Leaving the new guy to round on me. He surges forward, shoving me into the restaurant’s wall. “Who the hell are you?”
“Wick Tate.” I start to knee him in the groin and he twists sideways, swearing. “Who the hell are you?”
“Milo Gray.” His hands loosen and he moves back a step. “World’s greatest builder.”
“Who was that?” Griff asks. Outside the restaurant, the storm has regrouped and rain bleeds down the dusty windows in veins.
Milo studies Griff. “No one that concerns you.”
“That’s because it was your dad, wasn’t it?” Both boys pivot to stare at me and I pretend to straighten my shirtsleeve so I can cradle my throbbing arm. “Attached earlobes. It runs in families, right? So maybe he’s your dad or really older brother?”
“Dad.” Now Milo’s studying me. His eyes linger and I shiver. Griff’s guy doesn’t look like a techie . . . he looks like some sort of surfer boy: dark hair, dark eyes, worn black T-shirt stretched across a gym-sculpted chest, and tribal tats curling up his forearms.
“You didn’t tell me she was going to be in danger if I brought her here,” Griff says.
“And you didn’t tell me who she really was. You said you were bringing me Red Queen, not . . .” Milo’s attention never swerves from me. Slowly, the side of his mouth quirks up. “So what should I call you? Wick? Or Red Queen?”
I try to smile. Can’t. My face has gone tight. Red Queen is one of the aliases I use online and, generally, my best known. “Wick’s fine.”
“You got it . . . but how do I know you’re the Red Queen? How do I know you’re the one who came up with the Pandora code?”
“Well, if I could just borrow a computer . . .”
“No way you’re touching my gear.” Milo’s tongue taps the corner of his mouth. “Tell me about how you nailed Walker Internet Securities.”
I flinch. It was probably some of the best work I ever did for Joe. I meet Milo’s gaze and refuse to think about what Griff must be thinking . . . or about the shame heating my face. “So their CEO was way paranoid; getting into the company’s systems was impossible. They’d thought of everything . . . except for their cable boxes. They were running this old version of BSD, which meant I had my pick of vulnerabilities. After a few directory traversal attacks, I was able to access every internet and wireless device in the office.” I force myself to breathe. “By using an XSS vulnerability in the HTML firewall log I was able to install a malicious JavaScript packet that would look for various password and configuration files and, if found, send them back to me. When the CEO viewed the firewall log the next morning, the XSS had launched, and we ended up with the company’s enterprise-wide root password.” I shrug. “Pretty much full access to passwords, source codes, credit card numbers . . . I also set every channel in his cable box to Disney.”
Milo’s eyes flicker. “Say it again, but this time, do it in a breathy voice.”
“Pervert.”
He grins, his teeth werewolf white against his darker skin. “I’ve been following you for years. Never thought we’d meet. Or that you’d be . . .” Milo’s gaze climbs down me. It should feel dirty, only, somehow, it’s more like he’s assessing me in terms of my jobs. And he’s impressed.
It’s kind of flattering.
Maybe more than kind of.
“I worked for Group Eight,” Milo adds. “We were all big fans.”
G8? Huh. That was a tightly run outfit. They did good work until the Feds brought them down. I remember really liking how they . . . crap. No way am I admitting I’ve been admiring Milo as well.
“Are we going to talk computers or not?” I ask.
“I thought we were,” Milo says, motioning for us to follow him through the restaurant. The main dining room is filled with dusty tables pushed up against each other, the chairs long gone. Milo pops behind the counter and through the kitchen—unused as the dining areas—and into what must have once been a storage room.
Long stainless steel counters line the walls, snake nests of Ethernet and power cords spilling from their tops. I’m picking my way through the tangle, trying not to trip, when the wires pinned to the wall catch my eye. I stop dead.
“Are those explosives?”
Milo looks over his shoulder, gaze following mine to the small red boxes attached to the wall. “Yeah. It’s a hobby of mine. I rigged the whole place. Supernova in, like, fifteen seconds. Eighteen, tops.”
“Jesus!”
Milo smiles. “I’m even better.”
Next to me, Griff clears his throat, his hand finding the small of my back. “How do we know your dad won’t return for a second shot?”