by Tiffany Snow
Ruskin’s dark eyes slid to me. “Privately,” he added.
Jackson glanced down at me. “You’ll be all right on your own for a few minutes?”
Immediate panic set in at being left by myself in a ballroom full of strangers, but I forced my fake smile. “You bet!” I said, way too chipper. He and I both winced, then he brushed a kiss to my lips.
“I’ll be quick. Finish your wine.”
I watched him follow Ruskin until they were swallowed by people. I looked around, shifting my weight self-consciously from one foot to another, and pushed my glasses up my nose. I felt as though my life preserver had just deflated and left me adrift in a cold, apathetic ocean.
Wine helps, though, as I’d come to learn. Why hadn’t I drunk more often before now? I finished the glass in two large gulps, then got a refill from the bartender.
“You can top that off,” I said when he stopped pouring at half a glass. He eyed me, but added more of the golden liquid. “Thanks.” If I finished this off, chances were Jackson could drop me in the middle of Times Square on New Year’s Eve and I wouldn’t care.
“Excuse me, aren’t you accompanying Jackson Cooper this evening?”
The voice came from right behind me, startling me so much that I dribbled down my dress and choked. I turned around, coughing. “Uh-huh,” I managed, patting my dress with a little cocktail napkin the bartender had given me. “Who are you?”
The woman was petite and had glasses, too, which immediately made me feel a kindred spirit with her. Then I saw the nametag and “Press.” Oh no.
“Oh, um, I mean—” I began.
“Because that’s awesome.” She looked me up and down and started jotting on a little notepad, though where she’d produced it from, I had no idea. Her dress was tiny and tight, like mine. “What’s your name?”
I had the feeling I was doing something wrong, but didn’t know how to refuse a direct question with an obvious answer. “Um . . . China. China Mack.”
“China . . . Mack . . .” she said, drawing out the syllables as she wrote. “And you’re Jackson’s date tonight?”
“He’s my boyfriend,” I corrected her. Her eyebrows flew up.
“Really? How long have you been dating?”
“A couple of months.” I looked around, trying to think of a way to politely extricate myself from the conversation.
“And what do you do, China?”
Okay, that was a tougher question. It wasn’t like I could say, “I work for a secret government agency called Vigilance, created by the president himself with software I helped write. We keep profiles of every person in the United States and our software assigns values and probability as to whether they are or will potentially become a terrorist. I’m 1984 come to life and taken to the nth degree. And if you tell anyone this, you’re likely to wind up missing-presumed-dead.”
“I write software,” I said. I was desperate to get away, so before she could ask any more questions, I said, “Sorry. Gotta go.”
Weaving my way through the crowd, I made my way to a doorway and sidled through it, hoping I wasn’t going somewhere I shouldn’t, though at the moment, I hardly cared. So many people around and it felt as if they were all looking at me. It was stifling, like I couldn’t breathe.
The hallway was dark and quiet, and I immediately felt better. I let the tall door swing softly shut behind me. Maybe I’d just walk around and hang out for a while, then text Jackson and see if he was finished with his meeting.
The hallway seemed endless, with periodic sconces giving it a dim glow. No doubt Lurch felt right at home here, especially on All Hallows’ Eve . . . not that I was suspicious or anything. Historically, tonight was merely the night before All Saints’ Day, which, as I wasn’t Catholic, I didn’t observe anyway. Neither was I Irish, where I’d celebrate the Celtic tradition of Samhain. Yet all those thoughts didn’t stop the goose bumps erupting on my skin or the shiver that ran down my back.
I drifted farther from the party, the sound of music and voices fading more with each step I took. I passed several doors, all closed and rather forbidding, but again—probably just my imagination. Then I crossed by one that was open a scant inch and I heard voices.
Stopping to listen was tacky and rude, and if I hadn’t heard Jackson’s name, I would’ve passed right by.
