Page 20 of Lone Wolf

“How are we doing this?” Sunny murmurs in my ear, and all I can think of is that I want to find somewhere dark and private and taste her mouth. “The guard,” she adds, when I don’t answer. “Ariadne? How are we distracting the?—”

“We’ll start a fight,” I say, trying to push her back a little. She’s like a damn limpet. “Should be easy enough. There’s a group of very drunk frat boys over there. Once our mark is on the move, we’ll make ours.”

The club manager is due to head to a meeting after midnight. Lyssa told us he likes to walk through the club, make himself check out how the crowd is going, make sure he’s seen and admired.

“How are we going to start a fight?” Sunny asks.

“I figure you’re annoying enough to start a fight with anyone,” I tell her, but she just grins again, as though I’m complimenting her.

“Hell, yeah,” she says. “I think we should start laying the groundwork now. Meeting’s coming up soon.” I’m almost upset when she stops swaying up against me, but at least she grabs my hand again to lead me across the floor, up the steps, and in easy view of the frat boys.

It takes about three seconds for them to notice her—and me, to my consternation. We find ourselves chatting with them, accepting some of the expensive tequila they’ve bought a bottle of, even though neither of us is stupid enough to actually take a sip.

Even this, the distraction work, we’re doing as a team. I watch Sunny work the group, all smiles and flirtation, while I scan for threats and exits. She notices connections, opportunities for conversation, while I catalog every potential weapon and escape route.

And then, about ten minutes after I feel like I could strangle each and every one of these morons myself just for something interesting to do, theEmployee Onlydoor opens, and our mark walks out. I give it another five minutes after he’s cleared the floor before I catch Sunny’s eye and give her the nod, and immediately, she starts putting on a show.

And what a show.

She slaps the guy she’s sitting next to right across the face, and tells him not to get so handsy, finishing up with a torrent of Spanish. His look of complete confusion is almost amusing, and we’ve already attracted the attention of the security guard near the door.

“What the fuck is going on over here,” he demands. This guy is serious, well trained, and he’s not going to put up with any bullshit.

Thankfully, these frat guys stink of bullshit. “This bitch hit me for no reason,” the guy says indignantly, but he’s undermined by his buddies, who are all laughing and growing at his misfortune.

“Don’t call her a bitch, you moronic little fuckboy,” I snap.

“He tried to slip something in my drink,” Sunny says, shoving her shot glass at the bouncer. “You don’t believe me? Drink it yourself!”

Now the security guard is taking things even more seriously, looking over the group with a sharp eye—and they look guilty as hell, probably because theyaretrying to drug women tonight. If nothing else, I think, at least we’ve done one good deed for the night, as Sunny and I slide away while the security guard calls for backup to have the party removed.

And then we’re into the employee-only door and moving fast down a dimly lit hallway with a series of doors, some marked, some not. But the one we’re looking for—around a corner and right at the end—is made obvious by the keypad next to it. There are cameras in the corridors, but Lyssa already arranged for them to be out for the night. A sizable bribe made sure of it,and looking at them now, I see no lights and no movement to indicate that they’re even on.

Not that it will matter. My face is unknown in Chicago—and if anyone recognizes Sunny Santiago, they’re welcome to try to come into the Syndicate after her. One of the things I like about the Syndicate is that wedotake care of our own. That wasn’t how it was under Grandmother, and as much as I prefer working alone, I understand the benefits of having someone at your back.

Even if that someone is Sunny Santiago.

Sunny keys in the code and the door opens. I stand watch in the hall, remaining precisely where I can monitor both approaches while Sunny works inside the office.

Then I hear a sharp clatter and Sunny’s muttered curse.

“What’s wrong?” I hiss.

“Nothing,” she whispers back, but when I peek in, I see she’s knocked over a crystal tumbler of whiskey that was sitting on the desk, and the amber liquid is spreading across important-looking papers.

“Sunny!”

“I’ve got it!” She’s desperately trying to mop up the spill with tissues from a box on the desk, but she’s only making it worse, pushing the liquid toward the edge where it will drip onto the carpet.

“Forget it, just plant the bugs,” I order. “We’ve got less than three minutes.”

She abandons the spill at once, and, despite the mess she’s made, she manages to place all the devices according to plan, in less than two minutes.

But just as she’s slipped back out of the office, we hear the main door into the club opening, the swell of the music winding around the corner. I pull Sunny three doors down and into a utility closet. It’s big enough to hide us—I checked it out while I was waiting for her—but still small, holding janitorial tools like mop and bucket, and the whole thing smells heavily of bleach.

With both of us in here, there’s barely enough room to breathe without inhaling each other. We’re pressed up together, our breathing shallow as we both try to calm it, keep quiet. Rough broom bristles scrape against my leg and a cold metal shelf digs into my back. But even through these discomforts, I’m hyperaware of Sunny’s body against mine—the closeness making it unbearably warm despite the cool night.

All I can think about is the smell of Sunny’s perfume cutting through the bleach. Did shehaveto wear perfume tonight? I know we’re undercover, but that seems to be laying it on pretty thick.

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