life was in my hands. Literally. When that bullet pierced Bentley’s artery, I was sure he would be gone in minutes, but I jammed my thumb into it to stem the blood flow anyway, keeping him alive long enough to drag him to safety and medical attention.

That bullet led to his retirement from the navy.

Ned’s house will be my first stop. It’s the most obvious one. “And we know it’s not in the shop?”

“Nothing came up in the police report. You’ll need to check it out, but keep it low-key. That place is too hot now, after what happened.”

I nod. “You said search and recovery, with potential target elimination. You’ve got two dead here. Who’s the third?” “Potential” means it may end up being straight search and recovery. I find the video, I hand it over, I get out. That’s not bad. It was my specialty, once upon a time. Low risk of being shot or stabbed, which is always nice. This means there’s a chance that I could be back to drinking my coffee and watching the cruise ships port in Santorini within days.

“A young woman by the name of Ivy Lee.”

I struggle to keep my expression even, suppressing ugly memories that threaten to rise as he strolls over to hand a cigar to me. I don’t want him to see that the past still affects me. Bentley needs to know that I am fine and that I can do what needs to be done. “Who is she to them?”

“She’s Ned Marshall’s niece and the only family member still in contact with him. They were close—lived together, worked together. Like two peas in a pod. Could have been his daughter.” He snips the end of his cigar off with a cutter. “She was hiding in the shop when the team went in to question and dispatch. She was able to give information to the police. A name and a description of one guy’s accent; a profile sketch of the other one, which the media circulated. Thankfully, there haven’t been any bites. It’s a fairly generic sketch.”

“Did she say anything about a video?”

He shakes his head. “Not a word.”

Which means she could be withholding information that she fears will get her killed.

I feel unease sliding down my back. I’ve been taking assignments from Bentley for almost five years, and all of them have been for middle-aged male targets and guaranteed threats. This will be the first female target, and we don’t even know if she truly is dangerous. I don’t like uncertainty when it comes to my job.

Setting the newspaper to the side, I flip open the tan folder. A petite, exotic girl with a full sleeve of tattoos and blue streaks in her black hair looks out at me, her piercing glare making me wonder if she might have seen the candid photo of her being snapped. She’s obviously part Asian, but her features are softer and fuller, suggesting a mix with something else.

I slide the end of the cigar into my mouth, reveling in the fresh grassy taste of the paper against my tongue, as I study her face. “What do we know about her?”

He tosses the cutters to me. “She never stays in one place for too long, she makes a lot of cash deposits and has several thousand in savings—a lot for someone her age and in her profession. She associates with dubious people. Bikers, street thugs. Even some dissident Irish Republicans when she was living in Dublin. She’s no innocent schoolgirl.”

Give Bentley twenty-four hours and he’ll have a dossier on anyone.

“We have to assume that she was in on it until we know otherwise, that her uncle involved her at some point, and gave her the videotape to hide.”

“And she needs to be eliminated?”

“I need to know all potential risks are eliminated.”

“That sounds like a collateral damage kill, Bentley, and you know I won’t do that.” My job is all about precision, and if I’m doing it right, there is no collateral damage. “Maybe she has it and doesn’t know it.”

Bentley pauses to stick his cigar into his mouth and light it. “You’re thinking Beijing, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Two years ago, I was hunting down an American-born terrorist who stole a highly communicable virus from the CDC with intentions of selling it to extremists in North Korea. It took some blood and sweat, but he finally admitted to smuggling the tiny vial through American airport customs on his five-year-old daughter and then hiding it inside one of her dolls for the flight to Beijing, where he would await buyer contact.

News of the missing virus never made it beyond the walls of the CDC, buried to avoid pandemonium and public scrutiny; and whichever high-ranking CIA member tapped Bentley’s shoulder for help ensured that there would never be a paper trail to the U.S. government when the thief’s battered body washed up along the shore.

“Well, if that’s the case, she’s going to find out soon. She called a real estate agent about putting the place on the market within the next couple of weeks. She’ll have to clean it out to sell it, and if she finds a hidden videotape in there, she’ll sure as hell play it.”

Will it mean anything to her? Will she care?

Bentley draws several long pulls off the cigar to get it going, all the while watching me with a knowing gaze.

The copy of her driver’s license says she just turned twenty-five a few weeks ago. “Well, it’s definitely not hiding in one of her dolls,” I mutter quietly.