The Fixer E-Book

Lee Winter

• Herausgeber: Ylva Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The Villains series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 420

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

A naive activist is hired by a corporate villain but doesn't realize it. Cue one awkward farce, a twisty puzzle, and the slowest of slow burns in this opposites-attract, ice queen romance. Nine years ago, aloof, icy Michelle Hastings chose career over love. She's now living with that choice as she rules a secret corporation catering to the rich and powerful. Enter Eden Lawless. The guileless activist finds it a bit weird being employed by a mystery organization to bring down a corrupt mayor. But, hey, she's up for a challenge. Much harder is getting her beautiful new boss out of her head. The pull between them is electric. Book one in The Villains series is a lesbian romance filled with intrigue, humor, and heart. It's set in The Red Files universe but can be read as a standalone series.

Leseprobe

Table Of Contents

Other Books by Lee Winter

Acknowledgments

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Other Books from Ylva Publishing

About Lee Winter

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www.ylva-publishing.com

Other Books by Lee Winter

Standalone

Hotel Queens

Changing the Script

Breaking Character

Shattered

Requiem for Immortals

Sliced Ice (anthology)

The Truth Collection

The Ultimate Boss Set (box set)

The Brutal Truth

The Awkward Truth

The Villains series

The Fixer

Chaos Agent

On The Record series

On the Record – The Complete Collection (box set)

The Red Files

Under Your Skin

Acknowledgments

I never intended to write one story told over two books, but it turns out some ice queens take quite a bit longer to melt than others. Clearly redeeming someone as complex as Michelle Hastings cannot be rushed! As a result, it was no small favor asking my beta readers to pore over two books not one.

I am so appreciative to my friend, Ylva CEO Astrid Ohletz, who always seems to magically know when there’s a scene missing.

Sandy Unger was my wonderful Jewish sensitivity reader once more, offering her knowledge of the inner workings of amusing, meddling saftas and their uptight granddaughters.

Órla Smith was my expert on my Irish characters—and I now have considerably more Irish sayings and slang in my vocabulary!

My eternally entertaining friend Charlotte Loudermilt offered comments that ranged from insightful and observant to hilariously insulting, as always. Thanks, mate!

Ann Etter earns my undying appreciation for helping me invent a company that doesn’t exist and yet does. Working out the accounting and financial nuances for bringing The Fixers into being was no easy feat. So, if anyone wants to create a top-secret DC corporation that flies under the radar but also pays all its taxes (to avoid attention), feel free to use our Fixers’ template!

Huge thanks, once more, go to my exemplary content editor Alissa McGowan, who always sharpens and improves my books so much.

Gratitude as well goes to my copy editor Michelle Aguilar.

Lastly, thank you to my readers for taking a chance on a book with a protagonist I know everyone hated. I heard a lot: “But HOW can Michelle be redeemed?”

Good question. I used to think it was impossible too, given she was so awful to Catherine Ayers in The Red Files and Under Your Skin. I hated her so much. Now I see who she really is—and nothing is as it seems.

I hope you enjoy her journey to redemption as much as I did writing it.

Dedication

The Fixer and Chaos Agent would not exist if not for Angela Dawe. Angela’s voicing of Michelle Hastings in “First-Class Villains”, a short story from my Sliced Ice anthology, was stunning. Her suppressed longing, icy competence, and sharp, no-nonsense take on my villain floored me so much that I immediately wanted to write Michelle’s story.

So, this book is dedicated to my inspiration, friend, and narrator—the legendary Angela Dawe.

Chapter 1

Office With No Name

The first time Eden acquired an archnemesis, she had just turned twenty and was not exactly in the market for one. Although with a surname like Lawless, she supposed acquiring enemies might be more of a design feature than a bug.

Given Eden’s main expertise lay in disrupting the status quo and organizing protests for good causes, perhaps it was almost inevitable.

Fun fact: Eden’s first protest was in utero. Her mother, River, then eight months pregnant, fist punching the skies, hair whipping around her face, had been glowing when a photographer snapped her at a Save the Whales demonstration off the coast of Japan.

By age nine, Eden had done more sit-ins, night reclaimings, tree chainings, and placard waving than most children her age had scraped knees. So, by twenty, Eden had become adept at both the art of shaking up society and clinging to building faces, protesting her way to a college expulsion and one extremely cranky nemesis.

That event turned out to be highly relevant to why she was now sitting here, sixteen years later, in the fancy end of Washington DC, outside an office that had no name.

She’d pulled in here around midnight the previous night instead of stopping at her best friend’s place as she normally would. Eden had wanted to be all set first thing this morning with a good parking spot out front for Gloria—her tastefully rainbow-painted 2008 Dodge Sprinter 3500 van.

She never minded sleeping in Gloria, which was fitted out for that purpose. Eden’s DIY reno work over the years had seen her add a sweet double bed, cute oven, compact high-end shower, toilet, and wall-mounted TV. But the outside was another matter.

Gloria looked vastly out of place in DC, tapestried as she was with faded stickers marking protest movements over the decades—championing rainforests, rights for women, POC, and the LGBT+, and…snow leopards. Eden really liked snow leopards.

Goddess, she was being distracted. Eden raked her fingers through her unruly hair, hoping it would behave for once, then peered back up at the building she had to visit in a few minutes.

So the big question was: Why did this office have no name? Wasn’t that weird? Eden yanked her phone out of her corduroy jacket to read the email yet again.

Dear Ms. Lawless

My name is Arnold Clemmons. I’m a researcher for a consultancy firm.

Your name and skill set came up when I was investigating a project for my employer. We are seeking to recruit for a short-term assignment an individual who is both creative and clever, media savvy, IT literate, and able to disrupt the status quo through any legal means necessary.

