Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games Series Book 2)

by J. T. Geissinger

By the time the sun comes up, the COM center has been moved to another building on the studio campus, two agents from the Boston field office have interviewed Professor Durand at his home, and Harry has given me the rundown on the infamous Bank of America incident.

  “Took Tabby weeks to convince the cops she was innocent,” he’d said. “Mainly by proving it wasn’t her who opened the bank account where the stolen money was deposited. Security footage showed an older woman, taller, different coloring. They weren’t able to identify her other than to rule Tabby out. The bank employee who opened the account couldn’t recall anything unusual about the woman that could’ve helped the investigation. That, added to the lack of any other evidence linking Tabby to the crime, made the DA decide not to pursue charges. And that was that. Subsequently, she dropped out of school, and Durand never heard from her again.”

  “If there was no evidence,” I’d said, “that means the police searched her computers. Which means they searched her home. But you said there was no address on record for her that year.”

  “She rented an apartment near the campus a few days before she got nabbed—”

  “And before that?”

  “She said she’d been living in her car.”

  Harry and I had looked at each other then. I knew we were both thinking the same thing. Either Tabby lied to us about living with Søren, or she was protecting him by not giving the police his home address.

  Neither option worked for me.

  “Did the police interview Søren? And why was it handled by the cops, anyway? A case like that, the FBI should’ve been involved.”

  Harry had shrugged. “They went to the address the school had on file for him, but it was one of those UPS mail centers. And by that time, he’d stopped attending classes too. Because it had been a woman who opened the account, they assumed Tabby’s insistence it was Søren who did the job was just a case of sour grapes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His steady gaze had stayed on mine. “A lover’s quarrel.”

  “Lovers,” I’d repeated, feeling sick.

  “Apparently Professor Durand often observed Søren sketching pictures of Tabby during class and saw them together around campus. He assumed they were an item.”

  “Did he ever see them…”

  He picked up on what I’m not able to speak aloud.

  “He didn’t say. As for why the FBI wasn’t involved, a decision was made by someone high up at the bank to keep the incident as quiet as possible. Hacks are bad for business. The public gets skittish when they know their money is vulnerable. And for a seventeen-year-old to be accused of making off with millions right under their noses… I guess they decided the public relations shit storm wouldn’t be worth it. Besides, they recovered all the money very quickly. No harm, no foul.”

  Something wasn’t making sense. “You said you couldn’t find Søren’s name in any database.”

  “Right.”

  “What about his school records?”

  “Disappeared, like he never existed.”

  “But the police knew about him back then?”

  “I know a guy in the local PD, asked him to copy the reporting officer’s handwritten case notes. That was the only place Søren was mentioned. After the woman on the video, they decided Søren was a dead end.”

  I’d passed a weary hand over my face and asked Harry what he thought. About Tabby, about all of it.

  “I think there are a lot of unanswered questions,” he’d said, watching me closely. “But mainly I think this girl is a wild card and dangerous to the clarity of your thinking. Mainly I think you’re balls-deep in trouble, my friend.”

  It’s really inconvenient when motherfuckers are so observant.

  I’d avoided his all-seeing eyes and stared morosely out a window instead. “I don’t know what it is between us.”

  “It’s something, though, isn’t it?”

  Respect for him had made me nod instead of offer a denial, which would’ve been a lie anyway.

  He’d sighed and downed the dregs of his cold coffee. “You’ve never been one to think with your dick, buddy, so I won’t give you a lecture. Just watch yourself. I have a feeling this thing is much bigger than it looks.”

  I wasn’t sure if he’d meant the situation with Miranda and Søren, or the situation with Tabby and me, but for the moment, I’d dropped the conversation with Harry due to sheer exhaustion. I’d been up for twenty-four hours and needed to sleep.

  I needed to get my head screwed on straight before I talked to Tabby.

  Whether she’d let that happen was up in the air. She’d curled up in a chair in the new COM center and gone to sleep without once looking in my direction. Or accepting my suggestion that she sleep on the sofa I’d had brought in for her.

