“The motion passes,” Lisa said, her tone steady rather than smug. “Before we close, there is one more point of new business. This one also requires a vote.”
David braced himself. What was next? An Immortals clothing line?
“Allison is also interested in a career change. She wants to become an actress.”
15
A Code to Crack
TORY CLOSED HIS LAPTOP and walked to the window of his Signature Suite. He stood still for a second, soaking in the view of the Santa Monica shoreline before raising a fist in victory. “Oorah!”
The incident earlier in the day, when Lars’s friend had literally crossed paths with David, could not have happened at a worse time. Coming just hours before his first full client briefing, Tory had worried that it might mark the end of his dream job.
But he’d handled that crisis and he’d managed his clients. His gravy train remained on the rails.
Every private contractor hopes for a humongous score, but Tory had not dared to dream this big. It wasn’t the $100,000 he was getting per replacement, or even the $900,000 complete customer satisfaction bonus that might follow. The source of his excitement was the $500,000 annual “maintenance payment” he was set to receive forever after. While technically the half-million was to monitor the replacement identities and manage any complications that might arise, the work involved would likely be next to nothing. It was hush money, and he loved it.
Looking around the Huntley Hotel room, he had to concede that the Platinum Business Amex credit card that Felix had furnished was also a pretty sweet perk. Near as he could figure, the account was on autopay. And as Amex liked to advertise, it had no preset credit limit. That made this the first time in his life that he hadn’t had to worry about expenses. He didn’t even have to file reports. Whatever he needed, and frankly whatever he wanted, he just put on the prestigious titanium card.
That even applied to cash withdrawals. Significant financial advances. He hired quite a few subcontractors, and he paid a lot of bribes. Most often in cash. Always without pushback. Felix kept an eye on the account to be sure, and he asked the occasional question, but he never demanded spreadsheets or written receipts. Their focus was never on money, just results.
They were an interesting bunch, his employers. Incredibly intelligent, but babes in his woods. Felix was a bit of a prick personally, but reasonable and predictable as a business partner. Pierce seemed to be the only one with a solid backbone, although Tory sensed that Lisa could be tough as nails when pressed. The others appeared malleable, more or less.
Life was good.
In fact, Tory’s only frustration was that he had no idea who his employers were, or why they needed replacement identities. They had only provided him with the essential information. Everything he needed to locate American lookalikes, but nothing else.
The most intriguing aspect of the mystery was that none of them had showed up during his doppelgänger searches. Normally, when searching for lookalikes, many if not most of the results would be different pictures of the original person. But during this assignment, Tory’s clients hadn’t popped up a single time. Not one of them. Not once.
If photographic evidence was all you had to go by, they didn’t exist.
He’d scanned every database he could hack or bribe his way into, and he’d searched broadly, catching all Caucasians between the ages of twenty and fifty. Not one hit had been a client. Either they’d all effectively scrubbed their internet presences, a practice requiring high-caliber hackers and sophisticated software packages, or they’d never been there, meaning they likely weren’t American.
The other thing that befuddled Tory was the odd assortment of replacement profiles they’d ordered. Of the nine, two had ordered “discharging veterans from swing states with serious political potential,” while one had asked for “someone with serious acting credentials from someplace other than Hollywood.” Those made sense to Tory. If you were going to become someone else, why not get a leg up on a dream? But the other six had basically just asked for “clean” replacement identities.
He toyed with the idea that some foreign intelligence service, most likely the Russians, was trying to plant moles. But he didn’t really believe it. Although Felix appeared to be covering an accent, the Russians would almost certainly be focused on specific geographies. Washington, D.C., for starters.
Unless this espionage ploy was something groundbreaking? An unconventional tactic designed to completely confound the CIA? Putin was as clever as they came, so it certainly wasn’t out of the question.
In any case, Tory was dying to learn their true identities, and for more than one reason.
If it wasn’t a foreign government op, and he could crack their secret, Tory was certain that he could up his annual hush-money payment to an even million. Actually, given the apparent cash on hand, he was fairly certain he could up it to an even rounder eight figures. But he knew all too well from his days with Finnish Intelligence and Triple Canopy that pigs got slaughtered, so one million dollars it would be.
If he ever cracked the code.
His current best guess was that they were all trying to escape something. But what? He had no idea and little time to speculate. His real job of identifying replacements, running background checks, and setting up scams already had him working eighty hours a week. For now, figuring out the why would have to wait. But it would make for one hell of a “retirement” hobby.
Tory turned away from the beautiful beachfront view and returned to the desk. He reopened his laptop and keyed in his eighteen-digit password. He had to get cracking on his next job. It was time to pry Skylar Fawkes from her life—making room for Aria.
16
The Fall Guy
SOMETIMES SCARY DREAMS end with wide-open eyes. They shake us into a consciousness characterized by sweaty palms and a pounding heart. During those first frantic seconds, we struggle to acclimate ourselves while searching for the source of danger. Then, in a revelation that strikes with the speed of a serpent, our minds catch up to our bodies and the world comes into focus. We flop back onto our pillows with empty adrenal glands, exhaling sweet and slow.
I did not flop back down as my eyes flew open. I did not immediately orient myself. I had no pillow.
I wasn’t even lying down.
I was crumpled on the side of a cliff, my bent knees pressing against a boulder. Above me, a steep range of rock. Behind me, a short grassy knoll. Below me, some hundred and fifty feet, a canyon floor.
Nothing about my body seemed normal. My hearing was impaired and my vision blurry. I felt like Alice in the rabbit hole.
Everything hurt. My head ached enough to wake the dead. My right knee was on fire. Whoever had hit me hadn’t used the Goldilocks touch this time.
I found part of the problem when I attempted to cradle my aching head in my trembling hands. Or more accurately, the solution. And the answer. The explanation for my core condition and incredible circumstance. I was wearing a helmet. A motorcycle helmet.
That finding flipped the switch that brought the story crashing back.
The Lars lookalike. The car chase. The cliffside trap.
As for my survival, I had a one-word explanation. Hooah!
I had completed the Army ROTC program at Princeton. That included spending the summer between my junior and senior years at Airborne school in Fort Benning, Georgia. During the first of three weeks, the Black Hats taught me how to fall. During the second, they trained me to fall from fast-moving objects. During the third, I learned how to leap from aircraft and land alive. Of course, each stage stressed surviving the impact without breaking anything required for combat.