Free Mission: Out of Control by Susan May Warren Page A

Even Brody, who she’d passed without him even blinking at her as she snuck past him on the way to the penthouse elevator.
    She might even explain her actions away, blaming them on Vonya. Tell herself that she, Ronie or Veronica S. Wagner had nothing to do with the flamboyant character who seemed so far from the person she thought she was.
    Vonya had sometimes gotten out of control, turning into someone even Ronie couldn’t justify.
    But tonight, for Kafara, Vonya would be her salvation.
    She approached the door and handed the thug—a bald German the size of a linebacker—her invitation. He scanned the bar code. “You’re Vonya?”
    â€œIn the flesh, baby.” She puckered her bloodred lips at him and gave him an air kiss. He moved aside to let her enter the penthouse suite.
    How convenient that Brody had picked this hotel for their accommodations, although why he’d had to find the most expensive hotel in Berlin was beyond her, unless… For a long, bone-chilling moment, she suspected he had figured her out.
    But how could he know that she’d been using her Vonya persona as a cover ever since Zimbala, to ferry information as well as national secrets in and out of Europe as a CIA asset?
    Yes, she kept that one close to her chest.
    Not that she was on the payroll or anything. She just…well, she’d made friends with Clive Bishop, agent on the ground in Zimbala, and he’d needed a courier.
    One time had turned into many.
    Perhaps she did have a morsel of superspy in her because, yes, she loved the danger of knowing she carried highly sensitive, internal secrets across the ocean. Like footage of General Mubar’s recruiting techniques. And the mass grave Bishop had uncovered, proving the genocide of thousands of innocent women and children.
    But this gig was personal. Or, at least, once she finished her mission, it would be.
    She moved into the huge array of rooms, a smile on her face as she picked up a glass of champagne for show and sashayed through the crowd. A techno-European mix of punk rock thumped out of giant speakers. The balcony door hung open, probably to offset the heat of so many bodies breaking the fire code. The television blared a soccer match. She recognized faces from tabloids—an Italian actress who would probably know her in pink hair, and a punk rocker she’d met at a Berlin club during her tour a year ago. None of them recognized her.
    Thankfully. Because circulating around the room like piranha were a few invited paparazzi. Yeah, that’d be perfect—get her picture taken so her father could totally lose his mind over her “behavior.”
    And she didn’t tell Tommy D, either. Last time she’d hung out with Damu Mubar, tabloid pictures had put them together as a couple and Tommy had practically come unglued. She didn’t agree with her father that General Mubar knew her real identity. Damu had never suggested he knew her as anyone but Vonya. Still, she’d stay out of the press, just in case.
    Not that Brody would be any better at holding it together if he found out. He’d be furious if he figured out she’d slipped out of her room—although she’d caught a whiff of that pizza and nearly turned around to chase after him.
    But Damu Mubar’s birthday came only once a year. And she hadn’t cultivated a flirtatious friendship with the man just to derail it for a deep-dish pizza.
    Oh, it probably had mushrooms…
    And lots of sticky cheese…
    She stopped a waiter, grabbing a sushi roll. Brody was probably holed up in his room, enjoying his pizza with the two other gorillas.
    Okay, that wasn’t fair. She did like Luke. And Artyom.
    And after today, she would be on her best behavior. It was only tonight that she’d be trouble. She’d snuggle up to Damu, grab his cell phone, swipe the V-chip, copy it in the cute little device Bishop had left in her welcome basket, and then return