by Mallory Kane
As he turned away, his gaze met hers in a fleeting, intense glance that seared her to the bone. His clear blue eyes burned as brightly as an oxygen flame, warming her cheeks and stirring a cauldron of unexpected emotions within her.
He might be tired and unkempt, underfed and distracted, but Dylan Stryker exuded an air of command and—she searched for the right word…masculinity…that hummed through her like the ring of a perfectly pitched tuning fork. She blinked and dropped her gaze.
“Thanks, Alfred.” Stryker headed back to his lab.
Natasha felt stunned. According to his file, Stryker was thirty-three, and already known worldwide for his breakthroughs with computer-assisted mobility in nerve-damaged patients.
Natasha had studied everything the FBI had on him, including clippings from the tabloids. He’d been thirty when his wife was killed three years before.
It has long been rumored that Stryker’s infant son did not die in the mysterious car crash that killed his wife….
Natasha stared at Stryker’s broad shoulders and lean hips until she realized Mintz had left her behind again. She hurried to catch up. He used his thumbprint and keyed in digits from a pass code generator. The door clicked open to reveal a small foyer banked with elevators.
“Where are we going? I need to start work.”
Mintz punched the call button. “I’ll show you to your room first, so you can freshen up. Have you eaten?”
She nodded, finding it difficult to pull her thoughts away from Dylan Stryker. He was so completely different from her expectations. He was driven, maybe even obsessed. But there was something else about him. Something dark and haunted lurked behind his brilliant blue eyes.
“I assume you’ve been fully briefed on our situation?” Mintz asked.
“Yes, sir. I’m here to stop a hacker and construct a firewall. And of course, to help with physical security.”
Mintz shook his head. “Physical security is not your job. Two of your fellow agents are on the outside to help my staff handle that. You concentrate on the computer.”
Irritation stiffened her shoulders. “I’ve studied the aerial photos. You’ve done a good job of camouflaging the house.”
Too good for her taste. This was her first assignment since her injury. And now she understood why Decker had given her a choice. He’d told her that the staff psychiatrist had declared her minimally qualified. At the time she was furious, and eager to prove the shrink wrong.
Now she got it. How ironic that this job tapped into her worst fears. Before her injury, this would have been just another assignment, and her mild claustrophobia would be manageable. But now she was fighting for her career. If she couldn’t conquer her irrational fear of closed spaces, she’d lose her job.
She suppressed a shudder, drew in a lungful of conditioned air and repeated the mantra Dr. Shay had given her to calm her panic.
Quiet and safe. Plenty of fresh air. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
It was nighttime now, but she knew from the photos Decker had shown her that even during the day, the massive house was shrouded in darkness. “I saw the infrared photos. How do you keep from broadcasting body heat?”
“The canopy that stretches over the entire house is made of a specially designed heat-repelling mesh,” Mintz answered. “Some sunlight does get in. But it’s very good camouflage.”
“Right. The perfect hiding place,” she said wryly.
“Not perfect,” Mintz responded. “We do what we can to quash any rumors that this is Dylan’s base of operations. But occasionally somebody tries to breach the walls, or flies over in a helicopter. Usually paparazzi.”
The faint note of disapproval in his voice intrigued her. She looked at him, but his stern face gave away nothing.
The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside.
“And now it looks like we’ve got a hacker.”
“Did I understand that your computer guy said he got in and out clean?”
He nodded. “Jerry Campbell. He’s the bioengineer working with Dylan. He assured us the hacker left nothing behind.”
“Bioengineer? Who’s handling the computer system?”
Mintz cleared his throat impatiently. “Dr. Stryker wants as few people involved as possible.”
“I don’t know how good a bioengineer he is but he’s wrong about the hackers. They always leave something,” Natasha said firmly. “I need to talk with him, find out what he saw.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why not tonight? What he tells me will help determine what other equipment I’ll need.”
Mintz shook his head. “He’s busy with Dylan tonight.”