The pay is generous and you would set your own hours. However, a nondisclosure agreement would need to be signed before any specifics are revealed as to this project or my employer’s name.

I can say that the work would involve you being based in Wingapo, Maryland—your hometown, I believe. And it involves a person from your past who was fundamental in your career shift.

If this interests you, I can set up a meeting with my employer at their office in Washington DC. A plane ticket and accommodation can be provided if you are out of the area. A street parking pass will be supplied if you require it.

Yours sincerely,

Arnold Clemmons

This job was about someone who’d been “fundamental in her career shift”? That could mean only one person: Francine Wilson. Now Mayor Francine Wilson, a.k.a. Eden’s archnemesis.

But what did Francine have to do with some mysterious, secretive organization based in a glass tower in DC? And speaking of mysteries, what was its name?

Eden had assumed when she’d pulled up outside its address on M Street that she’d learn the name from simply looking at the door.

No such luck. It had no sign. Just an odd black symbol, like a stemless five-leaf clover. The tinted glass was too dark to see inside the foyer. A speaker sat next to the door. That was it.

Eden suddenly felt self-conscious. What was she even doing here? What skills could she possibly possess that fit in around here?

One way to find out. She leaped out of Gloria and strode up to the building.

She tugged the door. Locked. Then she pressed the speaker button.

A deep male voice replied: “Yes?”

“Um, hi? I’m Eden Lawless? I have an appointment—”

“Yes.” The door clicked open.

The foyer was marble and the lighting dim, thanks to all those tinted windows. A black leather couch sat before a glass coffee table, a security counter, and two elevators. It was devoid of anything else.

An enormous guard who’d triple-dipped on his muscle allocation beckoned her to his desk. “I need some ID, Ms. Lawless.”

Eden dug out her Maryland driver’s license.

The guard pulled out a tablet, snapped a photo of the license, and then tapped some notes into his device. He pushed her license back along with a blank, white plastic card.

“Elevator pass,” he said. “Enter it into the slot inside the elevator. You will be met upon exiting. Good day, Ms. Lawless.”

Eden shortly found herself in a sleek metal cube, whisking up fast. There were no numbers, only double letters occasionally lighting up, indicating the passage of floors: MM, CE, CS, among others.

Before long, the doors opened at PS, and she stepped out onto a floor filled with wide windows and a stunning view. Okay, they were really high up. Was this the top floor? Maybe PS stood for Penthouse Suite?

A mid-twenties dark-skinned woman with the most exquisite eyebrows led Eden to another black leather couch. She oozed class with her stylish short Afro, manicured nails, and tailored gray skirt suit—definitely expensive.

She offered no name. “Your phone, Ms. Lawless? And any other recording devices.” The woman held out her hand.

Eden coughed up her battered phone.

The confiscation was “temporary,” the receptionist assured her while gingerly placing Eden’s device in a steel box beside her desk. She locked it with a soft snick sound.

Eden inhaled deeply. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

It reminded her of the time some oil executives had wanted to fly her to their headquarters in Texas for a “pleasant chat over lunch” about the way she’d made a campaign reporting unleaded gas’s possible links to cancer go viral. And she’d gone because why not? If she changed just one executive’s view, she’d be delighted.

The next day had been a shocking reality check when several oil corporations had released publicity photos of her lunching in style with their executives—living the high life, being a sellout, or so the material implied. Compromised. Even though she’d spent every minute arguing with them between bites of food she was too anxious to taste. Her environmentalist client had dumped her immediately.

Lesson learned.

Or was it? What did this nameless organization want with her? Had she just walked right into a complicated trap or a con—all because they’d dangled Francine Wilson in front of her?

If it was a con, it was an expensive one. Even the billionaire oil execs didn’t have an office like this. Her gaze drifted from the stylized chrome door handles to the elegant matching light switches and the beautiful floor lamps in each corner curling over like metallic dancers touching their knees.

At the end of the room, taller than Eden, sat some sort of bronze Renaissance sculpture. It was of a female nude, shrouded in sculpted windswept cloth, face angled away, hair blown behind her. Astonishing how the cloth looked real and soft not metallic. Beautiful. And expensive. As in museum-exhibit expensive.

“You like it?” the receptionist asked, following her gaze.

“Um, sure? What is it?”

The woman’s dark brown eyes leveled Eden with a long look. “Vol Haut. That’s French. It means fly high.”

Fly high. That about summed up this whole place. “Is it…um, classic? Some dead white Italian dude from the Renaissance era?” She could picture him already.

“Chinese sculptor Luo Li Rong made it,and she was born in 1980.”

Eden gave a sheepish grin. Wrong on all counts, then. “Ah.”

“But the sculpture is a classic,” the receptionist conceded with a tiny sniff. “In my opinion, at least. Our CEO bought it from a gallery in France at the artist’s last showing. There was a fierce bidding war for it.”

So, the CEO had a ton of splash cash to blow on bronze nudes? Interesting. Eden wondered if he was some self-indulgent collector or simply a lech.

Her ears pricked up at the faintest noise. At first, Eden had thought she was hearing things, but, no, it was there: a faint, untidy hum. After ten more minutes of hearing it, she cleared her throat and glanced at the other woman.

The receptionist looked up pointedly at the latest interruption, an eyebrow high and arched. “Yes, Ms. Lawless?”

“Do you hear that noise?”

“Yes, Ms. Lawless,” came the cultured reply without any further explanation.

Oh, for Christ’s sake. “What on earth is it?”

