Hostile Takeover: Emerald City Spies, #3

By Cheri Baker

Welcome to the family, Jessica Warne

After the brutal attack that nearly killed her, Jessica returned to the Duke Agency to embark on a desperate mission. Now that she understands the true aims of her employer, she's determined to free the assistants from her family's dangerous grasp.

Yet the deeper she goes undercover, the closer Jessica becomes to the family she never knew. She'd been prepared for cruelty, even violence. What she couldn't have imagined was the way they'd welcome her as one of their own. As she grapples with the troubling legacy left by generations of her kin, Jessica has to wonder…

Where should her loyalties lie?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adventurous Ink LLC
• Release date: Sep 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781952200236

Cheri Baker

Cheri spent her formative years hiding under the blankets with a flashlight, reading everything she could get her hands on, but especially books by Stephen King, Judy Blume, Agatha Christie, and Mercedes Lackey. Her experiences in management inspired her first novel, Involuntary Turnover, about an HR manager turned private investigator. Cheri lives in Seattle with her husband of 18 years. She's working on her fourth novel.

Book preview

Hostile Takeover

by

Cheri Baker

Emerald City Spies, Book 3

Published by Adventurous Ink, Seattle

Find all of Cheri’s books, her mailing list, and more at cheribaker.com.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First edition. September 12, 2022.

978-1-952200-23-6

Copyright © 2022 Cheri Baker

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Adventurous Ink. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

Book design by Patrick Baker

Cover art by The Book Brander

6F37DB54D2

The City

When darkness falls, I rise.

Illumination comes from within. Smell my perfume, the musky damp of petrichor on asphalt. Hear my voice, the wail of a siren, the cry of a gull, the slow lapping of water against the rocky shore. Delight in my laughter, the patter of raindrops on steel and glass. For you, I wear blue and gold wrapped in a black velvet sky. Trace your fingertip along my sharp-edged skyscrapers, wreathed in chilly fog. Cup the smooth curve of my distant mountain.

Jessica… Jessica! Feel my heat as I feel yours. Your ambition has burned hot and bright since the day you set foot on my streets. Ever since, I’ve been waiting, yearning, aching…

Here. Now. Tonight.

The kings and queens slumber in their beds, their dreams untroubled, their spirits weak. Will you take all that they don’t deserve? Take it from the city that hungers, nothing is so flammable as the past.

Light the torch. Stoke the fire. Tonight.

Jessica… Jessica! Your reign will be long and victorious. Strangers will pen books about your achievements. The wise and the powerful will take your calls and heed your warnings. Your light will beam out from magazines, from newspapers, from tiny screens held by those who will beg to serve at your feet. Money will flow through your hands like a cool, smooth-flowing river.

With me in your corner, child, you cannot possibly fail.

You know what I want.

I have what you need.

Let’s sign on the dotted line, shall we?

Opening Moves

01

Jessica Warne slipped through the intersection like a lioness on the hunt. Rain pelted her thick, honey-blonde hair and slithered through, forming icy rivulets on her skin. Her heart pounded like a fist on a locked metal door, every thud a reminder.

Her time was running out.

Seattle was in a shitty mood. Rush hour rushing. Pedestrians jockeying for position at the crosswalks. Drivers peered through their rain-streaked windshields with resignation on their sun-starved faces. Trapped inside their cars, they inched toward the congested freeway like pilgrims on the road to purgatory.

The city wore layers of gray in the autumn chill. Wet concrete. Filthy asphalt littered with cigarette butts and pigeon shit. Clouds like dirty cotton, hanging low, obscuring the stars.

There had been a time when she’d loved everything about being downtown. She’d relished the hustle and the bustle and the rollicking flow of energy flowing through the urban core. Seattle’s energy was like blood rushing through her veins, a surging pulse ambitious enough to match her own. She’d been a part of something greater.

Once upon a time.

That was before her agency had tried to have her killed. Now? She saw the fetid rot beneath the foundations of the city’s glory. Dana Duke had given her a gift without meaning to. She could see the world for what it was.

How many of society’s winners were nothing more than villains, smiling one minute, destroying lives the next, pocketing the gains without conscience? How many inspirational leaders were power-suited ghouls standing atop a mountain of bones?

She’d been a fool not to notice before.

In the months since her narrow escape from death, the Duke Agency continued to surveil, lie, and steal as they had for decades. Dana kept her coworkers too ignorant or too wealthy to care. Her aunt Alexandra removed any troublemakers with lethal skill. Who knew how many whistleblowers she’d taken care of over the years?