“. . . Cooper’s not going to go down without a fight. I have my people in place, but his resources are vast and formidable.”
Another man’s voice responded. “It doesn’t matter. I have an excellent source that will ensure he won’t be able to touch us, though he may expend considerable effort to do so.”
None of that sounded good. I sidled closer to the door, hoping to get a look inside and see who was talking.
“He won’t heed your warning.”
“Then we’ll have to make him listen another way.”
My heart was pounding as I stood outside the door. The men didn’t sound friendly and they probably wouldn’t take kindly to my eavesdropping.
“Have you found the asset?”
“Not yet. But soon. My source assures me it will be soon.”
A heavy hand fell onto my shoulder and I jumped about a foot.
“Guests are not allowed here.”
I spun around to see Lurch towering over me, the light behind him casting his face into shadow. Fear flooded me, irrational as it may have been.
“I-I was just . . . looking for the bathroom,” I squeaked, then cleared my throat and pushed my glasses up my nose. “Is it not this way?”
Lurch didn’t speak, merely lifted a ponderous hand and pointed back the direction from which I’d come.
I ducked beneath his arm and slipped away down the hall as fast as I could without running. I glanced back once to see he’d moved on and that someone else stood in the shadows outside the door, but I couldn’t make out their features.
Unnerved, I scurried back to the ballroom, scanning the crowds for Jackson until I spotted him nursing a drink and likewise eyeing the crowd for me. I hurried to his side.
“What was the meeting with Philip about?” I asked once I’d reached him. He looked relieved to see me.
“Tell you in the car.”
I perked up. “Does that mean we can leave?” The encounter in the hallway and conversation I’d overheard had me shaken and I was anxious to tell Jackson about it.
He pulled me into his arms. “Not without a dance.”
The orchestra was playing “Sing, Sing, Sing” and the casual dancers had departed the floor to leave it to those more expert in the activity.
“I’ve never danced before,” I protested. “I don’t know how.”
“That’s the easy part about being a girl,” he said. “You don’t have to know. Just follow.”
He spun me in a circle, catching me and pulling me back in. It took a few more times, but I caught the hang of it, and we were spinning with the rest of them in no time. I laughed, relaxing a little and enjoying the sense of freedom it gave me to dance like this, even amongst strangers.
“See? You’re a natural,” Jackson said as the strains of “Come Fly with Me” filled the air, the singer’s voice a low baritone that slid inside my ears like warm honey. I was breathless as he pulled me close into a slowly revolving circle.
“Or maybe it’s because I have a good partner.”
His eyes were warm, their dark depths gazing into my own, and a smile played about his lips. I never thought I’d be one of those girls who felt at home in a man’s arms, but we fit so well together. It made me feel . . . not alone . . . which was a big deal. I’d felt alone and been alone for a lot of my life. Loneliness was just part of my daily existence. To not be lonely . . . was incredibly pleasing. And addicting.
Flashbulbs broke the mood and I stumbled. Jackson caught me, turning our backs to the photographers and quickly leading me from the floor.
“They’re really persistent,” I said when we’d found a quiet alcove and left the cameras behind.
“I’ve gotten used to it,” he said with a shrug. “I should’ve warned you. Philip’s daughter plans this event and she likes to make the society pages.”
“This is definitely different than what I’m used to,” I said, which was an understatement.
“I’m glad you came tonight,” he said, slotting our fingers together. “I want everyone to see that I’m officially off the market.” Lifting our joined hands, he pressed a kiss to my knuckles. It should’ve been romantic, but his words were ricocheting inside my head.
“Off the market?” I repeated. “What do you mean?”
He gave me a strange look. “You and me is what I mean. I really don’t want to be on Forbes billionaire bachelor list three years in a row.”
I stared. “You don’t mean . . . surely you’re not talking marriage yet . . . are you? I mean yeah, I consider you my boyfriend, but we’ve only been together for six weeks and three days.”
