Nobody was happy about the situation, least of all him. The last thing he’d joined the FBI for was pop-star babysitting duty. He knew Pennington wouldn’t believe it, though, so he didn’t bother saying it. But it was clear they had a sick fuck on their hands, one who’d had access to Dasha Moore’s suite, expanding their possible suspects to the army of people who worked in and around the Viceroy. They’d flown her out of Miami right away. Pennington ordered reschedules on the next two weeks’ worth of concert dates, and CNN was called about a backup plan for the Piers Morgan gig. Kress had backed him without hesitation, earning them both a fuming silence from Dasha. Kress could protect her in a lot of places, but the middle of an arena concert stage wasn’t one of them. So here they’d landed, hiding out in Atlanta in an opulent rent-a-mansion, which had clearly taken some major string-pulling prowess from Pennington. On the other hand, he was a Pennington. One of those Penningtons.
