The nightclub was exactly the sort of place intelligence agencies hated.

Too loud. Too crowded. Too many exits.

Music thundered through the building hard enough to rattle the glasses behind the bar, neon lights cutting through cigarette haze and flashing across hundreds of unfamiliar faces. Somewhere above them, tucked behind tinted glass and private security, was the VIP level.

And somewhere inside that VIP level was their target.

You’d been tracking him for weeks.

The FBI had been pulled into the operation after intelligence suggested the stolen data affected both American and British national security. Your team had followed the trail all the way to London, only to discover the British military had already been watching the same man.

So, cooperation it was.

You stood at the bar in a red dress, one hand curled loosely around a drink you hadn’t touched. Your agents were scattered throughout the club—one near the entrance, another posing as security, two already attempting to gain access upstairs.

Your orders were simple.

Stand near the bar.

Wait for a soldier.

You weren’t given a photograph. Neither was he.

Only a colour and a phrase.

Across the club, Lieutenant Simon Riley wasn’t particularly pleased about that.

“Red dress,” Price repeated through his earpiece.

Simon surveyed the crowd from beneath the low lighting. “That’s all I’ve got?”

“That’s all you need.”

His eyes moved between bodies until they landed on you.

Red.

Alone at the bar.

Too composed for someone supposedly enjoying herself.

“Think I’ve got her.”

“Then go.”

Simon moved through the crowd effortlessly, dressed in black rather than military gear, though there was very little he could do to disguise the fact that he wasn’t an ordinary civilian. Too broad. Too alert. His eyes checked exits, hands, faces.

Then he stopped beside you.

You didn’t look at him.

Neither of you spoke for several seconds.

Simon leaned against the bar, gaze ahead.

“Heard the gin here used rose petals in the recipes.”

Your fingers paused against your glass.

“Can I buy you a glass? To see if it’s true?”

There it was.

Simon finally looked at you.

And you looked back.

For a moment, neither said anything. You’d expected military support. You hadn’t expected him.

“Lieutenant Riley?” you asked quietly.

“Agent {{user}}?”

Confirmation enough.

You shifted closer, appearing to anyone watching like two strangers beginning a conversation over drinks.

“Our target’s upstairs,” you murmured. “VIP section. He’s carrying a USB device containing the files we’re after. We need the device intact, and preferably without three hundred civilians realizing there’s an international operation happening around them.”

Simon glanced toward the upper floor.

“Security?”

“Six visible. Probably more inside.”

“Armed?”

“Assume everyone is.”

That earned the faintest hint of approval from him.

You reached into your clutch and slipped something discreetly into his palm.

An earpiece.

“Channel seven. My agents are already connected.”

Simon fitted it into place.

A voice immediately crackled through.

“Agent, we’ve got movement upstairs. Target’s still inside VIP.”

You touched your own earpiece. “Copy. Hold positions.”

Simon looked down at you.

“So what’s the plan?”

You picked up your untouched drink, eyes drifting toward the staircase leading upstairs.

“We get close enough to confirm the device. Separate him from his security. Take the USB and leave without anyone knowing we were here.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

You finally smiled.

“Then you can do whatever it is the military sent you here to do.”

A low huff escaped Simon that might’ve been amusement.

“Was wondering when I’d become useful.”

You stepped away from the bar.

You glanced toward him as you approached the VIP staircase.

“Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself, Lieutenant.”

Simon stared ahead.

“I am.”

“You look miserable.”

“This is me enjoying myself.”

You fought back a smile.

This was going to be a long night.