Jessica’s uncle Michael, the mild-mannered accountant, was even worse. He understood that by moving crimes from one column to another, and by laundering lies into truth for a fee, human suffering need never show on the balance sheet.

Her relatives were monsters. She knew it, but sometimes she had a hard time feeling it. Even now, even with the memory of the attack so fresh in her mind, she felt herself slipping.

Jessica’s feet, resentful after a long day of imprisonment inside Balenciaga heels, throbbed hotly inside her running shoes. A dull pain tugged at her shoulder where the strap of her duffel dug into the soft flesh. She pulled the collar of her trench coat higher, covering bare skin with soft, camel-colored fabric. Her neck was smooth and unblemished, the bruises long gone, every remaining injury rendered invisible by the inexorable movement of time.

Time that was running out. By day, she worked for the agency. By night, she prepared herself for the only showdown that mattered. Inward. Outward. Every weakness must be expunged. Her survival was rooted in performance, in fitting in, in laughing at the right jokes and in responding in the correct ways, but the longer she played the role, the harder it was to turn it off.

Jessica pushed her fists into her jacket pockets. She felt for the sharp edges of her keys and wove two of them through her fingers. Her right hand brushed against the smooth barrel of her pepper spray.

Raindrops pricked her cheeks. She looked up at the clouds to remind herself that the surroundings were real. Tangible. Far less confusing than the tornado of emotions swirling in her chest; the sick, anxious feeling that never went away.

Her beeline path was interrupted by a shaggy-haired man exiting a bank. He’d pushed the heavy glass door to the side like it weighed nothing at all. Situational awareness was borne out of constant vigilance. If he came at her, what could she do? She could crunch his instep with her foot. Strike the knees inward, working against the direction of the joint. The soft bulge at the center of the throat was a target, but only if she moved swiftly. What strength she lacked, speed and surprise could make up for.

She understood now what it felt like to be helpless, to claw for a breath that would never come. Next time, she’d be ready.

Up ahead, weary, wet commuters waited at a bus stop. A floodlight was stuck to the outside of a medical-dental building like an old wad of gum. Rain slashed down through yellowish light, illuminating the crowd. The water formed dots and dashes, a coded message that no mortal was fast enough to read.

She twisted her shoulders to slip through the crowd. Her torso jerked as her gym bag clipped someone.

Excuse me.

The stranger didn’t seem to notice. Not her apology, or even the way she’d hit him. He wore a heavy wool overcoat and his slack, squirrel-like face infuriated her. Gawking down at his phone and insensible to the world around him, he was completely vulnerable.

Across the intersection, a tall electric billboard flashed on the corner of a concrete parking garage. She pounded the metal walk button with the side of her fist and glanced back at the bus stop. Her stomach sizzled with acid. Only a moron stood on the street with their head in the clouds. Maybe you’d be lucky enough to make it home in one piece. Hell, maybe you’d be lucky a thousand times.

No one was lucky forever.

The stranger in the overcoat clutches his side and stumbles. When his body hits the dirty sidewalk, he gasps. The pain in his shoulder is eclipsed by a sharp agony beneath his ribs. Shallow, painful breaths do little to satisfy his hunger for air. His hand goes up. His fingers tremble in the cold air. Fresh blood coats his hand and the cuff of his jacket. His phone is on the ground, the screen shattered. A bystander screams. Someone! Call 9-1-1!

She squeezed her eyes shut.

She turns the corner onto Sixth Avenue, her heart pounding. After dropping her shiv into an empty Starbucks cup, she tosses the whole thing into a street-side trash can. There’s a commotion at the bus stop behind her. She pauses, glancing over her shoulder, wearing a mask of surprise before blending into the crowd of evening shoppers ahead. It was so easy! Dana would be pleased.

Jessica gripped the plastic buckle on her shoulder strap and squeezed until the edge bit into her palm. The pain was bright and clarifying. Slowly, the world came back into focus. Traffic lights swayed overhead, pendulous and heavy. A silver sports car with muddy wheels crept impatiently around the corner. The driver, spotting an opening, slammed his foot on the gas. A cyclist, uncomfortably close, slammed his fist on the hood of the car and swore.

I’m alright.

The walk signal chirped like a manic bird, and she broke into a slow jog, crossing the street, then another block, and yet another street. Before long she was pounding up a hill, her feet as heavy as bricks, lungs burning. Her chest expanded like billows, and she sucked in the cool, rain-tinged air. When she arrived at her destination, she tipped forward, hands on knees, breathing hard.

