Page 5 of Sloth
Wyatt shrugged. “Don’t want them, and you might be able to crack the phone. Get inside and snoop around.”
Curiosity piqued, and Sloan looked in the box. Next to the old smart phone was a small red jeweler’s box. Sloan picked it out. “Why do you think I’ll want this?”
Expecting the engagement ring he’d given Sara, Sloan opened the box and gasped with delight.
It was a replica of Usagi’s and Mamo’s engagement ring in Sailor Moon—her favorite Manga. Pink heart diamond center surrounded by little clear diamonds on a platinum band.
Wyatt laughed. “That’s why.”
She shot him a wry, arched brow. His laughter took some getting used to. Being with Misha had done wonders for his mood. Having a baby on the way also changed him. The jury was out on whether she thought the new change was for the good. He was the last of her siblings she would ever have thought to catch the love-bug, but he did. So had Evan and Griffin. They were dropping like dominos.
“I didn’t know Sara was into this geek stuff.” Sloan’s fingers hovered over the ring. She snapped her hand back to her side. “But it’s weird. I can’t wear anything that psycho woman touched.”
Sara was Wyatt’s ex-fiancée from a few years back. She had also been working with the Syndicate and had tried to murder Wyatt. It took him a long time to get over the betrayal, but he’d found Misha, his lifemate, and he knocked her up. They were happy. Misha was the happiness to his wrath. She balanced him perfectly, and it showed.
Sloan collected the box of items. “Maybe I’ll hack the phone.”
“Are you coming down then?” Wyatt asked. “You’ve missed the past two workouts.”
She groaned and dragged her feet to her kitchen bench, laying the small box on top. He was probably right. This was her sin talking. To prove her point, she lifted her inner wrist and inspected her Yin-Yang tattoo. Instead of being equal parts black and white, it was three-quarters black. The ink reacted to her biology, giving her a visual marker for how saturated her blood was with the sin of sloth. Too much sin, and she was in danger of blacking out and murdering any slothful sinner in proximity, even if they were redeemable, or just having a lazy day. Not enough sin in her system, and too much white showed on her tattoo. If this was the case, then the same outcome applied. She would blackout and enter a berserker sin-ending frenzy.
A shudder wracked her body.
Her computer beeped with an alert and they both looked over.
“Holy hack,” she breathed. “The algorithm got a hit.”
Wyatt watched over her shoulder as she investigated the new information. She’d followed the money trail from The Kremlin nightclub bank accounts and had been bounced around from dummy corporation to an offshore account. Finally, she’d found something: GPS coordinates. Typing them into the public Google Earth mapping system, she cursed at the mass of black area blocking the bird's-eye view of the land. “Double shit. It’s a black site. You think this is their base?”
“That’s got to be the Syndicate.” He patted her on the shoulder. “Good work. Let’s go tell the others.”
Sloan enjoyed the warm rush of endorphins from the praise. It felt good to be useful again. Good to stack up next to a family of muscle bound heroes she could never physically compete with.
“I’ll just put some proper clothes on. Be right behind you.”
“See you downstairs.”
After Wyatt left, Sloan went to her closet and peered inside. For the first time in a while, pride straightened her spine. Instead of putting her robe on over her underwear and heading down in her slippers, she put on jeans and a blouse. Hell, she even brushed her slightly ratty long hair and tidied the locks into a single braid. But as she opened the door to leave, she found she couldn’t cross the threshold.
“Come on, Sloan.” Her hand wouldn’t let go of the doorknob. “You can do it. Let go of the handle. It’s only downstairs. Not like you’re going across the street. It’s not likehe’llbe there.”
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and counted to ten. When she got to eight, she let go.
“You’ve got this.”
Two
The Nightingale Securitiesoffice was a furnace even after Max Johnson wrested control from Sloan’s evil clutches. With the outside temperature still in the nineties, the cooling system struggled. Sweat dripped down every dip and cranny of his body. He received no relief, despite being shirtless and using a folded sheet of paper to fan his face.
He scanned the space of the small business he’d started. Only four worked there, but the tight-knit crew was all he wanted for the time being. It was hard to trust these days. He wouldn’t have taken anyone on, except he owed his mates, Daymo and Tom-Tom. It was Max’s fault they’d needed a job.
The fourth person in their crew, Bailey, had found them. Don’t ask him how. The ex-CIA agent was a wonder of mystery. He’d been suspicious of her intentions at first, except the pain on her face when asked about her agency history was real. The only reason she’d let it slip about her past employment was an olive branch of trust. She needed out, and she needed a job. For that to happen, she had to build trust with Max. There was a reason the CIA were often called spooks. You weren’t meant to know who was one. He respected that. When he caught the pain in her eyes, the first time he’d asked, he didn’t push for more details. He knew that look well. Saw it in the mirror daily.
In two months, he’d turned the washed out, run down retail space into a neat, respectable little operation. Kitchen, office and entertainment room out the front. Locker room and showers out the back. Storage room with a cot. It was all he needed.
The sound of the door opening came just before the voice. “Phew. What cooked and died in here?”
“Me.” Max turned to greet Bailey Haze. “Back so soon? How was the job?”
