Because fuck you, that’s why.
I smile sweetly at Miranda. “You have lipstick on your teeth.”
She replies coolly, “If I did—which I don’t—it would be easily remedied. Unlike your unfortunate fashion sense. Or perhaps you got dressed in the dark this morning?”
Beside me, Connor bristles. “Enough.”
I think he’s chastising both of us, but when I glance at his face I’m surprised to see his ire is directed straight at Miranda.
He’s angry with her for dissing my outfit. Which he himself has done on more than one occasion.
Before last night.
This is new, I think. What is this feeling? Pride? Satisfaction?
I don’t know what it is because it’s completely unfamiliar, but I decide I like it.
Miranda’s gaze snaps to Connor. She studies his face for a moment in silence and then looks at me. “I apologize. As you can imagine I’ve been under a great deal of stress. I’m grateful to have your help.” She turns her attention back to Connor. “Both of you. The FBI so far has gotten nowhere, and we’re running out of time.”
“You’ve had more contact from Maelstr0m?”
Miranda nods. “He’s begun erasing data from the servers. It started an hour ago. He says he’ll erase a terabyte every hour that he doesn’t get the money.”
“So he’s installed malware,” I say, unsurprised. “Good.”
Connor and Miranda stare at me. “Good?” she repeats, astonished.
“The malware will have a specific digital fingerprint. If I can capture some of the code, I can link him to other malicious cyber activity through it. Which means he’ll be on the hook for a helluva lot more than just this job.”
“If you can capture the code,” says Miranda. “None of my in-house computer experts or the FBI have found anything so far to trace the source of the breach.”
There’s something unpleasant in her tone, but I merely smile. “That’s because the malware is written so it destroys itself after it delivers its payload. But I know where to look.”
Miranda inspects my face in the same way she did Connor’s moments before. I can almost see the wheels turning behind her eyes. She says quietly, “You admire him. This hacker, whoever he is—you admire him.”
My smile fades. “In the way one admires a shark for being a perfect killing machine, yes. But that doesn’t mean I like him.”
A new look comes into her eyes. Her voice drops in shock. “You know him.”
Connor says roughly, “She was victimized by him once too.”
Looking straight into Miranda’s wide eyes, I emphasize, “Once.”
I feel Connor’s attention shift to me, feel his need to question me about S?ren like a razor slicing over my skin, but I know he won’t ask in front of Miranda.
The funny feeling from before intensifies when I realize that I know it’s respect that will keep his mouth closed. He might try to pummel me with questions in private, but he won’t bring it up in front of other people because he knows I wouldn’t want anyone else seeing how weak and stupid S?ren made me feel.
I never would have imagined myself describing Connor Hughes as a gentleman, but I’m starting to believe that underneath the swaggering G.I. Joe sex-machine routine, that’s exactly what he is.
Miranda lets out a relieved breath. “Well, this is fantastic news! We need to inform the FBI immediately—”
“Oh, we will,” I say, waving my hand dismissively in the air. “But it won’t matter. They’ll never find him. He’s a digital Jedi. A ghost.”
Connor mutters, “A digital Jedi?” When I glance at him, his jaw is as hard as a rock.
Not understanding what caused the look on his face, I frown. Why is he angry?
“Whatever he is, let’s get on with trying to stop him,” says Miranda, turning brisk. “The FBI has set up a command center upstairs and has cyber forensic agents working twenty-four-seven on this. Shall we?”
We turn and follow her through the shadowed parking lot to the elevator bank, where she hits the button for the seventh floor.
The FBI’s COM center is something straight out of a spy movie. They’ve set it up in the empty office adjacent to Miranda’s executive suite, and even at this late hour, it’s buzzing with activity.
It’s got “waste of taxpayer money” written all over it.
By my count, there are fifteen fully equipped computer stations set up, arranged in a semicircle in the middle of the room. Each bristles with wires and is covered in monitors and hard drives, staffed by a young man in a suit, tapping diligently at a keyboard. A large desk has been set up to one side, where I suppose a more senior man sits, although it’s currently unoccupied. On the wall has been hung a large dry-erase board, with a mishmash of case facts, website URLs, and hypotheses scrawled over it in red pen. In the center of the board is a large circle, drawn by hand, with a big question mark at its center.