“Well, maybe when he takes a break,” she said impatiently. She needed to get finished and get out. The assignment was already giving her the creeps.
The FBI shrink’s evaluation taunted her. Hasn’t fully dealt with her claustrophobia. She had to defeat the feeling of losing control if she was going to succeed.
“Believe me, Agent Rudolph. We’re anxious for you to get started. Get the equipment you brought set up tonight. Assess the system. Decide what else you need. Then first thing tomorrow, you can meet Campbell and have him brief you on the hacker’s movements.”
Natasha started to press him, but he held up his hand.
“Dylan’s at a critical point in the debugging process right now. I’m surprised he stopped long enough to exercise, although with the amount of tension he’s carrying around…” Mintz set his jaw. “He needs you, but he resents the time it’s going to take to bring you up to speed. Time is the one thing he doesn’t have. If you’re as good as your superiors say you are, he’ll figure it out soon enough.”
She tried one last frontal attack. “NSA is extremely anxious to get their hands on that interface.”
“NSA is not Dylan’s primary concern.”
Before she could ponder that comment, the elevator doors slid open, and they stepped out into the atrium through which she’d entered. It was laid out in brightly veined Italian marble. A mezzanine lined with bookshelves bisected the walls.
The high ceiling was crowned by a massive domed skylight. Although the sun had set, a pink and purple glow filtered through the glass dome.
“I assume the skylight is shielded, too?”
Mintz glanced up. “Yep. The mesh doesn’t block the moon and stars as much as it does the sun. And there’s clear plastic sheeting to keep out the rain while allowing a little sunlight in.”
The vise that had squeezed her chest since she got here loosened a bit. She took a long cleansing breath. At least she could see the sky—sort of.
Mintz gave her a quick rundown of the house’s layout. He pointed to the front doors. “That’s north. The staff quarters are on the east. The kitchen, the patio and Ben’s play area are that way.” He pointed southward. “And the west door goes to the family quarters. Your suite is in there, next to Ben’s.”
As he finished, a metallic thumping echoed in her ears.
“Alfred!” A toddler ran in from the kitchen area.
“This is Ben.” Mintz’s controlled drill-sergeant face creased in a smile.
Natasha’s heart twisted in compassion as the little boy ran clumsily toward Mintz. The metallic thumps were caused by bright silver braces that crisscrossed his little legs like an erector set. Beneath the clanking of the braces, she heard the almost silent whirr of a motor.
“Alfred!” Ben shouted. “Where’s my daddy?”
He was the image of his father—black hair, blue eyes. He didn’t seem to notice the braces that encumbered him.
The tabloid stories held a kernel of truth, but they were totally wrong about the child. Ben wasn’t pathetically crippled. He was bright and energetic. Still, a horrific vision haunted her—a crumpled, crushed vehicle with a baby trapped inside, crying for his mother.
She shuddered and her breath hitched.
“Agent Rudolph, are you all right?”
She forced herself to breathe evenly. “Of
course.”
Ben tugged on Mintz’s hand. “Is Daddy coming?”
“Pardner, why aren’t you in bed?” Mintz said in a surprisingly gentle voice.
“I’m waiting for my daddy.”
“Where’s Miss Charlene?” Mintz inclined his head toward Natasha. “Ben’s physical therapist.”
Ben’s face began to crumple. “Not Charlene. Daddy. He can take me outside to see the moon.” Tears shimmered on his long lashes.
As Natasha watched in astonishment, the grizzled security chief lifted Ben. The boy wrapped his arms around Mintz’s neck and tucked his face into his collar.
“Your daddy’s working tonight. I want you to meet someone.”
Ben turned his head so that one dark blue eye was visible. “No.” He hid his face again. “I want my daddy.”
“This is Natasha. Can you say Natasha?”
Ben shook his head, but curiosity got the better of him and he peeked sideways at her. “Tasha?”
