If this thing works like it’s supposed to, we should already be into the computer and the hard drive. If not, Boyboy will have to walk me through hacking them. It will take forever, and any mistake could trip an auto-delete switch. In Boyboy’s worst-case scenario, the whole hard drive gets wiped, and a signal goes out to the black-ops guys to come and get me.
My heart is pounding as I open the screen. I press the power button. For an awful second, nothing happens and I think it hasn’t worked, that I’m too far away for the transmission to come through, that silent alarms are already ringing, that guards are descending on me, but then I see a cursor blink and hear a luxurious chime.
My ears fill with excited whispers. The hard drive blinks to life.
Boyboy lets out a big breath of relief. “We’re in.”
Greyhill’s computer has nothing on it. Boyboy already tried hacking it from afar, but it was basically empty. He was the one who bet that Mr. Greyhill kept all his business transaction data separate, offline, probably in an external hard drive like this. I have to smile at the tiny box. It doesn’t seem possible it can hold so many dirty secrets.
I sit back. Now all I have to do is wait. I can hear Boyboy clicking away. I watch as the computer screen shuffles from one window to the next all by itself.
“How long’s it going to take?” Bug Eye asks.
“A few minutes,” Boyboy says.
I let myself enjoy a smug thrill. I did it. I got us in. Soon all of Mr. G’s data will be floating out to Boyboy. Boyboy figures it will still take maybe a week for him to decrypt it all, but that’s nothing. I’ve waited five years already; I can wait another week.
I open Mr. G’s desk drawers, prowling out of habit. The first is pretty empty. I flick past a couple of pens, a paper clip, and one of those balls you squeeze for stress. I pull the next drawer open and freeze.
A handgun lies on the mahogany like a coiled snake. It is sleek and gleaming, with the words PIETRO BERETTA MADE IN ITALY NO. II on the side of the barrel. Is it the same one? I almost pick it up, but then close the drawer so quickly that I hear the gun thud against the wood. I take a deep breath so my voice won’t shake. “How much longer?”
“Hold your horses,” Boyboy says. “The signal still sucks.”
The screen continues to fill with code that I don’t understand, white chicken scratch on black. I have no idea what he’s doing, but windows keep popping up, full of files.
I’m about to stand, feeling the need to get up and move, when one of the files catches my eye, and I have to blink to make sure I’m seeing it right. ANJU YVETTE, it’s labeled. My heart starts to pound. I hesitate. I know I shouldn’t mess with the computer while Boyboy’s doing his thing, but my hand is moving before I can tell it not to.
When I click on her name, a photo opens.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Boyboy’s typing trails into silence. “Oh my God, is that . . . ?”
I can’t answer. I can’t move. I recognize her face immediately, even though the photo must be twenty years old. My vision blurs.
Under normal circumstances, I like to think I would have noticed the change in the room’s air pressure. I would have felt the draft, or smelled the faint odor of dirt and damp. I would have heard the door open behind me where there was no door. But instead, it takes the metallic churning of small, precise gears to get me to finally look up from the glowing screen.
I don’t turn around. I know that noise.
The cold muzzle of the gun gives me goose bumps where it presses against my neck.
FIVE
I swallow, careful to not make any sudden moves.
“Get your hands up.”
Everything speeds up as I take stock. It’s a boy’s voice, unfamiliar. Not Ketchup or Bug Eye. No one is double-crossing me. Security? The voice sounds shaky, like telling me to put my hands up is something he’s only ever seen people do in movies. And young. Not security. If he were, I’d be on my way to a helicopter already. I glance at the drawer with Greyhill’s gun in it, but I’ll never be able to pull it open and turn on him in time. I raise my hands.
“I’m turning around,” I say, trying for my best calm, in-charge voice.
The gun comes away from my head and I slowly swivel in the chair. He’s breathing hard and his bright green eyes are wide. Still, he’s aiming with a military stance. Even if he’s never shot a living, breathing human, he’s practiced. He knows how to hold the gun, how to aim it, how to keep his body loose to absorb the kickback.
He’s standing before the bookcase, which has opened on hinges. It’s a door that would never show up on a city council house plan. An escape route. I should have known. All snakes have one.
I turn my attention back to the boy.
Of course. Who else could it be?
“Hi, Michael,” I say. “Been a while.”
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Rule 6 is, of course: Don’t get caught.
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