by Leslie Jones
He bared his teeth in what was probably supposed to be a smile. “Hadley Nia Larkspur of the Nantucket Larkspurs, eldest daughter of Chauncey and Isla Larkspur. One younger sister. Formerly engaged to Ralph Pearson, but currently unattached.”
She felt her eyes widen. “You’re kidnapping me for ransom? Is that it? You want my parents to pay a ransom?”
He chuckled, but the sound lacked any real humor. “No. That’s not why you’re here. You currently work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation in their Cyber Crime division.”
She sucked in a breath. “I’m not spying for you. No way.”
“No? Too bad. That might make me feel less like killing you. But that’s not why you’re here, either.”
Palachka produced a knife from somewhere and used it to clean under his fingernails. As far as Lark could tell, they were immaculate. It was another attempt to cow her. She could have told them not to bother. She already felt cowed.
Sokolov leaned back in his chair, resting his elbows on the arms. “You say you don’t know who I am. So, what am I supposed to believe? That you didn’t know who you were stealing from? Is that it?”
“What? Stole?” She knew she sounded dumb, but she couldn’t think of anything more clever to say.
Mr. Sokolov’s mouth flattened in displeasure. “I don’t have a lot of patience today, Hadley.”
Don’t call me Hadley. “I don’t steal.”
He inhaled through his nose and let it out in a slow stream through his mouth. “Take my word for it—if you keep making bullshit denials, this conversation will go south fast. Let’s try this again. You stole fifty million dollars from me. I want that money back. Now.”
Lark sucked in a sharp breath and leaned forward, hands braced on her thighs. “Fifty million dollars? Fifty million?”
“Are you deaf? That’s what I said.”
Lark’s brain froze. What the hell was going on here? “I didn’t steal any money,” she said faintly. “And I truly don’t know who you are.”
He jerked his chin toward the young man on the sofa. “Elliott?”
Elliott sauntered over to Sokolov’s desk and sat on a corner, one leg dangling. He either didn’t see or ignored Sokolov’s glare. “You’re the hacker goes by the handle SPURious,” he said. “You’re the one hacked the MIT mainframe while you were at CalTech. You hacked a nuclear power plant and made a zebra’s ass the first thing users saw when they logged on. You wear a black badge at DefCon for winning Capture the Flag two years in a row.”
By the time he’d finished, Lark’s mouth hung open. “Oh, my God. How do you even know any of that?”
“Let’s just say Elliott is very motivated to find my money.”
Lark glanced at the young man’s bruised face. She needed to be more careful. “I don’t do any of that any more. I’m legit now. And I never did any damage. I found vulnerabilities in their systems that could be exploited by unscrupulous black hats.”
Elliott shrugged. “I don’t give a shit about that. I found your signature all over the hack.”
Back in the day, Lark took gleeful credit for her successes. It pissed her off that someone was using her handle against her. She fisted her hands in her hair, feeling like tearing it out by the roots. “That’s not even possible,” she almost wailed. “Only a few people know about my past. Sure, I got a rep after the MIT thing. I never told anyone about the nuclear plant, though. The only—”
She snapped her mouth shut.
“The only other person who knew was your partner?” Elliott guessed, eyes shrewd.
“Um, yeah,” she mumbled. She had to be the dumbest person on the planet. Elliott couldn’t possibly know about ChaosCowboy, who had been her mentor and partner for many years. He’d severed all ties with her after his arrest, not wanting to drag her down with him. She missed him still.
Lark moved to leap out of her chair so she could pace, but a swift glare from Palachka made her reconsider. “I didn’t do that. Okay, yeah, I used to poke around in other people’s systems. I don’t, anymore. I have immunity as long as I don’t.”
Sokolov tipped his head, pinning her with his deep-set eyes. His brows furrowed. Finally, he sat forward again, arms on the desk and hands clasped loosely together. “Interesting. I’ve gotten real good over the years at telling when people are lying to me. And damned if I don’t think you’re telling the truth.”
