Vesper paced her room. Two hours. That's how long a priority fingerprint match took.

She pulled the vent cover off the wall. She retrieved her micro-terminal.

"Cipher," she typed. "They're running my prints from the study. They'll match me to Vesper Vale. I need a fix."

Cipher: Negative. Harding has a localized firewall on his mobile lab. I can't get in unless someone plugs a physical drive into their server.

Vesper cursed. She was trapped.

Cipher: Plan B. I can't get in remotely, but the drive is loaded with a worm. It will replace your prints in the national database with Cassandra Sterling's juvenile records. It needs to run for thirty seconds. I can't change the result, but I can change the source.

Vesper: So I have to break in.

She didn't have four hours. The sample was already in Harding's mobile lab van parked in the driveway.

She had to get to that van and plug in the drive.

She looked out the window. It was raining. A heavy, dark storm.

Perfect.

Vesper dressed in black. She climbed out the window, gripping the wet ivy. She slid down to the garage roof.

She dropped to the ground. Mud splattered her boots.

Harding's van sat in the driveway. A light was on inside. He was waiting for the results.

Vesper moved to the main power box on the side of the garage. She pulled her knife. She jammed it into the main breaker.

Sparks flew. The estate plunged into darkness.

Inside the van, the lights died. The hum of the servers stopped.

"Dammit," Harding's voice.

The door of the van opened. Harding stepped out, flashlight in hand, looking toward the house.

Vesper sprinted. She stayed low. She slid under the chassis of the van. The wet asphalt soaked her back.

Harding walked toward the garage.

Vesper rolled out from under the van. She slipped inside the open door.

She scanned the counter. There. A plastic evidence bag labeled Subject A. Her primary goal was the server port.

She didn't take the evidence. If it was gone, he'd know.

She located the main server rack and jammed Cipher's thumb drive into an open USB port. A tiny LED flickered, indicating the data transfer had begun. Then, for good measure, she pulled a small UV emitter from her pocket and blasted the evidence bag with high-intensity radiation. It would scramble the DNA and degrade the prints.

The van rocked.

Harding was coming back.

Vesper yanked the drive out-thirty-two seconds had passed-and dove. She rolled out the side door just as Harding stepped in the driver's side.

She scrambled under the chassis again.

Harding paused. He felt the vibration.

"Who's there?"

He drew his gun. He dropped to one knee, shining the light under the van.

Vesper held her breath. She was pressed up into the wheel well, her body contorted.

A stray cat, wet and miserable, hissed from the bushes and bolted.

Harding exhaled. He stood up.

The power to the house flickered back on.

Vesper lay in the mud for ten minutes after he went back inside.

When she got back to her room, she was covered in grease and shivering.

Ping.

Cipher: Done. Your prints are now a ghost. The Vesper Vale file is firewalled at NSA-level clearance. If they run them against that, they'll get an 'Access Denied' flag. But the primary search will now match you to Cassandra Sterling's file. You are officially her.

Vesper collapsed onto the bed. She stared at the ceiling.

She was safe. For now.

"Chin up! Shoulders back! You walk like a duck!"

The etiquette coach poked Vesper in the back with a ruler.

It was the third day of "rehabilitation." Eleanor was throwing a "Welcome Home" Gala. It was a debutante ball for a grown woman.

Vesper balanced a book on her head. She hated this. She knew how to walk. She had walked into embassies and bank vaults. But she had to play the clumsy girl.

She deliberately tripped. The book fell. She stepped on the coach's foot.

"Ouch! You clumsy little-"

"Problem?"

Harding leaned against the marble column. He was watching her. He was always watching her.

"She is hopeless," the coach huffed.

"She needs a partner," Harding said. He walked onto the parquet floor. He held out his hand. "May I?"

Vesper looked at his hand. It was a trap.

"I don't dance," she said.

"You'll need to dance at the Gala," Harding said. "Unless you plan to hide in the kitchen."

He grabbed her hand. He pulled her close. Too close.

His other hand settled on her lower back. His fingers splayed over her spine. He wasn't just holding her; he was checking for a wire. For a weapon.

"Tango," Harding said to the musician.

The music started. Sharp. Aggressive.

Harding led. He moved with a predatory grace. He spun her.

Vesper followed. Her body knew the steps. She tried to be stiff, to stumble, but Harding was forcing her into the rhythm.

"Stop fighting it," he whispered. "Your muscles know what to do. Muscle memory doesn't lie, Cassandra."

He dipped her. Her hair swept the floor. His face was inches from hers.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I'm the girl you're harassing," Vesper hissed.

"You're a liar," Harding said. He pulled her up, his chest colliding with hers. "And I'm going to catch you."

"You tried that," Vesper said. "The prints were clean."

"The sample was corrupted," Harding corrected. "And the file your prints did match was a juvenile record conveniently unlocked just minutes after my system rebooted. Which means you're not just a thief. You're a pro."

The music ended. They stood there, breathing hard. The sexual tension was a physical thing, sharp and dangerous.

Vesper pulled away. "I have to get ready."

She ran upstairs.

She checked the guest list on her tablet.

Baron Von Hellsing.

A known black-market buyer. He was coming to the Gala.

This was it. The Crimson Agate was burning a hole in her shoulder. She needed to sell it and vanish.

But she needed a mule.

She found Liam in the garden, smoking.

"Liam," she said. "I have something. From my... travels. A stone. I need to sell it tonight."

Liam's eyes lit up. "Is it real?"

"It's worth more than this house," Vesper said. "I'll give you ten percent if you make the exchange."

Liam grinned. "Deal."

Up in the security room, Harding watched the silent feed. He saw the exchange. He saw Liam's greed.

"Gotcha," Harding whispered.