His little voice saying the nickname she hadn’t heard since childhood caused her to smile, even as it cut into her heart.
“Hi, Ben.” She’d never been around kids, so the ache in her chest and the tightness in her throat surprised her. He was so sweet and so vulnerable and brave. And he’d transformed Stryker’s gruff, rigid security chief into a doting grandfather.
“Come on, Ben. Let’s get you tucked in.”
Ben still peered at her sidelong, from the folds of Mintz’s shirt. “Tasha come, too?”
“Oh, no. I don’t—”
“Sure Natasha can come, too,” Mintz said. “And later, your daddy’ll come in to say good-night.”
Ben shifted and sat up straight, confident in Mintz’s protective embrace.
“Go this way, Tasha.” He pointed as Mintz headed for the west hall. He watched her over Mintz’s shoulder.
What should she say? She had no clue how to talk to a kid. “How old are you, Ben?”
He held up three pudgy fingers. “Three and a half.”
Of course. A pang of sadness hit her square in the chest. The car crash had occurred this time of year—September—three years ago. Ben had been six months old, too young to remember the crash or the pain or the sound of his mother dying. Thank God.
They entered Ben’s room to find a young woman with shiny brown hair folding back the covers on his bed.
“This is Charlene Dufrayne,” Mintz said. “Charlene, Special Agent Natasha Rudolph.”
“Oh, the computer expert.” Charlene gave Natasha a wary nod as she took Ben from Mintz. “We’ve all heard about you.”
Natasha rapidly cataloged the other woman’s appearance. Medium height, late twenties, pretty. In good shape. She’d be good for Ben.
She glanced around the child’s room. It was painted a bright blue, and filled with every toy a little boy could want. But something about it sent an eerie shiver through her.
“Okay, cowboy, let’s get you ready for bed,” Charlene said, setting him on his bed.
“I stay awake ’til Daddy comes.”
“Daddy may not come tonight. He’s very busy.”
As Ben’s eager face fell, Natasha’s heart ached. Charlene began to unlock the braces.
Mintz opened a connecting door and gestured for Natasha to precede him into the next room.
She stepped through the door, her gaze still lingering on Ben’s room. As Mintz turned on the lights and she looked around the starkly decorated room, it hit her what was bothering her.
“These rooms don’t have any windows,” she croaked. Her throat constricted.
“This is the only level of the house aboveground. That makes it vulnerable. Windows would greatly increase that vulnerability.”
Her pulse jumped as she pushed away the panic and forced herself to nod. “Vulnerability. Of course. That…makes sense.”
As an FBI agent, she understood, but no amount of rational thinking stilled her knee-jerk response to the vaultlike rooms. This was why she’d scrimped and saved until she could afford a top-floor condo in Washington, D.C., where all her walls were glass, and the sun streamed in every day.
She couldn’t get Ben’s sweet little face out of her mind. It horrified her to think he’d lived his whole life locked inside these walls.
“Is there a problem, Agent Rudolph?” Mintz’s voice was edged with ice.
She quoted her mantra for dealing with panic. Quiet and safe. Plenty of fresh air. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
“No, sir. I realize safety is your primary concern. It’s just that Ben is—” She swallowed. “He’s a growing boy. He needs sunshine and—” she faltered when Mintz glowered at her “—fresh air.”
“Ben’s needs are not your purview.”
She lifted her chin. “So far, apparently nothing is my purview. You’ve vetoed every suggestion I’ve made. I must say, your trust in me is underwhelming.”
“Not just you,” he muttered, his face grim. “Anyone.” He faced her. “Understand this, Agent Rudolph. As far as the public knows, Ben died in the car crash that killed his mother. Dylan has gone to superhuman lengths to keep the boy here with him.”
She searched his face. “You don’t approve.”
The lines in his face deepened. “I built this place to withstand an explosion the magnitude of Oklahoma City. But nobody can guard against human ingenuity. All it’ll take is one person breaching the walls, or hacking into the computers. NSA wants Dylan and his interface safe. They’ve offered to place him and Ben in a secure government location.”