  Harry had asked that we both stay on premises until further notice…though I knew it really wasn’t a request.

  So I’d found a quiet spot for a nap in someone’s office and gone to sleep.

  And now someone is shaking me awake.

  I open my eyes to find a man—goateed, tatted, grinning—standing over me.

  “Gettin’ your beauty rest, pumpkin?”

  “Ryan.” I’m on my feet and slapping him on the back in greeting before the word is all the way out of my mouth. I’m surprised how relieved I am to see him. Impulsively, I pull him into a hug.

  “Gee, boss,” he says, my arms still around him, “one day in LA and you’re already battin’ for the other team? What’re they puttin’ in the water out here?”

  “Fuck you,” I say with gruff affection and push him away. “And if I was going to bat for the other team, your ugly ass is the last place I’d start.”

  Still smiling, he crosses his arms over his chest. At just over six feet tall, Ryan McLean is a few inches shorter than I am, but bigger than pretty much everyone else. We served together in the corps, and as soon as he aged out of Special Ops, I recruited him to Metrix. He’s an expert in close-quarter battle tactics, weapons, and recon.

  And despite my teasing, he’s not ugly. His nickname is Thor, because the resemblance to the Norse comic book superhero is uncanny. All he needs is a flowing cape and an oversized hammer and he could star in the movie. Add a sleepy Georgia accent and a pair of baby blue eyes to the mix, and he’s the kind of “not ugly” that melts panties.

  Those blue eyes now squint at me. “You all right?”

  I drag a hand through my hair, shake my head to clear it. “Been a strange coupla days.”

  “So you said. Wasn’t sure what to make of your phone call last night, brother. You sounded…not like yourself. Got on a plane fast as I could.”

  I don’t want to get into exactly how much I’m not myself at the moment, so I deflect with a question. “You see Harry yet?”

  Ryan nods. “He brought me up to date. And they just got another email from the target. Apparently this Maelstr0m is none too fuckin’ happy someone on our team cock-blocked his malware. Says he wants the name of who did it. Threatenin’ all kind of mayhem if we don’t give it up.”

  “Fuck. All right. Let’s hit it.”

  I leave the room, Ryan by my side. When we reach the COM center, Miranda is already there, pacing back and forth in front of the windows. Harry and his boys are gathered around a desk set up with computer equipment, staring at a single monitor. Tabby is noticeably absent.

  “Heard you had contact,” I say, stopping next to Harry.

  With a subtle smile, he jerks his chin at the screen. “Looks like this Killgaard character doesn’t like sharing his toys.” He sends me a sidelong glance, which I don’t take the time to interpret because I’m too busy staring in fascination at the screen.

  Appearing in rapid succession on the monitor is a series of pictures of battle: atomic mushroom clouds, planes dropping bombs over targets, buildings exploding under heavy mortar fire. At the bottom left of the screen is a white skull and crossbones—the skull has flaming eyes—with a bar of text. Ryan reads it aloud.<
br />
  “‘Give me a name, or there is no avoiding war.’” He snorts. “Melodramatic much?”

  “That’s Machiavelli, not melodrama.”

  Everyone turns to the sound of the voice.

  It’s Tabby, standing in a doorway on the opposite side of the room. She’s obviously dead tired, but still sexy as fuck in spite of it. Her eyes are heavy lidded, her hair tumbles over her shoulders in an appealing mess. She’s wearing the clothes she had on earlier, but pared down: unlaced combat boots, skintight black jeans, a black T-shirt that’s about three sizes too small and does an incredible job of showcasing her slender waist and the fullness of her breasts.

  She yawns and stretches, arms overhead, arching her back. The T-shirt rides up her flat stomach to display the glittering jewel tucked into her navel and part of the tiger tattoo lower down. I know it’s not my imagination that the temperature in the room seems to jump by several degrees.

  Standing next to me, Ryan mutters, “Mercy.”

  I don’t like the way he’s looking at her. The way everyone is looking at her.

  The way she’s now looking at me, with complete disgust.

  Harry says, “Pardon?”