Air whooshed out of Lark as she felt herself go limp. “I am.”
He shrugged. “That means shit to me. Either I’m wrong and you did it, or you know who did, or you can find out who did.”
Lark’s fear turned to a slow burn of anger. Hackers had a code. Someone had violated the code, taken her hacker handle, and used it to steal money from the scary man. “Who would do that to me?”
She didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until Sokolov answered her. “You better figure it out real fast. I’ll give you forty-eight hours to find my money and return it to me.”
She gaped at him. “Two days? That’s impossible!”
“Make it possible.”
“I need more time. It’s going to be like trying to find the golden needle in a pile of silver needles. You still have to dig through all the needles.”
“I’m a reasonable man.” He sneered at her, then banged the cup onto his desk hard enough that it cracked. “I need that cash available to me in seven days. I’ll give you six of those days to get my money back. Not one second more.”
She wrung her hands together. “Mr. Sokolov, I get why you’re angry. I’m angry, too. Someone broke our code. Even among black hats, the code is sacrosanct. But tracking down a hacker is a tricky thing. Without some sort of signature, we’re virtually invisible. He’ll have covered his tracks; I doubt I can even find him.”
Sokolov nodded to Palachka. Before she could register what was happening, Palachka yanked her bodily to her feet and smashed her into Sokolov’s desk, bending her over it. Elliott scrambled to get out of the way as the breath crashed out of her lungs and her abdomen spasmed in agony. Dread clawed its way up her throat as she tried to twist away, terrified tears springing to her eyes.
“Oh my God, oh my God, please! Stop, please stop,” she gasped through the pain.
Palachka slammed the side of her face into the wood of the desk, stretching her right arm forward and pinning it into place as he leaned over her, knife poised to strike.
“Do you see how serious I am? No? Palachka, cut her finger off.”
“No! No!” she shrieked, yanking futilely to free her hand, weeping hysterically, tears and snot running down her face. “Stop! Please stop!”
Palachka brought the knife down, slicing through her pinkie fingernail. “More?”
Lark closed her eyes, heart beating frantically as she sobbed. “No. Please no. Don’t. Just please stop.”
The weight against her back disappeared, and suddenly she was free. She slid off the desk and crumpled to the carpet, cradling her hand to her chest, examining it frantically. Palachka’s knife had trimmed her nail and sliced the top layer of skin from the tip of her finger. It hardly bled at all. Lark found herself bizarrely grateful for his precision with the knife.
“You’ll get my money back. Or I’ll give you to Palachka.”
She found herself nodding over and over. “Yes. I will. I’ll find it. I will.”
“Good. I’m glad you understand me.”
Palachka’s hard hand bit into her bicep as he hauled her to her feet. She shrank away from him, batting at his grip. He ignored her, holding her until her shaking legs strengthened and she stood on her own. Elliott came and put an arm around her back, supporting her as he guided her to the door.
“It’s over,” he muttered. “You survived it.”
Lark leaned against him, grateful for the assistance, her whole body trembling in the aftermath of the assault. She tried to gulp back her tears, wanting nothing more than to get the hell out of this nightmare and go back to a world she understood.
&
nbsp; Elliott opened the door, slid his hand down her arm, and pressed a small thumb drive into her palm. She closed her fingers around it reflexively. “It’s our bank account information and the code used in the hack. Check out your own nine-to-five, if you’re smart. The originating IP address is on this USB stick. Use it to find the thief.”
“You have that money back to me in six days,” Sokolov called after her. “After that, Palachka will find you and make an example of you.”
Chapter 17
Saturday, February 18. 2:15 p.m.
Cutler Army Hospital. Fort Devens, Massachusetts.
Nine seconds.
That’s all it had taken him to fail. Nine seconds.
Mace shifted impatiently as the doctor peered through a magnifying lamp, probing gently into his scalp. The crease hurt like a bitch even with the local anesthetic to dim the pain. He deserved it.
“Please try to sit still,” she said. She used the forceps to remove a fragment of cement, dropping it into a small glass jar. “I see three more particles.”