“White noise,” the woman replied. “It is to facilitate higher productivity by muting sounds of others working and talking. Further,” she paused, as if for effect, “our particular white noise technology has a dampening field in it that will prevent any audio recording devices from working.”

Eden’s jaw dropped. “Is that even a thing?” She was quite well up on most tech thanks to IT once having been her field of study. This was new.

“I can assure you, Ms. Lawless, it is most definitely a…thing.” She returned to work.

Right, well, that shut Eden up—as intended, she had no doubt.

Time ticked on. What was taking so long? Was this some intimidation tactic? Show the minion who was boss? But why? They had actively sought her out, not the other way around.

She ran her hands down her good jeans, the black ones that didn’t obviously look like denim unless you touched them. Eden had no doubt she was wildly out of place here, which might explain the receptionist’s attitude. Probably didn’t see too many social agitators or Earth justice warriors around here.

Eden toyed with the thin chain at her neck. It had a round symbol representing Gaia—a flat tree in a circle, with curling, interconnected branches to signify Mother Earth. Her mom had given it to her before disappearing off to her latest protest, harassing supertrawlers overfishing in the North Sea. That had been over eighteen months ago. She’d kept extending her mission. Eden missed River every day.

She shifted her polished black boots and hunched further back into her jacket. It probably wasn’t the usual posh office interview look, but if they wanted Eden, this was what they got.

A door opened down the hall and a sixty-ish woman with graying blond hair made a beeline toward her. She was pleasantly plump and beautifully presented in a champagne-colored skirt and chiffon ivory blouse. Her confident walk and attitude were commanding. Eden was transfixed. She must be high up the company ladder, surely?

Then she smiled at Eden, which transformed her from imperious to maternal. Gone instantly was any hint of power, like a switch had flipped off.

What an unusual effect. Eden stared in surprise.

“If you’ll come this way, please, Ms. Lawless,” she said. “Our CEO is ready to see you now.”

CEO? She’d scored an interview with the CEO? “Sure.” Eden shot to her feet. “Sure,” she said again to the woman’s now retreating back.

A few moments later, her escort knocked on a polished oak door, eased it open, and announced, “Ms. Lawless is here for her interview.” She turned to Eden expectantly.

With a “thanks,” Eden stepped through the door.

* * *

Eden looked around. The CEO’s office was spacious, with yet another black leather couch by the window. Gray carpet felt plush and thick beneath her boots. The off-white walls were broken up by art prints; probably something bidding-war worthy too, but Eden knew even less about abstract art than she did bronze nudes.

Despite the art, everything seemed so…soulless.

The strange, soft, white-noise hiss was louder in here. Prickles went up Eden’s neck.

She spun around to find a minimalist glass desk tucked away on one side of the room. It was not a remotely logical place to put a desk unless you needed your back to a solid wall. The office’s rear was entirely wall-to-wall windows.

Behind the desk sat a woman in an immaculate navy blazer with a blindingly white shirt collar jutting high up her neck. Her dark-chestnut hair had been corralled into a tight ball low against her neck. That neck was hard to miss. Long and tapered, it came to a strong, firm jaw and proud chin. All her features were angular, like a goddess from a Grecian urn, especially her pointy chin and classically elegant, longer nose. Her high cheekbones, free of any makeup, were sharp as a blade. As was her impatient expression.

Eden’s heart jumped, and her palms slicked at being caught gawking.

The woman shifted her hands from her keyboard to her desk, interlacing long fingers in front of herself; she regarded Eden as one might an insect that required assessment for pinning in a display case. Those penetrating hazel eyes were so dark and intense that Eden indeed felt pinned in place.

She stopped in front of the desk.

The woman gestured for Eden to sit in an overstuffed black chair opposite, and she obeyed instantly.

Up close, the CEO was beyond intimidating. Her posture was fixed and straight, and there was so much stillness. Unusual. Eden was used to acquaintances and friends being loud, making themselves larger to fill spaces not typically designed for them. But this woman, lean and compact though she was, seemed to effortlessly fill her whole office. So much authority.

“Thank you, Tilly,” the woman suddenly said. Her voice was low, no-nonsense, and almost curt.

Eden’s escort merely nodded, exiting with an effortless grace.

Okay, so the possibly personal assistant was Tilly. Eden was relieved someone around here had a name. She hoped the intimidating CEO would introduce herself now too.

“I trust you found us okay,” the woman said instead, voice soft and almost faintly amused. “Not everyone does.”

There was something so cool about how she spoke, as if she barely bothered speaking much at all and the listener should feel fortunate to be graced with an audience.

“Well, I’m not surprised,” Eden said, settling back a little in the chair. “Your office has no name. You just have some weird, squishy, little round logo.”

“It’s a pentalobe. And no, there’s little point having a secret organization and then emblazoning our name across the office.”

“Why not just use a fake name?” Eden asked, warming to the topic. She leaned forward. “Like Humboldt Industries.”

“Humboldt…” the woman’s look became perplexed. “What on earth is that?”

“Exactly.” Eden spread her hands out as if sharing her genius idea with the world. “Nothing. But it sounds like something. Right? Maybe you make cheese? Maybe you don’t. Who can say?”

The other woman stared at her for long enough that Eden began to squirm. “Cheese,” she finally muttered.

“Yeah.” Eden trailed off at the woman’s pinched expression. “Never mind, then.”

The woman apparently gave up on any pretense at interest in the topic and leaned back. “I’m curious about something. You were offered free accommodation in a top hotel and a flight here if you needed it. You declined both and only accepted the parking pass. Why?”

“Maybe I was in the neighborhood,” she said lightly.

“You weren’t. My researcher said you were doing work in Ohio campaigning for nurses this week. So, you drove seven hours to attend an interview when you could have arrived in style and well-rested. I ask again, why?”

