A Touch of Treachery

CHAPTER ONE—CHARLOTTE

You could always tell the thieves by their props.

A watering can and a pair of gardening gloves. A waiter’s tray and a notepad. A gold watch and a briefcase.

At first glance, thieves always looked like they belonged in their surroundings, and they blended into the background like paint on a wall. But thieves had their tells, just like players in a poker game, and if you looked closely enough, you could spot the subtle signs they weren’t what they appeared.

A woman kneeling by a flower bed but not actually dousing the blossoms with her watering can or digging her gloved hands into the dirt. A man leaning against a table that held an empty tray and a notepad but not actually waiting on anyone or scribbling down orders. Another man sitting in a chair, checking his imitation-gold watch and fiddling with the black leather briefcase on his lap but not actually opening the container and drawing out any papers.

So far, I’d clocked three thieves in the lobby, all situated at different points around the perimeter like a lopsided triangle. The woman with the watering can was close to the entrance, where rows of trees, hedges, and flowers formed a large garden. The waiter was next to a gray marble column beside the café that dominated the left side of the lobby, while the businessman was in a chair close to the reception desk at the center of the back wall.

The three thieves maintained their positions and pretenses while scores of people pushed through the revolving doors at the front of the lobby, strode past the garden, and then either veered into the café or headed toward the left or right bank of elevators. A few folks stopped at the reception desk to ask for directions.

Like many buildings on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., this structure housed a variety of businesses, everything from dentists and lawyers to accountants and acupuncturists. One elevator car after another dinged out its arrival, while the café’s espresso machines hissed, burped, and spewed out one beverage after another, creating a pleasant symphony of sound. The dark, rich scent of a dozen different coffees curled through the air, along with a yeasty whiff of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls that made my stomach rumble with longing.

Too bad Section 47 spies didn’t get coffee breaks.

I angled my phone left and right, using the screen to watch the thieves scattered around the lobby. This crew was more subtle and disciplined than most, but they all looked tense and wary, and they were all turned so that they had a clear view of their target—me.

Just like the thieves, I too was wearing a disguise—a bright royal-blue pantsuit that stood out like an unwanted ink stain amid the bland gray furniture. I hadn’t bothered with a watch or any jewelry, and instead of the expected heels, dark gray sneakers covered my feet. The scuffed shoes were my tell, but I didn’t care about blending in with everyone else. Comfort had always been much more important than fashion to me, since you never knew when things might go wrong, and you might have to run for your life as a spy. Something that happened far too frequently for my peace of mind.

I put my phone away and stared through the glass wall at the street outside. Traffic flowed at a steady pace, accompanied by the impatient honk of horns, and no cars were idling at the curb, waiting to whisk the thieves away after they’d finished their heist.

In addition to the front wall, two side walls were also made of glass, and the bright sunlight streaming inside made the silver flecks in the floor shimmer like minnows swimming through the gray marble. Off to the right, the garden greenery clustered around a wooden bridge that stretched over a stream of bubbling water that widened into a round stone pool filled with glimmering coins.

A sea of worn couches spread across the center of the lobby before giving way to black wrought-iron tables and chairs that clustered around the café on the left wall. A corner escalator rose to the second floor, which featured a glassed-in terrace that served as overflow seating for the café.

Chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, each one with long, skinny, stiff white paper strands that made them look like giant dandelion puffs about to be blown away by the aggressive heating system. Black security cameras also dangled from the ceiling and swiveled back and forth like oblong spiders swinging from thin strands.

I stared up at the closest camera. Gia Chan and Diego Benito, my colleagues at Section 47, were no doubt viewing the live footage right now. They were stationed in a building down the block, along with a strike team, just waiting to rush in and apprehend the thieves when they finally decided to make a move. But I couldn’t help but wonder who else might be peering through the cameras—and what their plans were for me.

I resisted snapping off a cheeky salute to my silent watchers, Section 47 and otherwise, and dropped my gaze back down to the lobby.

Everyone looked perfectly normal, but I kept glancing around, trying to figure out whether I’d missed spotting any more thieves. Hard to tell, given the dozens of people coming and going, but maybe I could fix that.