“And then we’re done,” he growled. Self-condemnation burned a hole in his gut. He needed to get out there; needed to find Lark. God knew what she was going through at this very moment, because he’d let her out of his sight.
“And then you let the doctor look at your ribs,” Jace said firmly. Nods from Tag, Alex, and Gabe had him gritting his teeth.
“Saw you get hit, dude,” Alex said. “If not for your suit, you’d be dead.”
Tag stuck his finger through the two holes in the suit jacket and lifted the garment with his forefinger. He made it sway.
“Point taken,” Mace said. In truth, his shoulder and ribs hurt like a twin pair of bitches. And head wounds always stung, even if only caused by flying concrete shrapnel from a missed shot from the MAC-10.
The doctor dropped the last fragment into the jar. “You don’t need stitches. I’m going to apply a topical antibiotic.” She wiped down the area, spread the ointment, and taped a bandage over the cut.
“Strip,” Jace ordered.
Mace unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it and his T-shirt over his head, setting them on the bed. Tag winced. Mace didn’t have to look to know huge bruises had formed at the impact sites. The doctor dropped her gloves into a receptacle and donned another pair. Her white coat sleeve brushed against his skin as she palpated each injury in turn.
“There’s no penetration into the skin,” she said. “That’s good. You’re lucky this one didn’t crack a rib. It’s going to be tender for a few days, though. Ice both areas for about fifteen minutes off and on for a day or two to keep the swelling down. Make sure you put a towel between the ice and your skin. Try to rest. I’ll give you something for the pain.”
“No, thanks,” he said, pulling his T-shirt back on. Rest? Not a flying snowball’s chance in the Sahara. Not until Lark was safe. “I’ll take some Tylenol if I need it. Are we done here?”
She nodded. “I’ll get your discharge paperwork together.”
“I fucked this up,” Mace said. “How did they know where she would be today?”
“Not a stretch,” Gabe said, shifting a crutch into a more comfortable position. “The lieutenant governor’s son’s marriage was all over Twitter. They clearly know who Lark is, know who her sister is, knew where to be.”
He fingered the bandage over his ear. “If Palachka took her to Sokolov, she could be at his house. We should go get her. Grab the FBI and storm the place.”
“If she’s there,” Alex said. “That’s a big if.”
“Did she have her cell phone?” Gabe asked.
“No pockets in her dress,” Mace said, “but her purse went into the van with her.”
Anxiety pressed against his breastbone, canceling out the discomfort of his injuries.
Jace put a hand on his shoulder. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but we could go live at any time. At some point, you might have to let the FBI handle this.”
“I know that,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.
A nurse bustled in. “Discharge papers for Sergeant Beckett.”
He stood, reaching for them. “Thanks.”
“The doctor wants you to—”
“I got this. Thanks.”
“You guys are all stubborn as mules.” The nurse shrugged. “Come back if gangrene sets in.”
Mace was in no mood for her humor. He strode to the door, dropping the discharge instructions into the trash can. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Chapter 18
Saturday, February 18. 5:30 p.m.
Lark’s Home. Boston, Massachusetts.
Viktor Sokolov had insisted Iggy drive her home. She rode in sullen silence with arms folded across her chest.
“You gotta gimme the address sooner or later, sweets,” Iggy said.
“Murderer. Let me out at the next corner.”
He glowered at her before turning back to the road. “I got my orders. Mr. Sokolov says I drive you home, I drive you home.”
“Fuck Sokolov. And fuck you.” Fishing out her cell phone, she snapped a pic of his profile. After this was all over, she would report him to the police. He would pay for killing Mace.
“Address?” he prompted.
She stared out the window as she gave it to him. Grief washed through her anew. Right now, she had no choice but to find the unscrupulous hacker who’d laid a false trail leading back to her. After, though . . . after, she would find a way to take down Iggy, Sokolov, and the whole damned mob, if she had to.
