Chapter 1 - Maddie
I fucking hate pants.
The chatter from the crowd can’t drown out the obnoxious snap of my inner thigh seams rubbing together as I patrol the banquet room. My fingers keep plucking at the stiff fabric and the unforgiving waistband.
“Stop fidgeting, Warley,” Peter says through the device in my ear.
“I’m not fidgeting,” I grumble back, just loud enough for the mic hidden under my collar to pick it up. The champagne flutes I’m balancing tinkle on the tray. “And you can’t see me anyway.”
I resist checking my back pocket for the thin tracking device safely tucked there. I should be grateful to have pockets at all in this uniform. I roll my shoulders in the stiff white oxford shirt. The movement pulls at the buttons down my front.
You know what? Fuck this shirt, too. I hate all clothes now.
From Peter’s post back at PEPARS headquarters, his scope of vision may be restricted to the feed from our team’s concealed body cams, but at least he doesn’t have to wear this uniform. I’ll bet he’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie.
“She’s fidgeting,” Beck, one of the two other protection agents with me tonight, says through his mic. From across the banquet hall, he smirks at me.
I narrow my eyes at him, using my middle finger to dramatically smooth an eyebrow. Keeping my voice low, I hiss, “I thought we were supposed to be under cover. Stop talking to me.”
“’Under cover’ my ass,” Peter says, happy to gripe about the contract. “Harris has six of his own guys orbiting him like heavily armed moons and you three stick out like a sore thumb.”
I glance at said moons and I can see Peter’s point. Among the array of the well-dressed elite, our client’s personal detail have made no secret of their purpose. They look like cookie-cutter action figures stuffed into black suits, holstered guns, mace and radios on threatening display.
My team, on the other hand, are required to blend into the background. And aside from what—I guess—is my obvious discomfort, at least we’re not bungling around in dress shoes and neckties.
So Petey can kiss my ass.
For the hundredth time tonight, I wonder how we even got this contract. Harris’ company, Ignus Holdings, has hired out executive protection and security for its subsidiaries before. PEPARS has been hired at least a dozen times over the past several of years, with my team being pulled in more than most.
But this is different. This job is directly with the Hellhound crime syndicate, the real source of Harris’ power and money. The gang has no shortage of muscle in their ranks. Add to that the fact that Harris is deeply paranoid, having an outside team supporting his security is unheard of.
“Well, at least I’m a thumb with sequins,” Nina chirps into the champagne glass that she scoops from my tray. “I’ve been dying to wear this dress.” She glides away in a shimmer of blue.
“Looks good on you, Roberson,” Beck says indulgently. Like me, Beck wears a wait staff uniform. Unlike me, he moves gracefully through the city’s most privileged as if he were in a tux, rather than a simple white shirt and black trousers. “Maybe unclench, Warley. You look like you’re about to bust a seam.”
I choose not to take the bait because I’m a goddamned professional. It’s not my fault the pants don’t accommodate people with normal legs. “We’ve got another wave of guests coming in. I’m moving closer to Harris. Petey, my coil.”
“On it.”
I feel the dampener on my forearm vibrate under my sleeve. The trickle of my power increases to a steady stream and I can’t stifle my sigh. My skin stops wanting to jump off me. My brain fits back into my skull. I don’t even mind the pants so much now.
Having to wear the coil isn’t my favorite thing about working for PEPARS—Platinum Executive Protection and Risk Services, for those of us who have the time—but I’ve got no room to complain. Unlike Elemental Wielders who display their powers unhindered within the bounds of the law, most registered Mindholders never get to use their skills in public at all. Their coils have one setting only: Locked.
I concentrate on my hold and start to build a fade over me. Earlier, the coil allowed enough freedom for me blend in just a touch over normal. People could still hone in on me if they took a second glance. They could make out the scowl on my face.
Now with my coil switched from suppressed to enabled, eyes glide over me. Guests move out of the way for me as I pass, knowing a body is there but unable to focus on it.
It helps that these people wouldn’t typically pay attention to wait staff anyway.
I make my way toward Harris, slipping through the circle of security milling near his table. The eyes of his men touch me and then slip away. My tray of champagne tinkles lightly with each step and it might hit a few ears, but no one knows which way to look to trace the sound.
“Not yet, Maddie,” Peter warns. Through the camera hidden in the hotel pin of my shirt, he can probably see the fine details of Harris’ tattoo, a striation of red flames that runs from neck to temple.
By the way Peter uses my first name, I can tell he’s closed off the others so he can address me privately. “We agreed that we would wait,” he reminds me.
Harris’ phone buzzes by his elbow. He picks it up, glances at it, then sets it facedown on the table. Once the dinner plates are laid out, I’ll be able to swipe the phone from the table and insert the thin tracker under the battered case.
The device would send us an encrypted data packet every two minutes, not realtime exactly, but the tradeoff is the days’ worth of information we’d be able to collect. Harris has been making waves in the city, beyond his legitimate property acquisitions. The sudden reports of missing Mindholders mentioned in the news can’t be a coincidence.
“Copy that,” I murmur to Peter. I pivot, planning to stay near Harris’ back, close enough to break his neck. My fingers tingle with the urge.
“Pardon me,” a deep voice comes from behind me.
I still, fighting the urge to spin around. There is no way that request is for my attention. I’m so close to being invisible at this point that anyone trying to see me would start bleeding through the ears.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and the fade on me drops like a curtain.
Fuck.
I turn around and come face-to-face with Cain Phillips, second-in-command of the Hellhounds. The man who cut his way through dozens of bodies to gain power and respect within the most violent, prestigious gang of enhanced humans in the city.
Double fuck.