How could the researcher know that? Eden didn’t advertise her clients or her whereabouts. Maybe one of the nurses had tagged her in something on social media? It was creepy how knowledgeable these people were about her, especially given how little she knew in return.

Eden eyeballed the woman watching her impassively. “Because I like to know who I’m dealing with before I take favors. That way I don’t end up beholden to someone down the track that I’d rather not be.” Lesson learned from those Texan oil execs. Fool me once…

The woman gave a faint nod of what looked a lot like approval. “Understandable.” She smiled. “Tell me, what did you think of the bronze in the main office?”

“The nude?” Eden clarified.

“Was she nude?” The woman tilted her head.

Good question. Did having sculpted transparent gauze all over you make you naked or not? “Yes.”

The CEO regarded her impassively. “Interesting. See, I’d argue no. She has a covering of the cloth, even if one can see through it.”

“It’s irrelevant as a covering if it’s of no use.”

“It’s of use to her. She might find it useful in some way. Maybe it gives her confidence. Or it’s her mask? Or distracts us from something else she hides?”

The hell? Eden blinked at her. “She’s nude,” she enunciated, then stared at her incredulously.

The other woman gave a soft snicker and glanced down at a folder, as if about to ask another question, but Eden was over these weird games.

“Look, can we cut to the chase? Why am I here? What’s the job, please? And, most especially, what’s your name?”

“Ms. Lawless, I’m sure you have many questions,” she began, her voice a mesmerizing, low, almost derisive tone.

“Of course I have many questions.” Was she kidding?

“And I’m afraid I won’t be able to answer most of them. Our clients pay top dollar for secrecy. Our entire consultancy firm runs on the premise their identities will be protected. That is our number-one priority: keeping secrets. So, I cannot tell you who hired us for this project or why.”

“But…”

“No.” One cold, firm word stopped Eden’s protest dead. “What I can tell you is this: a person who ruined your life once in your hometown is about to have a very bad time of her reelection campaign for mayor. Is that something you’re interested in hearing more about?”

Francine Wilson having a bad time for once in her life? “Yeah,” Eden said hoarsely. “Big yeah.”

“All right.” The woman slid some papers across the desk. “Our standard nondisclosure agreement. It says you can’t talk about me, our organization, the job you’re doing for us, or anything else associated with us.”

“Well, I don’t know anything, so it’ll be hard to blab.”

“Now, maybe. You will acquire more information as time goes on. The price to hear what we have in mind is your signature.” She pushed a pen across the desk. “Well, two of them. The forms are in duplicate.”

Eden picked up the paperwork, reading carefully. It seemed pretty straightforward. Don’t spill the beans and her sorry ass wouldn’t be sued into the Stone Age. “If I sign this, will you tell me your name?”

“Since my name will be right beneath yours as witness, that’s a given.”

“Good. Because it’d be weird having a boss without a name.” She signed her blocky solid scribble, then pushed the page back. “Otherwise, what would I call you? M?”

“M?” The woman’s expression turned puzzled. “Because our building is on M Street?”

“No, as in James Bond? His boss?”

The CEO reviewed Eden’s signatures, then signed her own name twice with acutely slanted, mashed letters that Eden couldn’t read upside down. Then she lifted an eyebrow. “You feel you are James Bond?”

“Um. No.”

The CEO shot her a withering look that made her feel a foot tall as she pushed one document over to Eden. “Your copy. I encourage you to study it in detail.”

Eden immediately tried to decipher the woman’s squishy signature and turn it into a name.

“My name is Michelle Hastings.” She paused, and her mouth made the tiniest uptick at the sides. “To save you the eye strain.”

Eden immediately looked up from the scrawl in relief. “Okay. Great. Hi!” she said a little too brightly.

“Hi,” Michelle drawled back.

Eden plowed on to hide how ridiculous she felt. “Well, I like Michelle better than M. Although Judi Dench’s M was the best. And I guess it’s not bad to be compared to Dame Judi.”

Michelle stared at her as if Eden had lost her damned mind.

Well, okay, she might be overcompensating for her nervousness by babbling. “Right. So, Michelle—”

The other woman twitched.

What? She was supposed to call her Ms. Hastings? She wasn’t Eden’s boss. Not yet, anyway. She didn’t know her. Certainly not enough to confer some sort of floor-scraping deference. Respect was earned.

“Michelle,” Eden repeated, kind of enjoying the way the other woman seemed to be biting back a reprimand—probably hard for her, not controlling everything. “Francine Wilson is the most corrupt person my hometown’s ever seen.”

“Do tell.”

Eden gave a frustrated huff. “When I locked horns with her, I was a twenty-year-old college kid and she was a big-deal property developer. She owns most of the real estate in Wingapo County, all the off-campus student accommodation for my local college there and most of it around Hood College in neighboring Frederick.”

“Yes,” Michelle said briskly. “And Francine Wilson has acquired vastly more property since you tangled with her. She’s also grown more powerful since becoming mayor. Apparently, she counts the Maryland Attorney General as her closest friend.”

Eden scowled. “Closest bribe recipient, you mean.”

“And you know this for a fact?”

“I know her. Look, Francine’s not some successful businesswoman who just happens to be a property developer. My beef with her is not about jealousy or hating the rich or her ambition to own half the world. Francine’s a dirty slumlord. And that is a fact.”

“Mm.” Michelle watched her through hooded eyes.

