Read Compromised for Free Online

house looked more like a meeting room than someone’s residence. There were no decorations—just a table at the front and these chairs in rows. Almost like a schoolroom. The Spartan atmosphere made it even more likely that this was an organizational hub for the group of anarchists that Platon was somehow involved in. God, she hoped she was right and that he wasn’t just taking evening classes in something.
    She counted seven other men in addition to Platon. An eighth man came in from what she could see was a very old kitchen. He was sipping coffee from a tiny cup. Deep lines creased his face and thick white hair was cut short—almost marine short. He was definitely the boss. His steely gaze rested on her immediately. A chill seeped through her toes through her legs. He was not a good man; she instinctively understood this. And if nothing else, she’d been taught to rely on her gut. In practice sessions she had scored an 87 percent success rate when she made decisions based on her instinctive reaction to a training scenario. Most others hovered around 60 percent. She’d figured it was in her genes.
    As much as she wanted to run away from his glance, she smiled instantly, wide-eyed and guileless. She really didn’t want to be on the wrong side of him without a weapon. He nodded slightly and she went to work on a cuticle, feigning boredom.
    While she picked at her nail, she mentally filed what she had already seen. The men were all big guys. If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought they were New Jersey dockworkers or something similar. The docks. Of course. That would explain how the anarchists got their weapons and explosives.
    Pride spiked through her as she tried to pick up what they were saying, but they were talking too fast for her to get a good sense of the conversation. She cursed her postponement of her immersive language course. It didn’t help when practically 80 percent of Greeks spoke better English than she did Greek. She should have known better. Why would criminals plot in a foreign language? This wasn’t an effing movie.
    “What is the matter, young lady?” He-Man growled from the front of the room.
    Her head popped up at the sudden English. And the rumble of his words.
    “I’m…I’m sorry?” she replied, flashing a quick look at Platon. His grimace did not comfort her.
    “You were frowning quite determinedly. What were you thinking?” He moved around the men, who were now craning their heads in their chairs, and grabbed one, sitting astride it less than a foot away from her.
    She affected a tiny pout. “Platon promised to take me dancing, and I was wondering when you’d be finished.”
    The men laughed. But not the leader.
    “Where are you from?” As he asked the question, he slowly turned his head back to Platon as if to make it clear that he was double-checking his answers.
    Sadie had never so much wished for her baton. She had this nasty thought that if she said the wrong thing she would never be found again. “Manitoba?” she squeaked out.
    Manitoba? Fuck. She didn’t know anything about Manitoba. Rookie, rookie, rookie mistake.
    “Canada.” He nodded to himself as if he was formulating a plan. “Yet Platon tells me you work for an American company. Is that right?”
    She frowned as if she had no idea what he was getting at. “Yes. For now I do.” Now we are back to solid ground. “I’m…I’m just an inventory clerk, though.”
    She saw it in his eyes. A spark that told her she’d said exactly the right thing. And that told her that she’d been right in her suspicions of Platon. Her eyes flickered to him. So young in this group of older men. She wondered for an instant if he really understood what he was up to his neck into.
    “You do important work,” the old man crooned.
    “No, not really. My boss is the only important one in the office. Just ask him!” she said, aiming for some kind of common ground, making it easy for him to think he was creating a