by Raven Scott
Evan scrolled through the other documents to see if there was anything new or revealing about her. Twenty-six years old, valid driver’s license, no passport. Born and raised in Detroit, moved to Boston eight years ago to attend college as a part-time student. Worked as a waitress, then graduated four years ago with a B.A. in Business. Senior sales manager at a jewelry store before being hired at Worthington eleven months ago. Clean criminal record, except for a sealed juvenile file.
A tire squeal and a honked horn caught Evan’s attention. He looked up to assess the situation and it was easy to see the distraction to drivers nearby. The object of his surveillance was crossing the street at the intersection in front of his car. Nia James walked with a straight, proud posture, her chin held high with bold confidence. She wore a dark skirt-suit, tailored to fit her lithe body like a fine wool wrap. Her lean legs were coppery brown, naked and elongated by high-heeled shoes in a glossy burgundy leather. Their extravagant cost was evident in the telltale red soles. Half her face was covered with oversize sunglasses and her lips were coated in a rich ruby color that accentuated their shapely fullness.
The lunchtime traffic was pretty busy, yet cars slowed as the men driving them did double takes, or stared openly. Even guys walking nearby turned to appreciate the view of her figure, both coming and going. Evan would have found the show amusing, except it uncovered a complication he hadn’t anticipated. Nia James was far more attractive in real life than her identification photos suggested. She walked with a smooth, sexy sway that told him she was very aware of her effect on men and was comfortable working it.
If his instincts were correct, and they usually were, he would have to adjust their plan accordingly.
Evan opened the driver’s door to the black Bentley convertible just as she passed in front. He slowly unfurled his tall frame to exit the car, fully aware of the impression he made: rich, powerful, young. It was an image designed to capture the attention of an opportunist, and one he’s used successfully many times as a covert operative. And like most women, Nia James responded. It was subtle, only with a slight tilt of her head in his direction, but it was enough. First goal accomplished.
She entered the premises, and Evan was only a few steps behind. The Worthington’s offices occupied the first two floors of the historical building. He had the architectural specs well mapped in his head. On the first floor, there was an art gallery and antiquities dealership, selling a wide variety of valuable collectibles on consignment. The business offices were on the second level in an open loft space, accessed from the main floor by a wide, curving staircase. The warehouse and secure storage was in the rear of the building, with a delivery bay backing onto an alley.
Evan stepped through the front doors into the large gallery with twenty-two-foot-high ceilings. The walls were lined with framed art of various types and sizes. The center space had glass display cabinets and sleek tufted white leather benches. He could easily see Nia standing near the rear of the room, next to a reception counter that was manned by another employee. But he started a slow walk around the room, stopping occasionally to admire one of the many drawings, paintings, and photographs. He also knew the moment his target left the area through the door to the warehouse.
“Hi there?”
Evan turned to find a young girl walking toward him. She was twenty-one years old, with a bright smile and even brighter blond hair. And he already knew she was the gallery receptionist and office administrator, Emma Sterling.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” she continued, stopping next to him.
He smiled back.
“I hope so,” he stated. “I would like to get some information about your auction services.”
“No problem,” she replied smoothly. “Are you looking to buy or sell?”
“Sell.”
“All right. I’ll introduce you to our managing director, Nia. She’ll be able to evaluate your needs.”
The young girl turned away a little, and pressed a button on a discreet earpiece. She spoke in soft tones for a few seconds before clicking it again and facing him again.
“Nia will be with us shortly. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Sure, some water would be great.”
“Sparkling or flat?”
“Hmmm, flat is fine.”
“No problem, Mr. . . . ?” She raised a brow and smiled even bigger.
“Evan. Evan DaCosta.”
“Great, Mr. DaCosta. Nia will be here shortly.”
He nodded and she walked away.
About a minute later, Evan watched Nia James cross the room with the same smooth, sensuous gait he witnessed earlier. He found himself anxious to see her up close, feel how potent her attractiveness was. Not that he would be affected, of course. He’d seen her type too many times over the years to be fooled by the artifice. And glammed-up women weren’t really his type. He preferred the outdoorsy, active women who didn’t take hours to get ready. The girl next door.
Yet as this woman, their prime suspect in a ballsy jewelry heist, stopped in front of him, Evan stopped breathing.
“Mr. DaCosta,” she stated in a sultry voice, her hand extended. “I’m Nia James. I understand that you’d like to hear more about our auction services?”
She looked up to meet his eyes squarely. Hers were a warm brown, with speckles of copper and honey. Evan cleared his throat, matching her firm handshake. Tiny sparks sizzled up his forearm.
“Nice to meet you, Miss James. I was told Worthington would be able to help with an estate auction?”
They were interrupted before she could respond.
“Here you go, Mr. DaCosta,” stated the receptionist as she handed him a chilled bottle of fancy imported spring water.
“Thank you. And it’s Evan, please. Mr. DaCosta was my father.”
