Page 25 of The Valiant (Spy Girl 4)
"You read minds, too?"
"One of my many skills," I say, going to the bar for a glass of champagne.
A few minutes later, I take my drink to the bathroom, swaying as I walk down the hall.
I touch up my lipstick, dump the glass out in the sink, and then wander into the target's private room. Ignoring the glares from the beefy men guarding the door, I teeter my way straight to the bar where I put my hand on my target's forearm in an attempt to balance myself.
I give him a goofy, drunken smile and slur, "I'm Huntley. I don't think we've met yet." I turn to the bar, setting my empty glass on it. "More champagne, please," I say to the bartender. "Actually, maybe you should just give me the bottle. I'll share, I promise."
One of the big men from the door puts his hand on my shoulder.
I look up at him and smile drunkenly. "Heeey, you're reeeallly tall."
"Miss, I'm going to have to ask you--"
Worthington shakes his head at the guard and says to me, "I think you are supposed to be at the party across the hall."
I scrunch my nose and turn around in confusion, losing my balance in the process. Then I slap my palm to my face in embarrassment. "Oh my gosh. I am so sorry. I totally crashed your party. Don't mind me. I'll just be going now."
The man wraps his hand firmly around my wrist. "Let me introduce myself. I'm Sebastian Worthington, and it just so happens that it's my birthday, too. Will you stay and have a drink with me?"
"Uh, sure," I say, pretending to carefully consider his request.
He turns to the bartender. "Please bring us some vodka from my private reserve."
"Could I have a glass of water first? I think I did too many toasts. And I haven't eaten all day, worried I wouldn't fit into this dress."
"Where are you from, Huntley?" he asks as he looks me up and down. Mostly down. "You look familiar."
His focus seems to be on my cleavage, so I puff my chest out in a dramatic sigh.
When his eyes finally make their way back up to my face, he points at me and says, "I know. You were dating Prince Lorenzo when I was in Cap for the Grand Prix."
"Yes, I was."
"Is he here with you now?" the man asks, scanning the neighboring party room.
"Uh, no. He's king now, and I'm just the girl who happened to get kidnapped with him and almost killed."
"So, no royal wedding?" He chuckles.
"Definitely not," I say, leaning closer to him.
"Did he love you and leave you?"
"More like I went from future princess to orphan gold digger in the tabloids, which is kind of ironic, considering I'm worth billions."
"Billions with a B?" he asks, nearly choking on his drink.
This is the point of my mission where I have to decide how to play him. Even though this is just supposed to be a routine surveillance, I know there's more on the line. With the backpack nukes in play, I need to figure out how to make him so interested that he will want to take me home tonight.
I still haven't replied to his billions comment because I need to play this right. And I'm not sure which way to go--the girl who isn't impressed, the girl who's up for anything, or the damsel in distress. Based on the amount of security present, I think I'll try the latter.
The bartender returns, presenting the vodka. While he sets up two shot glasses, I grab the bottle, take a chug of it, and then hand it to my target.
"Sorry, I need more to drink if you want to talk about my life. Cheers to your birthday and to my old life."
"Are you upset about having billions?" the man asks, looking perplexed.
"It sounds dumb, I know. People think I'm so lucky, but I don't feel that way."
"Why not?"
"My parents were killed in a car accident when I was young. I was sent to boarding school. I was doing fine on my own, and then some lawyer called me and told me that the man I knew as my father wasn't my biological father and that my real father was some rich dead dude who left me and the brother I never knew I had, like, a gazillion dollars. I quit school, bought some fast cars, and rented a villa in Montrovia. Shit's been rolling downhill since.
"So, I've come to seek solace in London. I mean, it's supposed to be a nice place, and it's got a queen and all. And I'm really excited because I got invited to a party for this cute guy who I might or might not have hooked up with in Montrovia. He's all happy to see me, but his girlfriend is not. That has led to too much champagne and me clearly being in a downward spiral that will probably find me looking for my knickers in the morning in someplace that I won't remember going to."
