Page 5 of Dirty Love

“Nice speech. That detail starting soon?”

He slugs back the rest of the amber liquid in his glass. “Immediately.”

This complicates things. All of a sudden, PRISM takes a back seat to another plan I’ve already set in motion.

I hadn’t counted on the Secret Service.

He watches me for a second, then changes the subject. “Haven’t seen you in L.A. recently.”

Tabitha’s been on tour. “Work has kept me here.”

“Do we have you to thank for some of the recent flags coming out credit unions in the south east?”

Yes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Good, because meddling in a federal investigation is a bad idea.”

I snort. “Without hackers helping you behind the scenes, you’d be hamstrung by laws that lag twenty years behind technology.”

“We’ll nominate you for a congressional Medal of Honor, then.”

“That would be awkward. I wouldn’t be able to attend the ceremony.”

“Still have a restraining order that keeps you off the Hill?”

I laugh. “Just allergic to the spotlight.”

“Your partners aren’t.”

No, they’d really turned around on that front. I don’t mind at all. That’s convenient cover for me. But I’m not joining them as social crusaders. “Feel free to arrange some commendation for them on my behalf.”

“That’s above my pay grade.”

We finish our drinks in silence, then I excuse myself to take a piss.

I head upstairs. In one room, a group is singing happy birthday. I hit the parlour across the hall first. It’s empty. Takes me ten seconds to set up the first bug, then I stride across the room to do another. Two per room is my goal. Might only get one in the room with the birthday party, we’ll see.

I work methodically, moving room to room. I don’t skip the bathroom, either. Good conversations had there.

Finally I circle back to the birthday group. A waiter approaches with a stack of plates, and I hold the door open for her.

“Thank you,” she says gratefully.

No, thank you, I think to myself as I follow her in. The first bug goes on the door, facing the room. Then I do a quick scan. I don’t know anyone in here. This can go two ways—either everyone will assume I’m with someone else, or they’ll all know I’m an outsider who doesn’t belong.

I can roll with either of those scenarios, but it’s better if I can anticipate which I’ll encounter. Do they look like they’re all intimate friends? Or are some separated by more than one degree? Small, clustered conversations. The guest of honor is bobbing her head back and forth between two zones, trying to stay in two conversations at the same time.

They don’t all know each other. I’m sure of it.

I move past the waiter, acting like I belong. Maybe I’m a manager or a date of a guest. In my head I’m working up a cover story as I do a quick visual check of the far wall. There’s a thermostat. Perfect. I stride to it confidently, notch the heat down a few degrees, leave a bug, and flash a smile at the guests nearest as I do so. “Getting hot in here.”

They laugh and say it sure is.

And I’m done.

I rejoin Deacon at the bar.

“Long line for the bathroom?” he asks, swirling a new drink around in his glass.

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