The warehouse had been a community center once. Later, an office supply business. The concrete walls were littered with blue and silver graffiti along the alleyways, but the front of the warehouse was painted an unblemished white. It was hard not to admire a woman who created order out of chaos. Sensei Gunderson offered the local delinquents free lessons in exchange for keeping her business pristine.

The building might be an aging shitbox in a broken-down part of town, but this spot had been kept respectable. The forest green door was ornamented with a simple white circle surrounding four block letters printed in black: BBJJ.

Belltown Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.

Thunder rumbled overhead like an eighteen-wheeler. A fresh deluge slashed down, hissing in the puddles nearby. Jessica pushed herself upright, shook out her wet hair, and went inside.

* * *

Jessica flexed her bare toes against the rubbery black mat. The dojo smelled like old sweat, cheap plastic flooring, and diluted chlorine bleach. The scent reminded her of a high school gymnasium, and the familiarity was strangely comforting. For all the struggles she’d had as a foster kid in public school, surviving physical education wasn’t one of them.

When you went through your days feeling powerless, hitting things and moving fast could be as good as therapy. It seemed some things never changed.

At five foot six, Rachel Gunderson wasn’t outwardly imposing. The fortyish brunette had soft shoulders and thick thighs, like a stay-at-home mom. During the day, she taught algebra to middle school kids in the Central District. She looked better suited to pushing a stroller than to teaching martial arts. Despite glowing reviews for the school, Jessica had been skeptical. But after seeing Sensei Gunderson toss a student across the mats like he weighed no more than an oversized pillow, she’d been convinced.

An underpowered woman who knew how to apply leverage to fuck up a much larger adversary? That was exactly what she needed, and every time she went to class, she felt better. Not hopeful, exactly. Whatever that thing two notches down from hope was called.

Gunderson’s ponytail whipped around as she demonstrated how to break free from her partner’s choke hold. Her eyes crinkled with pleasure as she escaped. She favored her student with a quick nod of approval before turning her attention to the dozen or so students who watched and waited. Let’s give this a try. Partner up, and let’s roll.

Jessica turned to the student standing closest. He was her age, mid-twenties, with eyes the color of fresh mud. His expensive haircut, skinny arms, and self-satisfied smile marked him as a typical tech bro. His handshake was mushy, like oatmeal. As a courtesy, she pretended not to notice.

Do you want to guard or attack? he asked.

Guard, she said.

They went down to the mat. He scooted close and wrapped his legs around her from behind, his chest resting against her back. One of his arms went over her left shoulder, and the other snaked beneath her right arm, brushing past her breast.

He grabbed the lapels of her uniform, pulling them together across her neck, trying to choke her with the fabric. His legs squeezed her middle, hard.

Move your hands higher, she said. He responded by tightening his legs around her ribs. She breathed out and found she couldn’t take a full breath in. You’re just yanking on my uniform, she said. Move your hands higher.

He grunted in acknowledgement. Nearby, an older guy with a square jaw tapped his partner on the leg three times as she cut off his air. His sparring partner, a fifty-something woman with a torso like a heavy sack of flower, grinned and let him go. They high-fived.

Jessica didn’t feel like celebrating. Her partner’s boa-constrictor legs were trying to crack her ribs like a walnut. His breath was heavy and hot at her neck. She felt a thread pop in the armpit of her gi.

Get off, she said.

Tap. That’s how you submit.

She grit her teeth. Her current client at work was a thin-skinned little bully, and she’d stroked his ego until he purred. During the day, she pretended to be demure, sweet, and pliable because that was the job. But this wasn’t, and she’d had enough of biting her tongue.

He’s sounded like a peevish little boy, and he was wasting her time.

I’ll submit to the choke when you do the choke. You’re just squeezing the hell out of my tits, dude.

Oh! Sorry. The pressure around her middle lessened. She scooted forward and turned around. The guy’s cheeks were bright pink. Had she embarrassed him by saying the word tits?

Whatever.

May I? she asked, gesturing behind him.

He quickly nodded. Scooting close to him, she wrapped her legs around his waist and slid her arms into position. She crawled her hands up the edge of his gi, tighter, tighter, and tighter. He struggled a bit. That’s go—

She pulled tight! He jerked his body to the left. He leaned hard to the right. His hips tried to twist inside the careful vise she’d created with her legs, but he couldn’t break free. She had him pinned. She had his air! Her legs gave his torso a little squeeze, a reminder of who was in charge. He struggled, but she didn’t give an inch. He outweighed her by thirty pounds, easy.

And she’d rendered him helpless.

Good. But I need to learn how to escape this. Maybe we can switch partners in the next round. Then—

Jessica! Sensei had been watching from the front of the room. Now she ran toward them, her eyes wide, her hands outstretched.