Emma giggled, flipping back her silky blond hair. Evan thought he caught Nia roll her eyes, but it was the tiniest movement, and her pleasant, polite smile didn’t waver.
“Thanks, Emma,” added Nia. The young girl nodded and walked away.
“Yes, we handle estate sales,” continued Nia smoothly. “Depending on what items are involved, we could provide support for an on-site event, as part of a larger auction, or here through our consignment sales. We’ve also done several successful online auctions if that’s something you’re interested in.”
Evan nodded, taking a small sip of his drink.
“I haven’t given it much thought, to be honest. My father died last year, and left me his collection.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” she immediately replied. Her eyes softened, causing Evan to pause. He wasn’t expecting authentic empathy. She’s really good.
“Why don’t you come up to my office, and we can go over some of the details?”
He looked at his watch.
“I have a meeting shortly, so I can’t stay now. But I can come by again later today. Is six o’clock too late?”
“I’m afraid it is. We close at five.”
“That’s unfortunate. I have to sort things out as soon as possible. I don’t have much time available over the next few weeks before I head back home to Virginia, and Worthington comes very highly recommended.”
“I’m sure we can arrange something,” Nia offered.
“Good. If you don’t mind meeting after hours, I’m staying at the Harbor Hotel. Why don’t I make us dinner reservations tonight for six o’clock?”
It wasn’t a question, and he could see that Nia was genuinely surprised.
“Mr. DaCosta—”
“Evan, please.”
“Evan, that’s not necessary.”
“Sure it is. If you need to work late to meet me, the least I can do is feed you,” he dismissed her qualms while pulling a business card out of his inside jacket pocket. “My cell phone number is on there, and my assistant’s.”
“But—”
Evan’s phone rang, interrupting additional protests.
“Sorry, I hav
e to take this. See you at six,” he told her with a nod, then turned to walk briskly across the gallery floor. “Tony, what do you have?”
“The security guard is on the move,” the agent stated. “He’s on foot, carrying a duffel bag and looks pretty agitated.”
“Did he make you?” Evan asked. He was now outside and getting into his car.
“Negative. I just arrived when he burst out of the back entrance of his building. Something spooked him and it wasn’t me. I’d bet my paycheck that he’s skipping town.”
“Follow him,” instructed Evan as he revved the engine. “I’ve got your location and I’m on my way.”
He hung up the phone, then pulled the Bentley smoothly out into traffic, headed toward the Boston neighborhood of Dorchester.
Turn the page for an excerpt from Raven Scott’s
Hard and Fast
On sale now wherever books and ebooks are sold!
CHAPTER 1
Lucas Johnson strode purposefully through the entrance of an apartment building in downtown Chicago. While he looked casual and relaxed in dark blue jeans and a lightweight charcoal blazer over a black shirt, his eyes were sharp and alert. A pretty, full-figured woman passed him in the lobby, giving him an open look of interest and appreciation. At six feet two inches tall with a lean, athletic build, he was hard to miss. Lucas flashed a wide, flirty grin and she winked back. His pretty face and disarming smile suggested a naughty playboy, not a brilliant and lethal former government agent.
“How far are you from the target?”
The question came from Raymond Blunt through the tiny earpiece in Lucas’s ear. Raymond was an agent at Fortis, the full solution security and asset protection firm owned and managed by Lucas and his two best friends, Evan DaCosta and Sam Mackenzie. They had a team of twenty-two highly trained and uniquely skilled field specialists, technicians, and operations analysts with experience from all branches of elite government service.
Lucas had three men with him on the ground for this operation. Their objective was to shut down a small-time black hat hacker named Timothy Pratt who had tried to infiltrate their client’s secure computer system with a sophisticated Trojan horse program.
“We’re inside, heading into the stairwells,” advised Lucas.
The other two Fortis agents were entering the building from different access points and linked into the connected earpieces.
“Okay, the signal is coming from the fifth floor,” confirmed Raymond from his position providing surveillance support from their rented truck parked down the street. “According to the building schematics, you’re looking for the third unit on your right from the west staircase.”
Lucas was now at the base of the staircase closest to him.
“Ned, you take the east stairs,” he instructed. “Lance, take the elevators and I will approach the target from my end. We’ll converge on the apartment door. I’ll make contact, with both of you as backup in the wings.”
“Got it,” confirmed Ned Bushby. Like Lucas, he was a former Secret Service agent.
“Confirmed,” added Lance Campbell, an ex–Army Ranger.
Lucas ran up the staircase, two steps at a time. The hall on the fifth floor of the building was empty, except for Lance as he exited the elevator. Ned came through the other exit door only seconds later. The three men crept swiftly and quietly to apartment 514. Ned and Lance took positions next to the door, hands hovering near the grips of their concealed pistols. Lucas gave them both a signal with his hand and knocked.
There was no answer.
The men looked at each other. Lucas knocked again.
“There’s no answer, Raymond,” Lucas stated in the earpiece.
