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“And your ex-boyfriend keeps hounding everyone about your whereabouts. Dad said it’s getting old, and he’s afraid your ex is turning into a psycho.”
Crap.
“Uh—I’ll be back soon. Hey, I gotta go. The bus is here,” Marissa lied.
“See you soon!” Allison replied in a sing-song voice.
When the call ended, she texted Allison.
Olivia: You’re fired as my bff.
Allison: Love you, too.
Later that day,Marissa opened the secure cable from one of her assets, Stan Morgan, a former transporter for a South Africa security company, SASTac. SASTac had stolen the research from Dr. Sophie Lockwood to build the zefinium bomb—a bomb that had the thermal blast of a nuclear weapon without its fallout effects. To escape prosecution, Morgan agreed to work for the CIA as an informant. His work as a transporter brought him in close contact with the underground network of organized crime and terrorists.
She sat back in anticipation as she decrypted the rest of the note:
“I’m in DC. You sent a targeted bulletin to several of your sources to keep an eye open for a person of interest. I have information for you.”
Morgan gave her his contact information in the U.S. Marissa logged into a chat room, which was another way for her to communicate with Morgan. He did not reply until the next morning. The meeting was set at 8:00 p.m.
She sent Allison an update.
Olivia: Received the package. Thanks, but returning to sender.
Allison: Good luck.
Olivia: Not following.
Allison: You will.
Marissa felta riff of anxiety crawl up her spine. What the hell did Allison mean? She was tempted to call her, but shewas going to be late for her meeting with Morgan if she delayed further. It was a forty-five minute drive to Silver Springs, Maryland and she had to allow for traffic. Asset meet-ups were precise, and tardiness of more than a few minutes could spook your informant, although Morgan was one tough son of a bitch.
She exited her sanctuary of the past few days. A farmhouse of some sort, out in the middle of nowhere. The internet connection had satellite backup, so she was never out of the loop in case some emergency came up. It was the end of February, and the winter was the harshest it had been in the past five years. Thankfully, she rented a sturdy SUV that managed some of the sleekest patches of ice on rural roads. As a force of habit, she checked her rear-view mirror. There was sparse traffic for miles and miles of road until she turned into Washington National Pike, and then finally, the Washington Beltway. The exit for Silver Springs came up quickly, and she started hunting for the Red-8 motel Morgan had checked into. Pulling into the parking lot, she could make out the shadow of Stan Morgan’s six and half feet bulk under the eaves of the building. Marissa tapped her brake lights twice and he started moving toward her.
He was lugging a huge duffle bag on his shoulder.
This unnerved her for a beat and a bristle of alarm tickled the hair on her nape. Her fingers hesitated to unlock the doors when Morgan tried the handle. His brows drew together as he stared at her through the panes of the vehicle.
Sighing, she unlocked the doors.
“What was that all about, Ms. Cole?” Morgan asked in irritation.
“What’s with the duffle bag?”
“I don’t like staying at the motel. I figured you have better accommodations.”
“The CIA pays you enough,” Marissa pointed out.
“True, but I reserve my options,” Morgan drawled. “Maybe you should start driving.”
“Look, Morgan, before I capitulate on your demands—whatever they are—shouldn’t you give me what I came for?”
He seemed more sinister in the dark interior of the car. “The SK nerve gas is in the United States.”
“When and how?” Marissa kept her voice steady even as her heart rate picked up.
“A few weeks ago, Stuart Kwon approached me to move some crates for him, no questions asked.”