“I’m certainly too old to be dating for fun, China,” he said. “If you’re not serious about us, then you should tell me now.” The relaxed smile on his face had faded to a shuttered expression, the warmth in his eyes turning chilly.
“I didn’t know I’d have to decide something like that so soon,” I protested, trying not to panic at the thought of commitment and forever and I love yous.
“I know what I feel,” he insisted. “We’re perfect for each other. And I can finally trust that the woman by my side is there for me and not for my money or fame or any of that bullshit.”
I shook my head, trying to think clearly. The music and the press of the people had made me anxious earlier. Now I was trying to fight off a panic attack and still concentrate on what Jackson was saying.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know if we’re ‘perfect for each other.’ I’ve never even had a boyfriend before. It would seem unwise to settle on the first one—”
“Settle?” he interrupted. “Did you seriously just say that you’d be settling for me?”
Okay, that hadn’t come out right and now things were going horribly wrong. “No, of course not. I didn’t mean—”
“Maybe you should go,” he said stiffly. “Go find your next boyfriend so you can have a better pool of candidates for whom you can settle.”
Even I—social-cue misfit—could tell that he was hurt and angry, and that now wasn’t the time or place to finish this conversation.
“I’ll have my car take you home,” he said.
“I can get home on my own,” I replied, swallowing the sudden lump in my throat. I hated confrontation. Had never had a fight with a boyfriend. What was I supposed to do? The nuances of hurt feelings and anger battling with manners made the conversational undertones indecipherable to me. I wanted to fix things, but didn’t know how. What I did know was that I wanted to be alone. Now. And not in Jackson’s car.
I spun away from his grip on my elbow and stepped into the crush of people.
“China, wait—”
One of the few good things about being short was the ability to get easily lost in a crowd. Though I didn’t know if Jackson had followed me or not—part of me hoped he had—I was quickly swallowed into the morass of bodies, which seemed to have expanded exponentially since we’d arrived. By the time I got to the front door, the Uber I’d ordered from the app on my phone was waiting. Unfortunately, so was someone else.
2
“What, no costume?” Clark asked, holding open the passenger door of his black Porsche.
Clark Slattery—and I’d only found out his last name after we’d been forced into a working partnership together—used to be military intelligence turned freelance intelligence. Now he was the brawn behind my brains at Vigilance.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, pushing aside my dismay at what had occurred between Jackson and me. Whatever had brought Clark to the party, it couldn’t be good. He and I had begun our “friendship” on the false pretense that he was romantically interested in me after he’d moved in next door. But in the end, he’d just been using me for information, a fact I hadn’t taken kindly to. Two months into our new partnership the awkwardness had eased, but he was far from my favorite person . . . even if he did look like Superman on Red Kryptonite (a black-leather-jacket-wearing, bad-boy version of the caped hero I’d always secretly had the hots for).
“Happy Halloween to you, too, Mack,” he said. “Always such the pleasant and friendly coworker.”
“I’m not paid to be pleasant and friendly,” I retorted.
“And you do it so well,” he shot back. “Now get in the car. We have a situation.”
“But I’m on a date,” I protested. Which was true . . . sort of.
“Yeah? Where is he?”
I glanced around, hoping Jackson had come after me when I’d made my dramatic exit. That’s how it always happened in the movies. Yet again, I was reminded that real life is a far cry from Hollywood’s version. Jackson was nowhere in sight. I swallowed my disappointment.
“Fine.” I got in the car. Clark slid behind the wheel and we took off.
Downtown Raleigh on Halloween night was busy, especially since it was on a Friday. Traffic slowed us down as Clark drove toward our headquarters.
“So are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I asked.
“When we’re in a secure location, yes.” He glanced at me, the pure blue of his eyes making him appear more angelic than he was. There wasn’t an angelic or holy bone in his body.