  Tabby moves into the room. Nineteen pairs of eyes follow her every move. She stops on the other side of the desk from me and stares down at the screen.

  “Niccolo Machiavelli, the Renaissance philosopher. It’s part of a quote of his. ‘There is no avoiding war, it can only be postponed to the advantage of others.’”

  When no one responds, she looks up and around. “None of you has read Machiavelli?”

  “No, ma’am,” says Ryan. “But he sure sounds fascinatin’. I’d love to hear all about him real soon.”

  While I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end the way it does just before I pull the trigger on a kill, Tabby blinks at Ryan and looks him up and down.

  “Who are you?”

  “Ryan T. McLean, ma’am. At your service.” His gaze rakes over her. “And you are?”

  Before I can snarl Off limits! Tabby says, “Tabitha West. But you can call me Tabby.”

  Ryan grins. “I once saw a thoroughbred named Tabby win at Belmont Park. Most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  Obviously charmed, Tabby grins back at him. “What’s the ‘T’ stand for?”

  “Tiberius.”

  Her brows shoot up. “Like Captain Kirk or the Roman emperor?”

  Impressed, Ryan blinks. “Like Captain Kirk. My parents are huge Trekkies.”

  “Well,” Tabby says, looking him over, “it suits you. You have the look of a man who could captain a starship.”

  “Why thank you, ma’am,” he drawls, crossing his arms over his chest so his big, tattooed biceps are on full display. “And may I say I really like that T-shirt. Does it, uh…have any special meanin’?”

  Tabby’s T-shirt reads: “Pussy Riot.” She glances down at herself. “It’s a Russian feminist punk rock protest group.”

  Ryan thoughtfully strokes his goatee. “Oh. And here I thought it might be somethin’ straight outta one of my wet dreams.”

  Heat sweeps up my neck and into my face. Tabby looks at me…and smiles.

  I think if I look anywhere but right at her, I might accidentally murder someone.

  Harry clears his throat. “Miss West, your friend Søren is a little pissy about that antimalware program you ran that disabled his intrusion attacks. Having a bit of a meltdown. I’m worried what his next move might be.”

  Tabby looks at the screen again. Her smile dies. “Well. Let’s give him what he wants then, shall we?” Then under her breath, “God forbid the son of a bitch is kept waiting.” She pulls the chair out from under the desk and sits down.

  I blurt, “Don’t—”

  Harry stops me short with a hand flat on my chest.

  Looking into my eyes, he says quietly, “Rein it in, or I’ll throw you out. Decide now.”

  Everyone’s looking at me, including Ryan, whose brows are arched in surprise. I take a deep breath, nod, and step back.

  To Tabby, Harry says, “This isn’t your show, understood? I’m in charge here. I make the decisions about how to proceed. So before you put a finger on that keyboard, we’re gonna have a talk.”

  Tabby slowly swivels around in the chair. She crosses her legs. She folds her hands in her lap, gazes up at Harry with a chastened look, and bats her long eyelashes. “Yes, sir,” she says demurely, and waits.

  Harry scowls at her, but I sense it’s more to maintain the status quo than from actual irritation. In spite of any doubts and questions he still might have about her, I can tell he’s just as impressed by Tabby as everyone else is.

  Except Rodriguez, who’s glaring at her with all the intimidation he can muster. Which isn’t much.

  Harry says, “Tell me what you’re thinking. Are you just going to flat-out tell him who you are?”

  “What fun would that be?”

  “We’re not here to have fun.”

  It’s Miranda, coming to stand near, her pacing abandoned. Though she’s still perfectly coiffed and there’s not a wrinkle on her expensive clothing, her face is pale and strained. It looks like her rest break didn’t take.

  Tabby says, “You’re not. But he definitely is. And the only thing that can distract Søren from his game is another game. So I’m going to give him one.” She looks at Harry, and her voice loses some of its edge. “With your permission.”

  In silence, he assesses her face. After an uncomfortably long pause, he says, “Go on.”