“Don’t believe me?” Eden clenched her fists as the injustices of long ago rose up into her throat. “She gets away with murder. She’s untouchable! Anyone who says anything negative about her is portrayed as a bitter nutjob by the media and cops. She has them in her back pocket. She cuts corners on maintenance on her properties, but when tenants, like, oh I dunno, poor college kids, complain to the attorney general, Wingapo Police, or the media, it gets buried. Everyone in any position of power is either intimidated or compromised. If that’s not bad enough, now she’s the mayor! I’m glad I wasn’t there to see that. She has so much power, it’s disgusting.”

“Well,” Michelle said evenly. “I happen to agree.”

“You do?” Surprise stole through Eden. She unlocked her fists and surreptitiously wiped her sweaty palms down her pants. Usually no one believed her. It sounded so outlandish, as though Eden was some crazy conspiracy theorist.

“Of course.” Michelle drew a page out of her folder and read. “My researcher has concluded Francine Wilson is ‘corrupt, cocky, loaded with cash, and about to run for her third mayoral term even though it is thoroughly undeserved.’ And she will win. So…” She cocked her head. “Want to help us prevent that?”

Eden blinked. Her mouth went dry. “Why now? And why me?”

“I have no idea why a client reached out to us now, not two terms ago, to prevent Wilson’s win. But your second question is simple: Mr. Clemmons spent months in Wingapo assessing what was needed to accomplish the client’s request. He came to the same conclusion you did: the media and police have been paid off; the attorney general too.”

“No kidding.” Eden hunched over at the painful reminder. “She hurts anyone who gets in her way.” She inhaled sharply. “I got in her way.”

“Yes, you did. Memorably so. In fact, according to Mr. Clemmons, you remain the only person to stand up to her in any meaningful way. You got under her skin in a way no one has before or since. So that makes you the ideal candidate to do it again.”

“But I LOST!” Eden cried out before mortification flooded her. “Hell! Sorry.”

“Yes, you lost.” Michelle said calmly, as if Eden hadn’t lost her composure. “She had your father fired to get back at you. Additionally, she managed to get you expelled and run out of town. That’s power.”

“Yeah,” Eden said sullenly.

Michelle’s eyes left her notes and met Eden’s. “She was a mere property developer at the time. She’s on your old college’s board and had a wing named after her at your father’s now former workplace thanks to all her donations. That tells me she has no qualms about using her power and influence to punish her enemies.”

Eden ground her teeth.

“Well, enemy, singular,” Michelle corrected. “Since you appear to be her only one—officially, anyway.” She pulled another page out of her folder. “Our researcher says you were expelled from Wingapo State University for making threats against a public figure. Namely, Francine Wilson.”

Eden sighed.

Michelle cocked her head. “No argument then?”

“What’s the point? She claims it’s true, got the media to print it, the college to act on it. What’s the real story—my side—got to do with anything?”

“As it turns out, we trade on the truth here. And secrets. And lies. We especially love the real story.” Michelle flipped through her folder and drew out a photocopy of a news article. “Very creative,” she noted. “It’s impressive you managed to finally get a negative story into your local paper about the mayor.”

Eden stared mulishly at the photograph of her infamous anti-Francine protest. The whole facade of the Wilson Properties building, all three stories of Francine’s precious headquarters, was covered in computer paper to create an optical illusion.

A dozen of Eden’s college friends, as fed up as she’d been with the substandard accommodation, had helped her stick up the paper for hours in the middle of the night. They’d swayed from abseiling ropes, affixing fifteen long reams of computer paper side by side to the windows.

From a distance, it showed the image of Francine Wilson’s head, smiling benevolently like a giant Communist propaganda banner. But up close, passersby discovered the photo was made up of typed words…thousands and thousands of anonymous complaints from Wilson Properties tenants about unfixed issues. Low water pressure. Cracks in walls. Mold growth. No heat. Roach infestations.

Eden’s eyes slid to the headline: Vandals target property company office; make threats

“Sure, I got a negative story into print…but it was negative about me,” Eden said with a growl. Because when the local paper had printed its story, there hadn’t been a single word about the tenants’ complaints in the entire article. Just a rant about how Eden and her “juvenile delinquent accomplices” had misused college resources and threatened to harm Francine and her employees.

Okay, the misusing college resources part had been true. It was also how police had worked out it was her. She’d used the college computer lab to print her protest materials. And amidst all the printed complaints had been a few goading comments. Lines that Francine had twisted and called threats and demanded the university act on.

We won’t let you get away with this!

You should be punished for treating tenants like scum!

This isn’t over. We’ve only just begun!

YOU should pay this time! You and ALL your nasty-assed staff who ignore us!

It was the last comment that did it. Threatening more than five people with violence in Maryland turned out to be a felony. The frustrating part was that Eden hadn’t even written those comments, but that didn’t matter to her college. She’d been the ringleader; the protest materials were her responsibility. And Francine had threatened the college with all manner of serious police charges, bad publicity, donation-pulling, and general wrath until Eden was expelled.

“Wilson is a powerful, vindictive woman with no obvious chinks in her armor,” Michelle concluded, dropping the article back into her folder.

“No kidding,” Eden said under her breath.

“Except one.” Michelle looked at her. And kept looking.

“Me?” Eden had surely misheard. If she was a chink in Francine Wilson’s armor, it had to be the smallest chink in history.

“My researcher is adamant. In all the years Wilson has been throwing her weight around Wingapo County, you’re the only person to have unsettled her. You even enraged her to the point that she showed her anger in public. She dropped her facade long enough for the people to glimpse who she really was. You’re the reason she didn’t get elected the first year she ran. Of course, she later made massive PR strides and the early incidents were forgotten. But in that brief window that you two were at war, you, Ms. Lawless, remain the only person to have ever seriously rattled Francine Wilson. So, naturally, we want you for this assignment.”