I stretched my hand out and drummed my fingers on the briefcase perched on the cushion beside me, as though I was growing bored waiting to be seen. All three thieves tensed, and the woman with the watering can dug her knees into the dirt like she wanted to leap up, sprint forward, and brain me with the metal container.

Given how fidgety she had been since I’d entered the lobby ten minutes ago, I was willing to bet the gardener-thief was a paramortal, someone with special magical abilities. Most likely, she was an enduro with incredible stamina, someone who could fight, run, or stay awake for days on end. Many enduros felt a constant need to burn off the amazing amount of energy pumping through their bodies, and this woman kept shifting on her knees and curling and uncurling her fingers around the watering can.

As for the waiter-thief and the businessman-thief, they were most likely paramortals too, although I couldn’t tell what powers the two men might have. They could be enduros like the woman—or something even more dangerous.

I kept drumming my fingers on the briefcase, which was the same bright blue as my suit, as though I were a peacock preening my feathers to attract maximum attention. The three thieves were the only ones who reacted to the motion, but I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that someone else was watching me, so I drew in a breath and reached for my magic.

Just like the three thieves, I too was a paramortal. My ability? A magical form of synesthesia that let me see mistakes, typos, and errors in whatever document, spreadsheet, or contract I was reviewing, something that helped me track rogue paramortals as a spy-slash-analyst for Section 47. But my synesthesia took other forms as well, including a highly tuned sense of danger and an inner voice that whispered of threats—

A bit of pink flared off to my left. I tensed, but the pink flare was centered on a puddle of spilled coffee. My synesthesia might be useful in sensing true mortal danger, like an assassin who wanted to shoot me, but it often bombarded me with bright, colorful lights, even when it was just pointing out a minor hazard like a slick floor. I grimaced and looked away before the neon-pink flare sparked a headache.

“Excuse me, Ms. Locke,” a light, feminine voice called out.

Heels clacked on the floor, and a woman came out from behind the reception desk and stopped beside me. Her pantsuit was the same light silver as her short, wavy hair, and she blended into the background even better than the thieves did. The woman looked to be in her fifties, with rosy skin and pretty features schooled into a polite expression.

“I’m Iris Berriston.” The woman smiled and held out her hand. “I’m the agent on-site and will be handling the transfer of assets.”

I leaned forward, shook her hand, and returned her smile with one of my own. “Thank you, Iris. And please, call me Charlotte. People only call me Ms. Locke when there is some sort of trouble at Section 47.”

Iris’s light brown eyes twinkled with amusement. “Isn’t there always some sort of trouble at Section 47?”

I snorted. That was an understatement.

To most folks, Section 47 was a bland moniker, a nondescript name for a corporation that did important yet vague things for the government like so many other businesses in Washington, D.C. In reality, Section 47 was a super-secret spy organization devoted to gathering intelligence and analyzing information to thwart crimes, mass-casualty events, and terrorist activities. Only instead of chasing regular villains, Section 47 was tasked with tracking, apprehending, and policing dangerous paramortals.

Section 47 took its name from a specific, extra bit of DNA that supposedly imbued paramortals with all their amazing abilities. At least, that was the commonly accepted scientific theory, although most paramortals just called their abilities magic.

As an analyst for Section 47, I monitored and tracked the worst of the worst—criminals, terrorists, and other rogue paramortals who used their magical abilities and enhanced weapons to commit horrific atrocities. Like Henrika Hyde, a weapons maker I had been chasing for the last few months who had morphed into my personal nemesis.

Iris’s smile melted away, and her face turned serious. “I’m just waiting to receive a final confirmation and some paperwork from headquarters, and then I can take you down to the Vault. It should only be a few more minutes.”

Section 47 was all about hiding in plain sight. Several decades ago, this building had been a bank, and over the years, the Section higher-ups had quietly repurposed the lowest level, turning it into a storage facility for illegal biomagical drugs, weapons, money, and other items that were confiscated during raids. Hence the nickname the Vault.

