Chapter 9
The warehouse in Red Hook looked abandoned. Graffiti covered the brick walls, and the windows were boarded up.
"Are you sure this is the place?" Piper asked, wrinkling her nose. "This looks like where people go to get murdered."
"Stay in the car and keep the engine running," Claire said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "This part is solo."
Piper frowned but nodded. This new Claire was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.
Claire walked to the rusted steel door. She pressed a hidden panel under a loose brick.
Hiss.
The door slid open on hydraulic rails.
Inside, it was not a high-tech Batcave, but a high-end private garage. A gearhead's paradise.
A row of modified cars-matte black, engines exposed-sat in the center under spotlights. On the far wall, instead of server banks, were floor-to-ceiling tool chests and diagnostic equipment. The air smelled of motor oil and expensive leather.
"Holy shit," Claire whispered to herself. It was more than she'd expected.
Branch slid out from under a '69 Mustang. He was wearing a grease-stained tank top. His arms were covered in oil.
He stood up, wiping his hands on a rag. He looked raw. Primal.
"Welcome to the playground," Branch said.
Claire walked over to a large tablet mounted on a workbench. She pointed. "Is that the feed from the hotel ballroom?"
"Yep." Branch tapped the screen. An image of the stage and podium appeared. "I have a friend on the hotel's AV crew. He's given me a backdoor into the system. We can override the broadcast feed for the local news stations covering the party."
"Can you run video?"
"Child's play." Branch picked up a USB drive from the desk. "I had my guys pull the files based on the account info you gave me. The video of Derrick meeting with the cartel's money launderer? The one named Elsa?"
"Yeah?"
"It's disgusting," Branch grinned. "It's perfect."
He tossed the drive in the air and caught it. "Dash will be at the party, near the control booth. When the moment is right, he gives the signal."
"Good."
Branch walked over to a covered rack in the corner.
"I have something for you," he said. "Since you're going to war, you need a uniform."
He pulled the sheet off.
Claire gasped.
It was a dress.
It was made of black silk charmeuse that looked like liquid midnight. Off-the-shoulder, with a sweetheart neckline that plunged dangerously low, and a slit up the thigh that screamed murder. It was a whisper-thin, deadly statement.
"You're not wearing white tonight," Branch said. "You're wearing this."
Claire ran her hand over the silk. It was soft as sin.
"I can't just show up in this," she said. "Derrick would have a fit before we even got through the door."
"You wear the pastel dress he picked out," Branch explained. "This goes in a garment bag. You change in the ladies' room right before his speech. You walk out in that thing, and no one will be able to look away. He'll be so stunned by the dress, he won't see the knife coming."
Claire looked at him. He had thought of everything.
"Why?" she asked.
Branch stepped closer. He smelled of motor oil and musk. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb lingered on her cheek.
"Because," he murmured. "If you're going to break his heart, you should look like a nightmare he'll never wake up from."
Claire's breath hitched. For a second, the revenge didn't matter. Only the heat of his hand mattered.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Don't thank me yet," Branch said, pulling away. "Wait until the fireworks start."
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