The man takes the vodka bottle away from me and hands me a glass of water instead. "When you go home with me, I want you to remember every single detail."
I smile because this is looking good. He's already expressed his desire to take me home.
"You seem so nice," I purr.
When Worthington trails his finger down my arm, I have to force myself not to shudder. Although not as physically unattractive as the Moneyman, he has ice in his eyes.
I'm ready to make my move by suggesting we get out of here when I hear a shout as a single gunshot rings out. The target pushes me to the ground and runs behind the bar as a team of eight, wearing black suits and balaclavas to cover their faces moves into the room, taking up strategic locations.
Time seems to slow down. For most people, panic causes a rush of adrenaline and the fight-or-flight instinct kicks in.
What I notice is that the men aren't spraying the room to mow everyone down but are shooting with practiced military-like precision, taking down every one of Worthington's guests in a heartbeat.
I keep my eyes wide and my body still, like I'm frozen in fright, knowing it's the key to my survival. Part of being well trained is knowing when not to fight. Even I can't take out a firing squad.
"Where is he?" one of the gunmen shouts at me.
I slowly point my thumb in the direction of the bar but my target--and, obviously, their target--is gone.
"Get the backpacks," their commander orders.
His men do as they were told, pulling military-green backpacks that appear to be the ones everyone is looking for from underneath the gift table.
I quickly realize that this wasn't a birthday party but rather the exchange point. That the reason there are eight gunmen when three would have sufficed is because they each need to carry one of the hundred-pound packs. Normally, this would involve an exchange of product for cash, but in this situation it appears that the gunmen are taking the bombs by force and killing anyone with knowledge of them.
"And bring the girl," the commander says.
When a dark hood is thrown over my head, I allow myself to be hustled downstairs and into a waiting vehicle.
I have no idea where I'm going or what will become of me, but at least I know where the bombs are.
And right now, I might be the only person capable of stopping a nuclear disaster, which is something none of us anticipated.
/> The engine roars, and as we pull away, I hear the sound of a bullet hitting the car.
"Someone is shooting at us," the driver says, taking a hard right that knocks me into whoever is sitting next to me. He doesn't feel very tall, but he is solid and doesn't budge. Of course, he can see where we are going.
I highly doubt this vehicle holds eight men. More than likely, they were split into two teams, each one taking their backpack with them as a fail-safe. Better half than none.
That means, even though I could shoot the driver with a midnight dart from my watch, prick the hand of the man to my right with the poisonous tip on my black diamond ring, steal the gun I can feel holstered on the man to my left's hip while simultaneously elbowing him in the face, and shoot the man in the passenger seat before shooting the man on the left of me with his own gun, I need to find out where the other bombs are.
But then I realize a normal girl wouldn't just sit here, plotting their demise. She'd be freaking out.
"I didn't know that man," I whimper. "Please let me go."
"Don't lie to us," the man sitting to my left says, backhanding me and causing my cheek to instantly swell. "Sit there and shut up, or I'll kill you."
I do as I was told but make my breathing ragged, like I'm silently sobbing.
I hear the driver curse in Russian as another bullet strikes the vehicle. Obviously, whoever is chasing us doesn't know that we're carrying nuclear bombs and that they should follow discreetly instead--which means, it's my brother, who doesn't have a discreet bone in his body.
"Motorbike. On our six," the passenger says.
"Are we going to die?" I fake hysterical sob. "Why is everyone shooting at each other?"
My only response is a gust of wind rushing into the vehicle as windows are rolled down. The man to my left grabs the gun from his holster, then leans out the window, and fires.
"Can I take this hoodie thing off?" I beg. "I get carsick if I can't see where I'm going."
The man to my right responds by shoving a gun into my side and cursing at me. "We need your boyfriend, and we're going to use you as collateral."
The vehicle takes another sharp turn, so I make gagging noises, hoping it will be convincing.