“And you want that, too.” No matter how protected the estate was, the child could still be in danger. Still, now that she’d met Ben, she understood why his father refused to let him out of his sight. After only a few minutes, his innocent, angelic face had already made a dent in her heart.
“What I want is not relevant. Ben is Dylan’s son. He would give up everything for him, even his own life.”
“I get the feeling you’d do the same for either of them.”
Mintz averted his gaze as he dug in his pocket and handed her a small digital device. He cleared his throat. “Your fingerprints are already in the security system. This is your pass code generator. You’ll want to keep it on your person at all times. The code changes every forty-five seconds. Your print on the keypad plus the entry of this code will unlock any door on the estate. There will not be any security issues, understood?”
Natasha stiffened. “Understood, sir.” She took the device.
“I’ll be back in an hour to take you down to the lab.”
“I can find my way—” she started, but he’d turned on his heel and left. The door closed silently behind him.
She sat down on the bed and closed her eyes, thankful to be alone for a few moments. Her neck and shoulders ached from maintaining her composure. Now, as she flexed them, her entire body began to tremble.
Underground laboratory. Windowless rooms. No wonder Decker had worried about her ability to handle this assignment. She felt the weight of the house and the closeness of the impenetrable walls. Her lungs sucked in air greedily.
After twenty-two years, she’d thought she’d conquered her worst personal demon, until Bobby Lee Hutchins had buried her alive.
Horror slithered along her nerve endings as she recalled the endless dark. She’d been certain her life was over.
But her partner Storm hadn’t given up. He’d stayed there while the workers cleared away boards and drywall and dirt. He’d kept calling out to her even though she didn’t have enough breath to answer him.
When they got her to the hospital she had four cracked ribs, a collapsed lung and a broken leg, none of which bothered her as much as the hours of terror she’d spent buried under the debris.
She’d experienced the worst. This job should be a piece of cake. All she had to do was keep her cool for a few days until they caught the hacker.
She took a deep breath of artificially cooled air and reminded herself that she wasn’t buried. She was on
the top level—aboveground. The air smelled fresh and the room was large and clean. There was no reason to feel claustrophobic.
She closed her eyes, but it didn’t help. Her demon was back. The walls were closing in.
THE HACKER grinned as his fingers flew over the keyboard. Just a few more keystrokes and he’d have his first look at Dr. Dylan Stryker’s neural interface operating software.
He’d been working toward this moment for three years, since the botched kidnapping of Stryker’s wife and son. He’d learned a lot from the extremists who had run the neurosurgeon’s wife and baby son off the road.
Idiots. Their blind devotion to their cause came in handy, but only if they had a leader to guide them. He was in control this time. There would be no mistakes.
There was nothing more satisfying than to beat the government at their own game. He’d waited a long time for another chance to prove his superiority.
Eight years ago, he’d not only cracked the FBI’s domestic terrorist database, he’d framed a young hacker for the breach. He’d needed to get rid of her—she’d been too good.
By planting subtle but identifiable clues inside the FBI’s computer program, he’d led lead investigators to the computer lab at the college she attended. Once they’d identified the computer, it was simple to trace her ID and find the evidence he’d so carefully planted.
His brilliant frame-up had made him famous in the hacking world. And now he was back. The National Security Agency had designed Stryker’s firewall, and it was impressive. But so were his skills.
Alert to any sign of detection, he typed a few lines of code, nudging the protective barrier around the software that could make the fabled computer-enhanced supersoldier a reality.
A sense of omnipotence streaked through him. His fingertips tingled and a visceral exhilaration sizzled in his groin. Nobody except another hacker could understand the feeling.
All he needed was a few seconds to gain entrance to the ultrasecure area where Stryker’s files and programs on the neural interface were stored.
He was typing the last bit of code when his cell phone rang.