Jessica quickly released her arms and legs. What?

Her partner broke away, gasping, rubbing his neck, swallowing hard. I was submitting! Why didn’t you stop?

Gunderson tried to control her frustration with a quick turn of her head, but she looked pissed.

Jessica took care to look abashed. "I’m so sorry. I didn’t feel you tapping."

He slapped the rubber mat with his hand repeatedly. His eyes were like stones. Do you hear it now? Christ! You just about choked me out. Everything was turning gray. He glared at the sensei as if it were all her fault. I need some water. He pushed himself up to standing and headed toward the locker rooms.

Gunderson avoided looking at Jessica directly. "Listen up, everyone. This is a good reminder. When you submit, tap on your partner’s body if you can. They might not hear if you tap the mats. Also, if you’re attacking, it’s your responsibility to pay attention. Safety first. Please."

It wasn’t until the end of class, as the students were wiping down the mats and gathering up their belongings, that Gunderson waved her over. After the room emptied out, she locked the front door, resting her back against it. We need to talk.

I’m sorry about what happened back there. My mind wandered for a minute, but I won’t make that mistake again.

Gunderson’s mouth twitched. That’s good, Jess, but that’s not the problem. We need to address that attitude of yours.

Excuse me? What attitude?

Rachel tilted her chin down. That one. The one that says you’re too good for my intro class. You walk around this dojo like you’re the cock of the walk. I won’t have it. I can’t. Everyone is here to learn. When someone struggles, we all slow down to help. This is a school, not a fight club. If you want that kind of thing, there are other places you can go.

Jessica bit her lip. She’d visited those schools. Several of them. Their instructors had been rippling with muscle and they’d talked a good game. Dozens of polished trophies adorned their walls, and the students grunted and punched like they were in an action movie.

None of them had an instructor half so good as Rachel Gunderson.

I didn’t realize I came across that way, Jessica lied.

Rachel loosened her ponytail and shook out her hair. I know. That’s why we’re having this little chat. She picked up her right foot, stretching her quadriceps muscle. Switching sides, she winced as she leaned into the stretch. Listen up. There are two kinds of bullies in the martial arts. The first type is obvious. They’re the ones who saw an MMA fight on television and they think it would be fun to beat people up. Some of them can’t wait to get into a fight because they enjoy violence. Mostly, they want to feel powerful. And as soon as they learn that we’re all about self-defense, they’re out that door.

And the other kind?

Gunderson rolled back her shoulders, wincing a little. The other kind has the potential to change. They don’t want to be bullies, not really, but they’re afraid of something. So afraid that they lash out with their fists and their mouths until they can finally prove to themselves that they’re safe. She shrugged. Of course, that strategy never works. You can’t stop being a victim by turning into an aggressor. In the end, the impact on people around you is the same. You become the very thing you were trying to protect yourself from. She raised both eyebrows. Do you hear what I’m saying?

You think I’m afraid?

Gunderson chuckled. Everyone’s afraid of something, Jess. Fear is part of the human condition. But you can’t let your fear or whatever it is that’s going on in there, she made a circular motion toward Jessica’s heart, take charge of you.

Jessica nodded, looking down to hide her eyes. Gunderson had seen too many martial arts movies, the kind where the wise old teacher guides the young hothead away from trouble. She meant well, but she didn’t know what she was talking about. Gunderson couldn’t understand how it felt to have a hitman sent after you, by your own family. She didn’t know what was at stake. How could she?

Her teacher was wrong. Getting trained wasn’t about ego or fear. It was about survival.

Gunderson was waiting for her response.

I hear you. And I’ll think about what you’ve said.

Good! If you need to talk, let me know. And if you don’t want to talk to me, I can make referrals. Counselors. Therapists. Life coaches. A faint smile touched the corners of Gunderson’s lips. "You can pick your poison. But let me be clear. If you ever, ever, take out your issues on my students again, you will not be welcome here. Understood?"

Jessica swallowed. Yes.

Good. Then I’ll see you next week.

02

On Saturday, Jessica woke to the whir of her automated roller shades. The cityscape slowly came into view. Rain slashed on the diagonal, blurring the air between her windows and the dense forest of skyscrapers beyond. She padded into the bathroom and downed two pills to blunt the worst of her headache; then she showered and dressed, donning a soft cashmere sweater and slacks. Out of habit, she applied a full face of makeup and clipped a delicate gold chain around her neck, letting the star-shaped pendant fall toward the cleft of her breasts. Her hands knew the dance, so she let them