Page 104 of Locked and Loaded

"Not sure," Mick said. "The biometrics are tied to registered bidders and their approved guests. It's not something I can fake remotely. I'd need to be on site."

Silence on the comms. Lennox could feel the frustration radiating through it, the collective tension of a team hitting a wall they hadn't seen coming.

"I can," said a voice she didn't recognize. Male. Accented in a way that reminded her of Dragan's speech patterns, the same European influence. "Valardi," he added, as if remembering that not everyone on the comms would know his voice. "Sorry for the delay. Just got my earpiece in. My associate and I are heading into the ballroom now. Maric, fall in as our security. I can't promise it will work. The biometrics are thorough, and they're checking everyone against the registration database. But it's the best I can do on short notice."

"Right behind you," Dragan said.

Lennox turned her head, scanning the ballroom, and found him.

He was crossing the floor with the same deliberate, unhurried stride he used for everything, the one that made him look like he had all the time in the world even when the world was about to catch fire. The tuxedo fit him like it had been built around his body, the black jacket pulling across his shoulders, the crisp white shirt stark against the warm tone of his skin. A lock of hair fell across his forehead. There was something about the way he moved through the crowd, something predatory and controlled, that made her chest ache.

He looked infuriatingly good in the tuxedo. Somehow none of the other women seemed to notice what she couldn't stop looking at. The way his hands hung loose at his sides, ready for anything. The set of his jaw, his absolute focus. The way he was walking toward a hidden door and a room full of monsters and doing it like it was just another Friday night.

He fell in behind two men near the edge of the room. Valardi and his associate, she assumed. Valardi was taller, broad. His associate was shorter but solidly built. They moved together like they'd done it before, falling into formation as Dragan stepped in behind them.

Dragan glanced over his shoulder.

Just once. Just for a second. His eyes found hers across the ballroom, across the crystal and the silk and the chattering crowd of people who didn't know what was happening three layers beneath the surface of their beautiful evening. He gave her the slightest nod. Barely a dip of his chin. If she hadn't been watching, she would have missed it.

Her heart skipped a beat. Then two.

He was doing this for her. She knew it was his job, knew there were larger forces at play, operations and alliances and the invisible machinery of a Society that she barely understood. But none of that changed what she saw in his face in that half-second before he turned away. He wasn't walking into that room for the Callahans, or for Fontaine, or for the mission. He was walking into that room for her. Because her sister could be in there, or the path to her sister was, and Dragan had decided somewhere between the desert and Malta that her fight was his fight.

Not the distant nausea of the theatre description, the abstract horror of what was happening behind closed doors. This was different. This was personal and immediate, and struck her like a physical blow, her stomach dropping, her chest tightening, her breath catching in her throat. She wanted to chase after him. She wanted to grab his arm and pull him back and tell him not to go. She wanted to say all the things she'd been holding back since the desert, all the words she'd swallowed because she was too angry or too proud or too scared to say them out loud.

But it was too late.

He was through the doors. Dragan, Valardi, and the other man disappeared into the hallway beyond the tapestry, swallowed by the same darkness that had swallowed her sister. The hidden door closed behind them, seamless and silent, and the gala went on around her, as if nothing had happened. The servers kept serving. The guests kept laughing. Margot St. Clair adjusted the microphone and smiled at the crowd and prepared to begin her speech.

Lennox's hand found her champagne glass. She raised it to her lips and took a long swallow, the bubbles burning her throat, the cold liquid doing nothing to settle the roiling in her stomach. She wanted to say something across the comms. Something to him. Something that mattered. But there was nothing she could say without the whole team hearing it, without Alex hearing it, without everyone knowing exactly how far she'd fallen and how fast.

So she drank her champagne and kept her mouth shut and stared at the place where he'd disappeared.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

She looked at camera four again. The ballroom was still glittering. Still beautiful. Still full of rich people saving the world.

She identified Armand Fontaine as well as the Callahans, both brothers and their partners. Ryker, Rush, Cash, and Flynn from the Society were in the room as well. Fontaine wasn’t taking any chances, she mused. Good for him. Too bad it wouldn’t be enough. She had been unable to resist inviting Fontaine to the fundraiser. It was her little joke. The man who ran the Society in the next room when the whole thing came crashing down. After tonight, the whole world would find out about the Lock and Key Society.

For a moment she let herself feel it. The triumph. The satisfaction. The power of sitting in a quiet hotel room three blocks away from the most exclusive event on the planet and pulling every single string that made it run. None of those people knew she existed. None of them would ever know. She was the architect of the evening and the ghost in the machine, and when it was over, she'd disappear.

The tablet lit up. Fisher again. The last buyer had checked in. All ten were seated. The auction was about to begin.

She leaned forward and typed a single word.

Begin.

Camera five showed the lights dimming in the private dining room. The podium at the front. The first image appeared on the screen. A girl. Young. Dark-haired. Terrified.

Lot One.

She watched the numbers start to climb and let herself smile.

She was in her element. She was untouchable. She was going to burn the Lock and Key Society to the ground and walk away with more money than God.

And if Archer Gray was still alive, let him watch. Let him see exactly what she'd built out of the ashes of everything he'd done to her.

Let him try to stop her.