Page 10 of Only the Wicked
During her pitch on why I should join the team, Caroline asked me the age-old question, “What do you have to lose?” She probably expected me to list off the usual things—career stability, pension, health insurance. Instead, I thought about Dimitri’s last message, sent just hours before they found his body in that Parisian alley. Perhaps she meant for the question to be rhetorical, and for me, it absolutely was—and the answer: Nothing. The CIA had already taken everything that mattered.
If this team doesn’t work out, Caroline says she can find something for me within the West Coast outfit she initially joined—not as an analyst, which I hate, but doing something in the field. I probably could’ve pushed her right then for an introduction, but no project coming out of the Arrow Tactical team will help me uncover the leaks that led to the death of the assets I recruited. Maria, a mother of two young daughters, who’d been doing nothing more than feeding us itineraries—her death hit me the hardest, but I’ll never forget any of their names.
As a member of the intelligence community, it’s natural to distrust. Those I mistrust the most? Those who believe themselves to be above the law and reproach. Like whoever sold out my assets. Like whoever decided stolen secrets were worth more than lives. If Rhodes MacMillan is part of that network, I'll make sure justice is served.
Our target, Rhodes Macmillan, created ARGUS, reputed to be the best AI surveillance product on the market. Rumors abound about what he can access, and more than that, what he can derive from those databases and which countries he’s serving. If there’s a secret society of the powerful, he’s undoubtedly a man such a society would recruit.
The government won’t ever investigate MacMillan or ARGUS as he’s got ties on every floor of the Department of Justice, and it’s fair to assume he owns most senators and a chunk of Congress.
ARGUS isn’t his first company. His first was a boring financial payment system that made him billions, and he and those original partners are now some of the most influential people in the world.
Of course, with success and influence comes attention.
That fact is why my plan held a high probability of failure. Rhodes MacMillan is a wary creature. He has to be. Anyone around him might be tempted to make a quick buck selling a story to the highest bidder. He bought stock in a company? Sold stock? Prefers a specific hotel chain? Ate lunch with a CEO? Any little detail of his life can be sold. His most benign conversation will be of interest to the right people.
Yes, the plan was risky, but I played it to perfection, and he doesn’t suspect anything. My approach had to feel like more time together was his idea, and I nailed the approach.
“Is that art or real?” Quinn stands in the front door of the rental, watching me as I pick and choose what I want to carry inside from the duffel bags stowed in the back. “That looks like a busted knee.”
Quinn has her long, curly, blonde hair pulled back so it’s half up, half down, and she’s wearing a long, loose skirt that skims the tops of her bare feet. In her light brown cardigan and white tank, if I met her on the street I’d expect her to be an English teacher or a grad student, but that’s where looks can be deceiving.
“Blood’s real. Limp isn’t.” I flex my knee, testing the scrape. “Though it stings more than I expected.”
“Wait a second. You purposefully fell?”
I shrug. “Do what you gotta to do.”
“What would you’ve done if you’d really hurt yourself?”
She’s appalled, but makeup to fake an injury would’ve been a poor choice. I step past her through the wide front entrance. Inside, there’s a small foyer, a step down to a living area with a bedroom off to the side, and a spiral staircase to the second floor below.
The second floor opens up to the main floor, which is also accessible by a lower garage level. Six bedroom suites are on the lowest floor. It’s a beautiful home but the furniture is dinged and faded, and from what I understand, came with the property. Or maybe it’s rented. Either way, someone clearly believed brown shag carpet was a design choice rather than a cry for help.
I had no role in selecting this place. No, while Hudson and Quinn coordinated this effort, I studied Rhodes. I scraped every article, social post, and even yearbooks from high school, Stanford, as well as the one from the one year at Harvard Business School before he dropped out. I learned he likes solo sports and loves rock climbing, so much so he has a twenty-foot wall in his penthouse that was featured in an interior design magazine. While Rhodes doesn’t post any images, and his Bluesky posts and Threads read like an employee from his PR department wrote them, he had a girlfriend who tagged him daily. And from what I could gather, they broke up two years ago, and given his ex wasn’t one to delete history, it appears they parted ways directly after an engagement party he chose not to attend. Ouch.
People reveal more in what they don’t post than what they do. Rhodes’ digital silence speaks volumes—either extreme privacy or something to hide. His ex-girlfriend’s posts, however, painted a picture of a man who prioritized work over relationships. Useful intelligence. I also learned his private plane scheduled a flight plan to Franklin with no return trip. I read an interview with him for Climbing magazine where he mentioned he’d climbed most of the notable places in California and Washington State, and when asked what’s next for him, he answered visiting places he read about in his home state, back when he was a kid and not yet into climbing.
Quinn found his hotel reservation, proving her skills. Yesterday I discreetly followed him through town wearing a floppy hat and a gray, long-haired wig and heard him ask the guy at the hardware store if there were any pharmacies within walking distance. That’s when I learned his elbow is bothering him, and I figured if he’s not up for climbing, he’d go for the most challenging hike. While I’d had my gear in my car, I’d been pretty certain it wouldn’t be a climbing day, and I’d been correct.
“What if your knee shattered?”
That’s extreme.
“What if you couldn’t walk?” Quinn’s not going to drop it.
“I wasn’t that far away from you. And it’s a beautiful summer day. Someone would’ve come by and helped me.” Like Rhodes did. He could’ve moved on, minded his own business. Instead, he stayed, made sure I was okay.
She shakes her head in disapproval. “I’m telling Hudson you need backup.”
“I do not need backup. It’s overkill and it increases operation risks. He might catch on. We’re in a small town.” My voice rises and I can’t stand that I have transitioned from victorious to beseeching. “It’s harder in a small town to remain unnoticed.”
She glares at me and I’m taken aback by her eyes. I swear, they’re almost purple. I’d ask her what shade but her stern expression tells me now is not the time.
“Fine. I promise. Fake blood from here on out.”
She exhales and heads to the spiral staircase.
“Come on down.”
