Which means the woman who threw champagne in my face may have bitten off more than she intended.
Kelly’s fingers close over her biceps, pinching her black shirt tight. He waits until she flinches, then tightens his grip, driving home his point. Crossing the room, his strides are long as he half-drags the woman beside him.
They stop in front of a man who looks like he sells cheap suits off the back of a truck. The guy’s face has gone the pasty white of someone about to faint. Kelly releases his captive witha firm twist of his wrist, shoving her hard enough that she must stagger to keep her feet.
“Barry Lynch,” Kelly says. “Mind your daughter.”
Lynch gulps, and his face flushes scarlet. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Starts to make some sort of excuse but decides to take out his frustration on his daughter instead. He’s short and he’s fat, but he’s stronger than he looks. Clamping a hand on the back of her neck, he marches her out of the room, ignoring both the incandescent rage that ignites across her face and the gawking stares of onlookers.
“Sir.” My attention is pulled away from the drama by a waiter offering a linen napkin. He looks wary, like he’s afraid he’s lighting some sort of fuse. I’m sure there are plenty of wedding guests who’d throw a fit after being assaulted with a flute of Dom Perignon.
But I’m not the fit-throwing type.
So I mop at my face, sponging away the worst of the damage. There’s nothing to do about my soaked shirt, so I don’t even try. It’ll dry, soon enough.
Before I can hand off the napkin, the bride herself makes her way through the crowd. Capturing Moran’s arm between both her hands, Fiona smiles and says, “If I could steal Patrick for a moment.”
Lucky man—he goes willingly. That leaves me with Prince, who’s shoving his phone into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. He’s scowling like he’s waiting for a root canal.
“Bad news?” I ask.
“Goddamn motherfucking asswipe,” Prince mutters.
“Could you be a bit more specific?” I ask. He could be talking about anyone from the waiter who skipped bringing us foie gras canapés to the Internal Revenue Service commissioner who has personally vowed to shut down the freeport. Prince is an equal-opportunity cursing machine.
“That was Jurgenson.”
Clay Jurgenson—the guy in charge of the freeport’s massivebanks of computers. Just last week, Jurgenson hired me to do a hacking analysis on all freeport systems. I have until the first of May to see how many back doors I can kick in, then I get to build all new security. It’s a dream job, paying a cool two mill for a month’s work.
But the thunder darkening Prince’s face jams an icicle into my gut. “Someone’s hacked the freeport?” I ask.
Prince shakes his head. “Worse.”
I wait for Prince to clarify. I’m not sure what could be worse, but I know he wouldn’t have started this conversation if he didn’t intend to tell me more.
“Jurgenson just got off the phone with his counterpart at Geneva Freeport,” Prince finally says. “Pussy saysheheard from Interpol about rumors on the motherfucking dark web…”
Prince drains his own glass of champagne like he’s taking medicine. The icicle in my belly expands into a glacier, squeezing my lungs and slowing my heart rate. “Out with it,” I say.
Prince does me the courtesy of meeting my gaze. “They know Lone Wolf saved Banque Wagner Privée.”
I grimace. There’s a reason I keep my client list private. If too many people find out?—
“A goddamn target list just showed up on the dark web,” Prince says.
Of course it did. Target list. Hit list. Kill list. Whatever you call it, it’s a red flag the size of Russia to anyone hiring Lone Wolf Enterprises. Now that my defeat of Red Cap is public, every hacker in the world will want to take a swipe at Lone Wolf, show off his coding chops, prove he can beat the best.
“And Diamond Freeport is in the fucking bull’s-eye,” Prince concludes.
Ice crackles up my spine to my brain. Eighteen months ago, Hans Wagner was reluctant to trust his computer system to anyone outside of Switzerland. I only landed Banque Wagnerafter sharing a list of my key clients—with the reluctant permission of those accounts—Diamond Freeport included.
“I gave Wagner your name in strictest confidence,” I say.
“Well, the jizzstain has a different definition ofconfidencethan you do.” Prince spits out a trail of blistering curses. “Jurgenson says fuckholes’ll try to break in, just to prove they’re better than you.”
A menthol-sharp wind howls through my brain. I want to say Jurgenson’s lying, but I always tell my clients the truth. “We can bulk up defenses,” I say.
“You’re off the job.”