“Well, the system’s on and running, so it may be an automated program,” Raymond replied. He came to Fortis after twelve years with the NSA, and next to Lucas, was their top systems and security specialist.
“Do we have any activity from the target?” asked Lucas in a whisper.
“Negative. No cellular phone usage since nine forty-three a.m.,” Raymond confirmed. “And the phone’s GPS signal is still in the apartment.”
It was now almost eleven-fifteen on Friday morning. Lucas looked at his two men, putting up two fingers to indicate their plan B. He then took out a small, pointed tool from his back pocket, inserted it into the door lock, and picked the standard residential lock in under twelve seconds. The deadbolt took another ten seconds. The three men slipped into the apartment silently, guns drawn and ready for any situation. They quickly fanned out from the front entrance into the small, messy studio apartment, checking in the closets and bathroom. The abandoned food containers and discarded clothing everywhere suggested the place was well occupied, but there was nobody home. A laptop was set up on the kitchen counter.
“Raymond, we’re in,” Lucas confirmed. “The computer is here.”
“Boss,” stated Lance from the living area. “He couldn’t have gone far. His cell phone and wallet are on the coffee table.”
Lucas nodded. He was already turning on the laptop to assess the tech.
“Let’s be out of here in ten minutes,” he told Ned and Lance. “You guys see if you can find any info that can identify his motives. I’ll need at least seven minutes to clone the system and shut down the Trojan.”
He did a quick inspection of the equipment, a standard, off-the-shelf laptop connected to a wireless modem. The operating system was another story. Lucas quickly bypassed the secure login and accessed the system administrative functions before connecting a small jump drive to one of the USB ports. It contained a highly complex program that he had designed, meant to wirelessly transmit a cloned version of the desktop, operating system, and hard drive of the target system. It also left behind a passive rootkit software that would allow Lucas and the Fortis team undetected access to the computer and connected networks.
“Raymond, I’ve started the clone,” he advised.
“Yup, the data is coming through here,” Raymond confirmed through the earpiece.
“Good, we’re at forty percent transmission. It should be done in three minutes.”
Lucas did a few more configurations to the programming code in the admin program, then backed out of the system, erasing all traces of his presence until not even the most elite intrusion detection specialist could sniff his activities. He put the computer back in sleep mode just as the data transfer was complete.
“Got it, Lucas,” noted Raymond. “The info looks complete.”
“Good. We’ll be out of here in one minute.” He turned to the other agents as they completed their careful search of the apartment. “Anything?”
“Nothing,” Lance replied.
“I got this,” added Ned, holding up a couple of empty, used bank envelopes. “Whatever Pratt’s up to, he’s being paid in cash.”
The team did one final sweep to ensure everything was as they found it. Then they exited, locking the door behind them, and split up to meet with Raymond at their rented truck a block down the street. Ten minutes later, they were headed out of the city, back to the Fortis chopper grounded at a private heliport fifteen miles outside of the Chicago city limits.
“So, what are we dealing with here, Lucas?” asked Lance. “From what we saw, Pratt looks more like a messy college kid than a corporate hacker.”
“He is a kid,” added Raymond. “He just graduated from Johns Hopkins a year ago, with mediocre grades and an unremarkable college life. Up until January, he was doing tech support at Best Buy in Maryland.”
“So what happened three months ago and why’s he in Chicago trying to break into the computer network at Magnus Motorsports in Toronto?” continued Lance.
“Hactivism maybe?” asked Ned.
“I don’t think so,” Lucas replied. “Magnus is a relatively small player in custom race car components. Their latest project is a high-performance, fuel-efficient hybrid engine. Not really something to upset any political or social groups.”
“When Marco
Passante hired us last year to set up a secure computer network and data backup system, was it just the timing of their new technology, or was he worried about a particular threat?” Raymond questioned, referring to the president and owner of Magnus.
“At the time, he suggested their technology had the potential to be revolutionary, and highly coveted in the auto industry,” Lucas told them. “He talked about general concerns that his competitors would try to steal or destroy the work. Something that happens pretty often in the racing industry, apparently.”
“Well, Pratt’s not good enough to have built that Trojan we just shut down. He has no online portfolio or footprint to suggest he’s an active hacker,” Raymond added. “Looks to me like someone has set him up as a script kiddie for several months to go after information that has to be worth a big return on the investment. So either Passante had great foresight, or there is more to this client engagement than we thought.”
“Raymond, my man, you’ve read my mind,” Lucas concurred as they arrived back at the small airport in north suburban Chicago. “Once they’ve detected that we’ve shut down this attack, whoever’s funding Pratt will have to find another way to get what they’re looking for. Since the full Magnus network is self-contained in a local, private system within their building in Toronto, any additional attacks will be directed on-site. So, I need to have a more transparent conversation with our client and rescope this project.”
They all piled out of the rented truck and began loading up their chopper.
“Question,” interrupted Lance while they worked. “What the hell is a script kiddie?”