Not soon enough for her, he pulled into her drive. She refused to acknowledge him, shoving the door open and exiting without a word or backward glance, shivering in the bitter air. Her torn lace dress offered no warmth. The moon, just a shade off full, provided enough light for her to see as she strode to her front door and opened it. She paused inside, waiting while Iggy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, looked around, and finally drove off.
She plopped onto her sofa and checked her phone for messages. She’d missed two calls from Trevor and five from a number she didn’t recognize. Mace, she hoped.
First on her to-do list had to be to call her sister, who would be frantic. She dialed Kaley.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Lark! It’s Lark,” Kaley said, voice fading as she pulled her cell phone away from her mouth. “Where are you? Are you all right? What happened? We’ve been so worried!”
“I’ll explain everything, I promise. Where are you?”
“We’re at the police station. Where are you? Who were those men? How did you get away?”
“Kaley, slow down. Are you all right? That man walloped you pretty hard.”
“Typical you’re worried about me when you were the one dragged into a car and kidnapped. We’re fine. We’ll wait at the police station for you.”
Lark hesitated. “I can’t go there. Not right now. There’s something I need to do first.”
“You want to go see Mace first?” Kaley guessed, voice softening. “They took him away pretty fast.”
“Do you know where? I’d like to pay my respects.” Her voice wobbled, air trapped in her throat making it hard to breathe.
Kaley sucked in a breath. “Oh, Lark! You poor thing. You thought . . . honey, he’s alive. They took him to the hospital to get checked out.”
For a moment, Lark’s world grayed and fuzzed around the edges. “A . . . alive? Are you . . . sure?”
Kaley snickered. “Oh, yeah. My high school French teacher didn’t give us lessons in swear words, but from the context, he was cussing like a crazy drunk trucker.”
She shook her head to get rid of the buzzing. “But I saw him. Get hit, go down. He was lying in a pool of blood. I saw it.”
“Honey, he was wearing some sort of super suit. Bulletproof clothes. Who knew?”
Sudden urgency sharpened Lark’s focus. She needed to see Mace. Right now.
“Lark, you have to file a report. You’re a
kidnap victim.” Kaley paused. “How did you get away, anyway?”
She wasn’t prepared to answer any questions. Not yet. No matter how well meaning. “Uh.”
“Lark? What’s going on?”
She ignored her sister. “This is all just a huge misunderstanding. No one kidnapped me. I just went to talk to someone, then came home.”
“Who?” Suspicion darkened Kaley’s voice. “What the hell is going on, Lark?”
Lark blew out a frustrated breath. “I can’t tell you, Kay. Not right now. I just wanted you guys to know I was okay.”
“Well, okay, I guess. If you really don’t want to file assault charges against those men.” Doubt rang in her voice. “I guess we’re pretty much done here. We were just waiting to see if the cops could find the van, but they couldn’t.”
“Kaley, I’m so sorry I ruined your wedding.” The words left her in a rush.
Her sister chuckled. “The press is having a field day speculating about why the wedding was canceled so abruptly. Apparently I got cold feet and bolted. Either that, or we decided to elope. Peter’s going to hold a press conference tomorrow and make something up to explain all this.”
Lark sighed heavily. “Mother’s right about me. I’m just a big screw-up.”
“Don’t even go there, Lark,” her sister snapped. “You’re not a screw-up. How could you know what would happen? Even though you won’t tell me what happened.”
“I will, I promise. Just later, okay?”
“Humph. Fine.”
“Did they tell you what hospital Mace is at?”
Paper crinkled in the background. “An Army hospital. But he was released hours ago. They gave the police the name of the hotel where he and his team are staying. One of those extended stay hotels.” She read off an address.
Lark curled around one of her bright pillows, hugging it tightly as she squeezed her eyes closed. Mace was alive. He’d been shot trying to rescue her, but he’d survived Iggy’s hail of bullets. He shimmered in her mind as a real-life knight in shining armor. Bulletproof clothes? She couldn’t explain her necessity to see him, only that she had to check for herself that he still breathed. “Could you maybe drive me back to the hotel? My car’s still there.”