Chapter 20 - Placement

Marcus

The folder on my desk isn’t just thick. It’s radioactive.

Inside is Agent Rachel Gillespie’s new identity, credentials, backstory, and insertion plan.

Everything Rodriguez promised. Everything I didn’t ask for.

There’s a sticky note on the front in Rodriguez’s tight handwriting. Make it believable. You have until Friday.

I stare at it for a full minute before I move.

Unlocking my laptop, I pull up the internal organization chart for Platinum Connections. I need to find a gap that Rachel can fill.

A role that Elena won’t bother watching too closely.

There’s an opening in Research & Development. Mona, the woman who usually works there, is on six months maternity leave.

It’s a quiet little division, mostly dealing with algorithms and compatibility theory. It’s the perfect cover.

It still feels like betrayal.

I flag it, draft a personnel request, and send it to Elena before I can talk myself out of it.

She responds two minutes later.

New hire? Since when do we approve talent without a meeting and mutual agreement?

She’s definitely annoyed and I reply with a carefully vague answer.

She was a last-minute recommendation. The post isn’t permanent, so I trusted my gut. Do you want to meet her first? I’ve sent her the contract, but it needs both our signatures before it’s final.

Three dots. Then nothing.

She’s not convinced, but she doesn’t want to tell me not to make moves behind her back.

I hate that I’m lying to her. Even more than I already was.

Elena thinks I left the Bureau two years ago. That this company, our company, is my only endeavor.

That when I said I wanted out of the Bureau because it’s too stressful and violent, I meant it.

I tell myself that it’s for her own safety. It’s better that she doesn’t know, so she can claim plausible deniability if the shit ever hits the fan.

The honest truth is, I’m not sure how she’d react.

I believe in our friendship one hundred percent, but Elena loves this world we occupy. The money, the designer labels, the private jets.

She’s more accepting of the lengths people would go to in order to increase their wealth.

She often teases that I’m a socialist with a capitalist bank balance.

I reaped the rewards of growing up with money.

Attended the best schools and an Ivy league university. Had nutritiously balanced meals prepared by a private chef. Benefited from a professional tennis coach.

Before suddenly turning around and bemoaning the injustices in the world for those without money.

She thinks I’m sweet and naive and adores me for it. But her own views on wealth definitely differs wildly from mine.

I know in my heart of hearts that she’d be horrified to know I’m using my position here to delve into the underbelly of white-collar crime.

Still. I know she’s a good person and I have to believe she’d forgive me for misleading her.

Emerson’s message comes in at 2:03 a.m.

Between the cold coffee in my hand and the Sophia-shaped static in my brain, I’m running on equal parts caffeine and denial.

Mostly denial.

The subject line is subtle.

re: your girl.

I open the attachment and the dossier loads immediately.

Name: Sophia Chen.

Occupation: Investigative Journalist.

Known Affiliations: Disgraced Financial Crimes Editor (former), freelance with multiple global outlets, known for high-impact whistleblower exposés.

Fremont is in the list. Front and center.

I skim the timeline. She broke that case wide open. Destroyed reputations. Got blacklisted. Then disappeared for a year.

Until now.

Emerson’s note at the bottom reads:

Confirmed alias. Active op.

Trail goes cold 8 months ago. No open articles, no publication bylines.

Suspected involvement in secondary corporate infiltration at Platinum Connections. My advice is to keep a close eye on her. You’re not the only one watching her.

I exhale slowly and lean back in my chair.

So. It’s official.

She’s not Sophia Sterling, sexy heiress.

She’s Sophia Chen, goddamn wrecking ball.

And I should be angry. But I’m not.

I’m impressed.

I’m worried.

And underneath that?

I’m something else entirely. Something far too close to protective.

Who’s watching her? I hate the idea of her being in danger.

Someone else knows who she is and they want to get rid of her before she uncovers anything they’d rather keep hidden.

Investigative journalist. Exposed the Fremont fund collapse. Whistleblower darling turned media ghost. Burned her network. Burned herself.

Then disappeared.

Until she resurfaced here.

I also have to wonder at Emerson’s unsolicited advice.

He’s not in the business of offering opinions. He finds what you want and you pay him.

He always makes a big deal about that being the beginning and end of his involvement.

How his customers use the information he tracks down has nothing to do with him.

Why tell me to keep an eye on her?

I really don’t have the mental energy to try and unravel another mystery. For now I’ll focus on what I’ve learned.

One. Sophia’s playing her own game.

Two. She’s in more danger than she knows.

And I don’t trust Gillespie to protect her.

I know what Rodriguez wants. He wants Sophia under surveillance, under pressure. Wants her broken down so we can find out what she’s digging for.

But I already know.

She’s looking for the truth.

And I can’t let her trip into the kind of truth that gets people killed.

I pace the room, resisting the urge to send Sophia a message.

What would I say?

Hey, just a heads up, the Bureau’s embedding a new agent to investigate you and I’m being forced to hand her your case file and pretend it’s fine. Hope you’re sleeping well.

I drop into the chair behind my desk and rub my temples.

Rodriguez is probably already drafting the surveillance requests. Hell, for all I know, Sophia’s apartment is bugged already.

And I can’t stop it.

This job used to be about catching criminals.

Now it’s about protecting one woman from being crushed under the weight of all the wrong questions.

Even if she’s asking some of them herself.