But of course she noticed. She notices everything.
“I wish I hadn’t hurt her,” I say. “Hurt both of them. I wish I could have invited them to the wedding. But my visits with them are…different. Separate. They’re not a part of my Lone Wolf life. They can’t be.”
She nods, but I’m not sure she understands. I’m not sure I understand, either.
Neither of us speaks, the rest of the way home.
I’m backing into the garage when my phone chimes with an alert, the echoing ping of a submarine’s sonar. That’s the tone I’ve set for Barry Lynch’s account. Someone’s battering down the back door I installed on his computer system.
“I’ve got to take this,” I say, fishing out my cell.
Kate doesn’t say a word. She just lets herself out of the car and heads inside the house.
Lynch is a pain in the ass, but this is actually why he hired me—whether it’s a Sunday night or not. Settling into my office chair, I log into my computer to check the firewall I installed for him.
So far, my code is standing up to the attack. The invading program has already tried and abandoned half a dozen standard approaches. But whoever wrote this code is smarter than the average hacker. I watch as a new tendril reaches out, a novel attempt to convince Lynch’s system to hand over access to a spying thief.
It’s a brilliant approach, one I hadn’t considered when I put up barriers in the Baltimore mob’s system. I watch for amoment, making sure I understand the exploit, how it works, and what it will do when I shut it down.
I throw up one block, and my opponent immediately shifts their approach. They know I’m online now. They understand this is a duel.
Another torrent of code hits the firewall. This is another new-to-me tactic, but something about it looks familiar. My fingers skate over my keyboard, blocking access and studying their response, putting up another block, and waiting for a new reply.
When my opponent hesitates, I open an admin program, checking on my servers here in the house. Kate was with me in the car when this attack began, but I want proof she isn’t fighting me now. I need to know this isn’t a Red Cap raid.
Kate isn’t online at all—not her phone, not her computer.
The attacker tries yet another gambit. This one’s a sly workaround, an attempt to make Lynch’s system thinkI’mthe one pushing for entrance. I’ve seen something like this before…
It takes me a moment, but then I realize the code feels Russian. I’ve seen enough attacks on international banks and global corporations to recognize it. Lynch’s operation isn’t big enough to have attracted attention from the Russian government, but there are plenty of hackers working for the bratva.
Recognizing the roots of the attack helps me to shut down the current volley before it succeeds. I fend off three more attempts in quick succession. My mind shifts into hyper-awareness as I work. Even as I note each new attack, I register ways to rebuild Lynch’s system, methods to keep him safe for the foreseeable future.
I’m working on multiple planes now—protecting my client, planning for his future, and monitoring Kate to guarantee she doesn’t become involved. For a moment, it’s nearly too much. I’m typing faster than my mind can consciously register. I’m stretched to my maximum capacity, almost to the breaking point…
And the attacker finally withdraws.
I pause for a full minute, waiting to see if my opponent is merely playing dead, but nothing stirs online. I wait five minutes more, adding an additional administrative password and a security loop that should hold through the night.
When I sit back in my chair, my lungs are ragged. My palms are damp. My abs ache from holding me stable at my keyboard. My heart still races; every cell in my body is flooded with adrenaline.
I need to bleed off some of this energy. I need to restore order and control. I need Kate.
The house is deadly silent as I walk up the stairs. It’s midnight; I’ve been working for hours. Kate is probably sound asleep.
I’m wrong.
Kate isn’t asleep.
She’s sitting on the edge of our bed. Her legs are very, very white against the navy-blue of the duvet. And her blood is very, very red as it wells up beneath the scalpel she’s pressing against her thigh.
42
KATE
The blade isn’t right. It isn’t wrong.
It isn’t hot. It isn’t cold.