“But she still won,” Eden said quietly. “She always wins.”

“You rattle her, Ms. Lawless,” Michelle repeated. “You drive her crazy and throw her off her game. When you can make someone angry, they make mistakes, and that’s what I’m counting on. Remember that you last encountered her when you were a student of limited means and connections. This time, you’ll have us behind you, highly connected experts, as well as access to money and clout.”

“So send one of your highly connected experts!”

“I can’t send just anyone. You’re the one who has her number. You’re the one who distracts her. You know her. You are uniquely qualified for this assignment. Not to mention, you have a creative mind. You are ideal.”

Well, she made a good argument. But still. Facing Francine again? Her gut churned in dismay. “She’s…a lot. Going home is a big deal for me. I couldn’t finish my IT degree because of her. My dad still doesn’t talk to me. Everyone I grew up with thinks I threatened Francine and her staff! Gah! She’s the devil!” Eden sagged. “And honestly? I’m afraid she’s unstoppable.”

“She lost that first election,” Michelle reminded her, eyes sharp. “Because of you. You ensured everyone saw the real woman. Even if they forgot later, for one moment in time you won, and that’s why she retaliated savagely. Ms. Lawless, you already destroyed her once; I simply want you to do it again.”

“How?” Eden croaked out. “I mean, specifically? What can I do?”

“You know the players. They’re all still there. You know what not to do and who to avoid. I’ll need all your creativity to get around the blackouts on any negative media reporting of her. So: Find a way to make the public remember what she’s like and do it in such a way that even the media will have to cover it. Can you do that?”

“I…maybe?” Eden said slowly. “But just because I can doesn’t mean I should.”

“You said it yourself: She’s the devil. Shouldn’t devils be defeated?” Michelle’s tone was taunting.

“Devils burn you, Michelle. Everyone and everything she touches—if she doesn’t like you, you’re crispy. Look, I’ve moved on. I don’t see what I’d get from this aside from revenge, which, sure, might be a blast for five seconds, but it’s not really me. In fact, there’s nothing in this for me but pain. Wingapo has some depressing memories for me. Why would I do this to myself again?”

Michelle smiled slightly. “To win. And besides, you will get a very generous payment if Wilson loses the election. That should keep your little…protest endeavors in funding for years. So why not have Wilson fund your future as the ultimate ‘screw you’ to her?” She slid a packet across the table. “The remuneration details are all in there.”

Eden reached for it.

“But the CliffsNotes are that it includes a contract stating that your pay is two hundred thousand if Wilson loses her election. Plus fifty thousand for expenses on a debit card supplied to you. The contract further stipulates that everything you do must be done legally and nothing can ever be linked to us. It must appear that you decided to do this yourself out of the blue.”

Eden swallowed in shock. Two hundred thousand… “Holy…” she whispered. “That is not chump change.”

A smirk darted across Michelle’s face. “What did you expect from us?”

“I’m not sure,” Eden said honestly. “I don’t know who ‘us’ is. I mean, I was half convinced this was a sex-slave kidnapping scam thing.”

This time, Michelle’s perfect mask dropped, replaced with astonishment. “A…what?”

“Well, only half convinced. I was also open to this being some classy, upscale con. Though I’m not sure I have much of anything you could scam from me. Maybe Gloria. That’s my van. She’s named after Gloria Steinem and she used to be a FedEx van but I’ve tricked her up now,” Eden rambled on, feeling a little dazed. She paused for a breath. “I’m still open to considering that this could be a con. Just so you know.”

Michelle’s look turned startled. “Well,” she said slowly, as if not sure quite how to take this turn of events. “We have no interest in acquiring your…Gloria.” Her eyes tightened. “I can assure you we’re more in the business of political climate change than wallowing about in filth such as sexual slavery.”

“An argument could be made they’re the same. Politics and filth.” Eden shrugged.

That seemed to stymie Michelle.

“Look, I’m interested, I am,” Eden said, before this snowballed into anything weirder. “Can I think about it? Take a day or two? This is a lot to take in, you know? I’m just a liberal-leftie protest organizer who loves a good cause. You’re asking me to go back to where my life fell apart and poke at those old wounds again.” Eden gave a slow headshake. “My brain is overwhelmed. I don’t think I can force any decisions right now. Can I take some time?”

“You have twenty-four hours, and then I need your answer. If you wish to proceed, reply to the secured email we will send you with a Yes, and that will be considered agreement to our contract here.” She tapped the envelope. “We will get you to digitally sign off on it properly within days. My PA, Tilly—Ottilie Zimmermann—will liaise with you if we need anything further. Her number is in the envelope too.”

“Sure. Okay.” Eden nodded. “Twenty-four hours. Right.” She reached for the envelope in front of her.

“Wait.” Michelle put her hand out for it and Eden slid it back.

Michelle’s fountain pen had a glossy tortoiseshell grip. She scribbled on the envelope. “I’m going to assume, once you’vedealt with your overwhelmed brain, that you will take this offer. If so, you will be expected to Skype in your progress reports each evening. These are the Skype details for that video call. Eight sharp each night that you’re in Wingapo. Do not be late.”

“Skype? Nightly?” Eden blinked. “You don’t trust me?”

“It’s standard operating procedure.” Michelle’s eyes tightened. “It’s surely not too much to ask given how much you’ll be paid? I like to be sure we’ve invested wisely. Do not ask for special treatment.”

“Uh. Okay. No problem.” Eden nodded. The CEO wasn’t wrong. This was a lot of money. So it’d make sense a handler had been assigned to find out what she was up to on the ground.

“Good,” Michelle said. “Any further questions?”

Eden shook her head mutely.