I sighed. The night had begun so well. I’d been so excited about my costume—which I’d spent a fortune on—and going to a fancy party with my dreamy boyfriend . . . Now I was stuck with Clark, going to work on a Friday night, wearing my niece’s skin-tight dress. I tugged again at the hem, but it wouldn’t budge past midthigh.
“So what are you supposed to be? Buffy the Vampire Slayer?”
I shot Clark a look. “I’m a brunette, not blonde, and Buffy doesn’t wear glasses.”
“My mistake. So where’s the boy toy?”
Clark never called Jackson by name. And since anything I said about it only made Clark reach for more nicknames, I didn’t even comment on it.
“I left him inside.”
“Problems in paradise?”
I shrugged. “I don’t really want to talk about it.” Turning away, I gazed out the window. I had never had any kind of boyfriend-girlfriend relationship before. Jackson and I had never argued until tonight and I was at a loss as to how or if I should attempt to repair things. He seemed to be at a higher emotional commitment level than I was, which, while gratifying, also left us at loose ends.
“Good.” I glanced at Clark in surprise. His lips twisted. “I didn’t really want to listen.”
Asshat. Mia’s pet name for Clark, which I heartily agreed with. If he wasn’t so damn good at what he did, I’d lobby that either he or I had to go.
We arrived at headquarters a few minutes later. Back in the fifties, the city fathers of Raleigh had decided to build a bomb shelter underneath the city, which had been a good idea until the wall fell and the USSR broke up. Then it just became an empty space. There’d been a brief revival of the acres underground in the seventies and eighties, with restaurants and a thriving music scene, but even that had fallen by the wayside. The businesses had closed up, one by one, until the area had all but been forgotten, the entrances boarded up and built over. Until now.
Though a far cry from Research Triangle or the posh setting downtown where Cysnet resided, the subterranean labyrinth underneath Cameron Village was more than adequate for our needs. All but forgotten by everyone except the most senior of residents, it held the most advanced electronic surveillance software in the world. Better than the NSA. More secret than the CIA.
We parked in the garage, underneath which stretched a data labyrinth of servers spanning more than three football fields. Housed in concrete and surrounded with a state-of-the-art water cooling system, it was undetectable, even if you knew it was there.
Clark typed a code into the numeric pad by the entrance, then placed his palm on the reader. It scanned, turned blue, and the door slid open. I walked in front of Clark.
The corridor was really a scanning tube, mapping us both as we walked. Even after passing the code and palm print, software compared our strides and bodies to those on file. If I wasn’t recognized by the system, the floor would instantly electrify with just enough charge to knock me unconscious. It freaked me out and I never relaxed until I reached the other side and open air.
It allowed me to pass and I let out my breath in relief. An elevator awaited, taking us down three levels. A metal walkway led to the brain of Vigilance. The servers were the heart but here—where dozens of screens lined the walls and four arced rows of multilevel workstations faced them—this was the eyes, ears, and the brain.
A skeleton crew was working tonight, a holiday and weekend, and the manager in charge saw me right away. Setting aside the tablet he was holding, he hurried over to where Clark and I stood.
“Hey, boss,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt your evening.”
“It’s fine, Derrick. What’s going on?”
“Someone hacked us.”
It took me a moment to process that statement because the likelihood of that event actually occurring was about the same as getting struck by lightning . . . twice.
“Show me.” I didn’t ask if he was sure. I’d had free rein to hire my staff and I’d only chosen the very best. I’d even poached a few from Cysnet. Derrick knew his stuff. If he said we’d been hacked, then we had.
He used the nearest workstation to toggle one of the screens and I read the network traffic log displayed. Shit.
“It took them a while,” I said. “Why didn’t any of our penetration sensing alerts go off?”
“He disabled them.”
Holy shit. “Scroll.” Derrick obediently scrolled the screen so I could follow the trail.
Clark sidled up next to me. “You can read that?” he asked.
I gave him a look. “Of course.” I pointed. “See the lines in red? Those are denials.”
“There are lots of those.”