Iris gestured at the café. “Can I get you anything while you wait? Water? Juice? Coffee?”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

She nodded, then returned to the reception desk. Iris reached for the landline phone, but her hand trembled, and the receiver squirted out of her grasp and landed with a loud clatter. She winced and scooped up the receiver.

Thwack.

The wet slap of a mop hitting the floor drew my attention. Off to the left, a janitor nudged a yellow cart forward and swiped his mop back and forth, cleaning up the spilled coffee my synesthesia had pointed out.

His dark blue coveralls outlined his broad shoulders and lean, muscled body, while black boots encased his feet. A blue baseball hat topped his head, covering most of his dark blond hair and casting a shadow over his tan skin, along with the golden stubble that clung to his strong jaw.

The janitor bent down over the mop, hunching his shoulders and making himself seem much shorter than his six-foot height.

“Don’t ogle me too much, Numbers.” A low, teasing voice with a hint of an Australian accent echoed through my earbud. “You don’t want to blow my cover.”

Desmond Percy was always worth ogling, even if he was wearing drab coveralls instead of the sleek business suits he preferred. I grabbed my phone and held it up to my ear, pretending to talk to someone.

“I’m just surprised to see a Section 47 cleaner actually cleaning something up, Crocodile Dundee,” I replied, my soft Southern accent adding an extra drawl to my voice.

When I’d first met Desmond, I’d dubbed him Crocodile Dundee because of his Australian accent, while he’d called me Numbers because of the calculations he said were always going on in my mind. At first, I’d despised the nickname, but now I loved the extra connection between the two of us.

“Usually, all you cleaners do is make a bloody mess—in every sense of the word,” I continued.

Desmond chuckled at my black humor. As an analyst, my job was to track rogue paramortals, but as a cleaner, Desmond’s job was to eliminate them—permanently. He was one of Section 47’s top assassins and a powerful galvanist, someone who could control and manipulate different forms of energy, from the electricity humming through the chandeliers to the steam spewing out of the café’s espresso machines to the battery charge in my phone.

“At least you get to be the anonymous worker bee today instead of me.” I sighed. “Although those coveralls look a lot more comfortable than the nutcracker outfit I had to wear at Christmas.”

“Are you still holding a grudge about that?” he teased again.

A few weeks ago, Desmond and I had gone undercover during a Christmas Eve party at Tannenbaum Castle in Germany. Desmond had attended as Desmond Macfarlane, his undercover alias as a notorious arms dealer. Me? I’d been stuck pretending to be a waiter, and given the party’s holiday theme, I’d been forced to dress up like a toy soldier from The Nutcracker ballet, complete with an itchy black brimmed hat, a stiff button-up jacket, and knee-high boots that had pinched my feet.

“You would hold a grudge too if you’d had to wear that awful costume,” I muttered.

Desmond chuckled again. “Well, I thought you looked amazing. Then again, you always look amazing.”

The low, husky note in his voice made me shiver. Desmond and I had been together for a few months, and so far, things had been wonderful between us, despite the trouble we’d run into in Germany. The couple that spies together stays together. At least for now. I didn’t know what kind of future Desmond and I might have, but I was eager to find out.

At their respective positions, all three thieves suddenly snapped to attention. The gardener surged to her feet and looked at the businessman, who’d been checking his watch. He stood up and nodded to her, as well as to the waiter. Then all three of them headed in my direction. Whatever they had been waiting for had finally happened, and now they were ready to get down to business.

I glanced over at Desmond. “Here we go. Wish me luck.”

A smile crooked the corner of his mouth. “You don’t need luck, Charlotte, but I’ll wish it for you anyway, and I’ll be watching your back, just like always.”

Desmond pulled a Caution sign out of the janitor’s cart and stuck it on the damp floor. Then he slid the mop into the bucket and pushed the cart away, whistling a soft tune. Desmond strode right by the fake waiter, but the other man didn’t give him a second look.

Over at the reception desk, Iris murmured something into the landline phone, then set the receiver down. She stared at it a few seconds, then raised her head and gestured at me.

My fingers curled around the briefcase handle, and I blew out a tense breath, got to my feet, and headed toward the other agent.

Time to see if the thieves took the bait.