“Tilly will show you out.” She pressed a buzzer, and her assistant reappeared at the door. “Ms. Lawless is leaving now,” Michelle told her.

Eden scrambled to her feet.

“Oh, and Ms. Lawless,” Michelle added sharply, “you will address me as Ms. Hastings going forward in any interactions or correspondence.”

Eden paused and said quietly, “I’m sorry, I won’t be doing that.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t take it personally, but I find the demand to use honorifics classist. We’re all humans, right? All spinning on this big ol’ marble, just trying to survive, put our pants on one leg at a time like everyone else. Historically, they slapped pretentious labels on those with money or power to keep the little guy in their place. To push them down. They call it respect, but they never return it. I’m not about that. Equality, Michelle. I’m only ever about equality.”

Michelle’s lips pressed together.

“Only exception,” Eden continued, “is if it’s someone changing the whole world in some amazing way. Then they’d have earned it. Like, if you were curing cancer on the side.” She paused. “Wait, since I don’t know what else you do around here, I can’t assume anything. You aren’t, are you? Curing cancer?”

Michelle snorted. “Not that I’m aware of.”

Eden grinned. “Okay, then. Well, I’ll go and let you return to…whatever the heck it is all you secret squirrels do around here.”

“Secret. Squirrels?” Michelle’s expression was incredulous.

With a shrug, Eden said, “Well, without a name, that’s what I’m calling you people in my head.”

“Not just in your head, it seems,” Michelle muttered.

“I guess not.” Eden grinned. “Oops.”

“If it helps, outside our office, many of our contractors call it ‘The Club’ to avoid questions.”

“The…club.” Eden peered around. “Seriously? Is there a club around here? Like a floor down or something? Blackjack? Lounge? Sultry singers, maybe?”

“No.” Michelle bit off the word and glanced at her watch.

Eden took the hint and headed to the door. “Okay, right. I’ll get back to you ASAP. Bye, Michelle.”

She didn’t have to look back to know the other woman had reacted at being called that.

Eden’s phone was firmly pushed back into her hand by the snooty, art-loving receptionist. She glanced back at the bronze sculpture—still freaking nude. Then she was being inserted into the elevator by the ever-efficient Tilly.

Outside once more, Eden stared back up at the building’s towering facade, feeling like she’d just been hit by something powerful, strange, and overwhelming. Hard to like or dislike yet, too soon to say, but really mysterious. A bit like Michelle Hastings. Although she was unforgettable in another way too.

Not that Eden was going to focus on something so shallow as looks. She had to weigh up the offer dispassionately and not for a moment think of those beautiful, sardonic lips, that intense expression, or the powerful presence that filled her whole office.

She unlocked her van and tossed “The Club’s” envelope on her passenger seat.

Instead of starting her engine, she glanced back up to the top floor of the building. She couldn’t see anything, of course, but she had the strangest sensation she was being watched.

* * *

“Standard operating procedure.”

“You heard that?” Michelle looked up as her assistant returned after showing Lawless out.

Tilly merely looked back at her.

“Of course you did,” Michelle added dryly.

What was the point of using white noise if private conversations could be overheard?

Through closed doors.

Oh. Tilly had to have listened in through her desk phone. She pursed her lips. “I’d suggest eavesdropping is inappropriate, but it is a central tenet of our business model.”

Tilly smiled her agreement. Her usually stern face softened, transforming itself in a way that always impressed Michelle. No wonder she’d been an effective field agent back in the day.

“On this particular candidate, I was too curious not to find out how the meeting was going,” Tilly said. “So…are we going to talk about our new standard operating procedure?”

“Yes, well, she’s new.” Michelle hated the tinge of defensiveness in her voice. “How do I know if she’ll be any good?”

“You never asked to Skype any of the other new hires on their first assignments.”

“They aren’t rampaging, idealistic social justice warriors with the potential to go off piste.”

“You worry that Ms. Lawless is a loose cannon?” Tilly asked.

This time, Michelle did lift her gaze. “I’m not sure what she is.” Well, not exactly. “But she bears watching.”

Her assistant snorted. “She is different, isn’t she? That nonsense about rebranding ourselves as makers of Humboldt cheese?”

“That was the exact moment I wondered if Clemmons was playing a joke on me. He sent us a panda,” Michelle said with a wry smile. “You know—all innocent, cute, and hapless, means well, but without a single conniving bone in her body.”

“You think she’s cute?” Tilly asked neutrally.

Michelle wasn’t fooled by the innocent question. Her PA was wily and observant and could fish like a pro. “Only if you like pandas—especially guileless ones. There’s a reason they’re endangered.” She frowned. “Do you think Clemmons lost his mind recommending her? All I see is someone raw and naïve and hopelessly out of her depth here. She’s clever enough in the shallow end, I’ll grant you, but we’re bottomless.”

“Well, I’d guarantee we don’t have any other contractors on our books like her.”

“Given that our contractors are all sharks and snakes, no, it’s safe to say we have no pandas. Her face when I told her the pay?” Michelle said with faint amusement. “I thought you’d have to administer her CPR.”

“Me?” Tilly’s eyebrow lifted slightly. “Not you?”

Again with the fishing. But only fools laid bare their necks, especially around here, even to generally harmless sixty-four-year-old assistants named Ottilie Zimmermann.

“No, thank you,” Michelle said lightly. “I might catch that Girl Scout idealism of hers. Next thing, I’d be saving endangered species in my downtime.”

“No chance of that.” Tilly bit off a half-laugh. “I can’t help but notice she passed your little sculpture test.”

“Yes. That was interesting, wasn’t it?”