  Tabby nods. “Okay. So in addition to having a malware blocker, the program I’ve uploaded to the network backbone automatically responds to any new attempted breaches with a counterstrike—”

  “It automatically returns fire against a threat, without human direction?” interrupts Rodriguez incredulously. “Like the NSA’s MonsterMind program, which isn’t even supposed to be in existence yet?”

  “Yes. Exactly like that.”

  Under the weight of her simple admission, the room falls into stunned silence. Harry shoots me a stony glance, and I know with chilling certainty what he’s thinking.

  Tabby hacked the National Security Administration and stole their software.

  If that’s true, she’ll spend the next few decades in prison.

  All the blood drains from my face.

  Tabby rolls her eyes and sighs. “You guys, relax. It’s my program, okay? I can prove I developed it. And I’d never go near the NSA servers, anyway—even I’m not that crazy.”

  After a moment, Harry asks, “And what does this program of yours do in terms of counterstrike? Specifically.”

  A smile works its way over Tabby’s face. “Well, without getting overly technical, once the program detects an attempted breach, it follows it back to the source and launches malicious code in the originating system.”

  Harry looks dubious. “Which then does what?”

  She shrugs. “Anything from wiping out data, to gathering data, to making a little white cat dance on every network monitor that can never be bypassed, thereby rendering the system useless. That’s why Søren’s so mad right now. He’s getting a taste of his own medicine, and it tastes like shit.”

  Rodriguez frowns. “A dancing white cat…” His gaze falls on Tabby’s Hello Kitty watch. His eyes widen. He sucks in a breath.

  Harry asks irritably, “What now, Rodriguez?”

  Rodriguez breathes, “She’s…Polaroid! She broke into NASA’s mainframe, Citibank’s, the Church of Scientology’s, the Department of Defense…you name it, Polaroid’s done it, and always left behind a dancing white cat, just like that one!” He points accusingly at her watch.

  The sound of fifteen FBI agents gasping in unison is one I’ll never forget.

  Undaunted, Tabby says calmly, “Oh keep your panties on, Rodriguez. I’ve never heard of this Polaroid, but I’m sure only a guy would be smart enough to do all that, right? Besides, lots of girls like Hello Kitty.” Sh
e smiles sweetly at Harry. “Including your daughter, as I recall.”

  When Harry cuts his gaze to me, my blood freezes inside my veins.

  This is highly dangerous. I have a millisecond to decide which side of the law I’m on, because if the FBI thinks Tabby is a threat to national security and I defend her, then I’m a threat too.

  But as fast as I have the thought, I just as fast realize I don’t care. Somehow over the course of the past few days, protecting her has become my number one priority.

  I’ll think about what that means later.

  I’m standing in front of Tabby in full-on bristling battle mode before anyone can even blink an eye, my legs spread apart, my nostrils flared, every muscle in my body tensed to steel.

  I snarl, “Anybody wants to try to get to her, they have to go through me!”

  Seventeen

  Connor

  No one moves.

  After a long, silent moment, Ryan says drily, “Brother, you’ve got a lot to catch me up on.”

  Harry sighs and looks at the ceiling. He mutters, “Lord, give me patience.” Then he looks at me. “No one’s trying to get to anyone, all right? Now stand down, we’ve got a job to do.”

  Rodriguez protests, “But sir! She—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Rodriguez!” thunders Harry, red-faced. “If I wanted your opinion I’d give it to you! Make yourself useful and go get me a cup of coffee!”

  A livid Rodriguez glares at Tabby, and then spins on his heel and stalks out.

  Harry irritably instructs the rest of the gathered agents, “Everyone else take a meal or rest break. Have your asses back here in an hour. Chan, you stay.”

  Slowly the agents disperse, whispering among themselves, shooting Tabby curious glances over their shoulders as they leave the room. When the last of them are gone, Harry turns to Tabby.

  “I think we need to have another talk, Miss West. But for right now, let’s get on with it. What were you saying about a game?”

  With a hand on my shoulder, Ryan gently pulls me a few feet away so I’m no longer blocking Tabby.

  “Hide and go seek,” she says, looking at me with even more curiosity than the agents looked at her.