The sculpture question was a personality test Michelle gave all potential hires. It was irrelevant whether Lawless said the figure was nude or not. Michelle would argue either side depending on a candidate’s answer. The idea was to test whether Lawless would change her answer to match Michelle’s. Whether she would ingratiate herself to a potential boss by changing her opinion on a frivolous matter that she had no investment in.

The staff who worked here knew diplomacy. Most had slid high up government or security agencies before joining The Fixers. They knew the value of manipulation and of having bosses like you. No one had ever dug their heels in and stuck to their original answer on the test, knowing it could cost them a potential job.

Except Lawless.

Michelle regarded her assistant thoughtfully. Tilly had been with The Fixers from the beginning and had held her CEO assistant job long before Michelle had arrived. “Tell me honestly, Tilly: how would you have answered if I’d given you that test in your interview?”

Tilly supplied one of her completely disarming smiles that made her look like a kindly grandmother. She affected a sweet, down-home voice and answered, “Why, Ms. Hastings, I’m sure you know more about art than I do. I’ve never seen anything like that before where I come from. Are you an art expert then? Is that an interest of yours?”

Michelle laughed at the insincerity and clever pivot. “Remind me never to cross you.”

“Wise.” Tilly looked pleased. “So…is Lawless the only one to stick to her guns on the test?”

“The only one to do it directly. O’Brian came close.” She adjusted her voice to the man’s accent—New York City with a solid dollop of Irish he’d never lost despite twenty-five years in the US. “He said: ‘Shame I got the answer wrong, but it’s feckin’ art. I do guns, knives, lockpickin’, tracin’, stakeouts, and all that. So: when do I start my actual job?’”

“That sounds like him. Interesting that you promoted him straight to head of security. Was his answer a factor?”

“It was.” Michelle admitted. “I prefer honest people who aren’t afraid of speaking their mind even if it’s uncomfortable, especially given the truth is a rare commodity around here.” Being honest was an absurd concept in DC. “I know our entire company depends on us skulking around, being slippery and clever, so it’s refreshing knowing where I stand. Of course I chose him.”

Tilly studied her for a moment. “Well, then, I imagine you’ll enjoy Ms. Lawless a great deal. She is nothing if not frank. Even when she’s not speaking, she can be read like an open book.”

Enjoy Ms. Lawless? Hardly. The candidate struck Michelle as a somewhat strange individual who’d dressed as if she were heading to a rave in those chunky boots, trucker jacket, and pants that were barely disguised jeans. She was forthright, interesting, and unpolished, and she held the rare distinction of being the only one to pass Michelle’s honesty test. But she was also decidedly odd, like the squarest of pegs. So, no, there would be no enjoying Lawless. She glared at Tilly for even making the suggestion.

Unperturbed, her PA wandered over to the sweeping rear office windows and then stopped, looking down. She spoke into the glass: “Ms. Hastings, have you seen what she drives?”

“You mean the infamous Gloria?”

“Your eyeballs may never recover. It’s a hippie’s dream ride, complete with solar panels.”

Solar panels? Did she live in that thing, then? Michelle shuddered at the idea. “I’ll leave it to my imagination and presume it’s the most appalling-looking revamped FedEx van in human existence.”

Tilly turned from the window, her eyebrow cocked. “Isn’t it ridiculous that that naïve, sweet summer child has somehow managed to make an arch enemy?” Incredulity laced her tone.

“That may speak more about Wilson than Lawless. I admit I’m rather curious as to what that ‘naïve, sweet summer child’ will come up with to get a powerful mayor on the outs with the public.”

“You’re assuming Lawless will take the job.”

“She will. Even professional crusaders need funding. Think how many doomed critters she can save from extinction,” Michelle drawled. “We might actually be putting money into a worthy pocket for once.”

“That’ll be a first.” Tilly’s tone was dry.

Wasn’t that the truth? For the briefest second, Michelle’s heart gave a bitter clench at the reminder. The Fixers was the antithesis of everything Eden Lawless stood for. For the right price, they either made the weak powerful or crushed the enemies of the powerful. They mainly fulfilled the whims and dreams of people who didn’t deserve it. Rare was the day they helped bleeding-heart causes. Even then, it was usually an unintended side effect from some larger, dirtier deed.

And because they were mere consultants—making suggestions, calling in favors from their extensive network, scratching mutual backs, being helpful to a point, it was all entirely legal. Mostly. As long as you didn’t count all the bribes and computer hacks.

The Fixers didn’t exist on paper anywhere. A Washington DC accountancy firm paid all their expenses, wages, equipment, and building rent under a file they called The Club. The Fixers’ Hong Kong-based headquarters, in turn, paid the accountancy firm. The five Americans behind the offshore headquarters made up The Fixers’ board. It was one perfect, neat circle.

All parties were scrupulous to ensure there were no tax or filing irregularities that could cause any officials to sniff around. For decades, that had kept The Fixers invisible and safe: two things Michelle prized a great deal as CEO. It was the reason for their ongoing success.

“Lawless is trying to take on the system,” Tilly mused.

“Yes,” Michelle said quietly. “She’ll never win.”

“No. That’s not how the world works. But am I wrong or does Lawless actually seem to think we’re doing the greater good? Her cancer question, for instance? She has no idea who she’s throwing her lot in with.”

“No,” Michelle said, wondering why she’d clenched her jaw. “She doesn’t have a clue.”

“Would she even have stepped foot in our building if she knew who we are?”

“No chance at all.” Michelle gave Tilly a serious look. “It goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway: it’s best for everyone involved that Lawless never finds out what we do here. Specifically, how…open…we can be to dealing with grayer areas of morality. Don’t you agree?”

Tilly inclined her head in acceptance.

Good. Message received.