I switch windows resolutely and force myself to go back to solving people’s problems with that stolen money. Candace Whitman: hospital bills, $48,000. The Rodriguez family: overdue mortgage, $40,000.
Purple Heart recipient Aisha Michaels: vet bills for her service dog, changes to her house to accommodate her new disabilities, $37,000.
It only takes an average year’s pay to change someone’s life forever. Anyone who says that money can’t buy happiness has never known the misery of not having enough.
I’m ten families into the day’s “customers” when I hear the beep of a reply e-mail. I stop, and my heart starts to pound again. “Shit.”
Knock it off, Steele! I’m not meeting with you! I switch windows—and my eyes widen in horror.
He’s sent a photo attachment. It’s me.
Blurry footage of my hair tucked under my hat and my body wrapped in a fuzzy gray coat that isn’t my style at all—it’s one of my disguises. The image is taken from a big-box store where I handled some of my furniture orders for my “clients” early yesterday.
He must have broken into their security system and stolen this image. No way would he be able to get the information this fast any other way—not even bribery.
I know you’re in Seattle. I know you’re making cold-wallet Bitcoin purchases with my money and sending them to individuals and families throughout the city. I’m assuming they are part of your seven thousand.
I sit very still, just staring at the screen. How did he find me so fast?
A chat message pops up with another photo—it’s me again, and this time, it’s very clear. Cute little me from almost a decade ago—innocent, smiling, well-dressed, and very blonde.
You were a cute kid, Miss Locke. I’m sure you’re lovely now, and I suspect that you have noble aims. But you’re not walking off with a third of a billion of my money without a face-to-face.
I sit there shivering in a mix of anger, embarrassment, and fear as he gives me an address and a time. It’s an upscale bar and grill downtown.
Tonight. It’s nice and public. You’ll be quite safe. But if you don’t show up, I will find you.
How...? I think numbly, and then I sit back and close my eyes. He’s got me.
I’ll see you there.
Guess I’m going to dinner.
Chapter 6
Drake
“All right. I don’t want to go to this meeting blind. I want every single detail you’ve dug up on Robin Locke, and I mean everything. I don’t care how boring or trivial it seems.” I look at Laura as she sits across the desk from me, and she nods, typing a few commands into her laptop.
“I’ll send you the compilation I have right now and then anything else I find before eight this evening. Are you sure about meeting this woman?” Laura looks back up at me worriedly.
I let out a hearty laugh. “I’m really not that worried, Laura,” I reassure. “I’ll be armed, John will be in shouting distance, and from what you have been able to pick up so far, our hacker is a loner, or has been since Spider’s Web went down.”
Laura nods and lets out a soft sigh. “I just don’t entirely trust these anarchistic types. You never really know what a hacker is going to do. Or why.”
I sit back in my desk chair and check my computer for her forwarded files, opening them one by one.
Robin Locke, age 24, Americanized British citizen. Born in Washington, D.C. on March 8, 1994 to a British diplomat and his wife. Parents died in a car accident when she was twelve. Custody was granted to Wentworth Locke, her paternal uncle, and all property was transferred into his name.
“So why wasn’t she brought back to Britain? Or did her uncle come here?”
“Briefly,” Laura replies, and there’s such a strangely grim tone to her voice that I immediately start reading again. She’s filled in the notes with more information as she collects it. There’s a lot more detail now.
Wentworth Locke sold all US properties held by the family, liquidated all assets and took a private plane back to London three months after his brother’s death. It was presumed that Robin went with him. But Robin’s paperwork for British repatriation was never submitted, she was never admitted to school, and she has no medical records in Britain.
My eyes widen. This part is new, and it makes our little anarchist’s rage make sudden, terrible sense. “Am I reading here that the man left her behind on the streets?”
“There’s little if any evidence that she spent any time in London. That winter, she was admitted to D.C.’s public hospital with severe pneumonia, malnutrition, and exposure.” Laura winces as she sees my face.
“He robbed her. He robbed her and dumped her.” I blink slowly, staring at the lines of text in front of me. Riches to rags...a talented young girl from a wealthy family, dumped and pretty much left to die. No wonder she has a vendetta against the rich.
And that has me wondering about her pledge to save thousands of lives with her stolen money. She likes movies, apparently. A Fistful of Dollars, Robin Hood. Of course, the second one would stick with her, given the name her parents gave her.
And of course, after what she’s been through, that story’s morals would have stuck, too.
“Every last one of the donations we traced went to a family or individual facing homelessness or destitution, right?” I ask thoughtfully.
“That’s right. If she disposed of the rest the same way, she’s basically practicing some kind of...guerrilla charity.” Laura sounds baffled, but I just smile, because that’s exactly what it is.
My little movie buff. Steal from the rich, give to the poor.
It’s starting to get hard to stay mad at her. I’m still planning to turn this situation to my advantage, but...perhaps she can be part of that—in a non-antagonistic way.
Of course, if she decides to screw me over further instead, I’ll have to destroy her. But I really hope it doesn’t come to that.
“Any further hospitalizations, applications for benefits, anything?” I keep skimming forward through the text, but I’m not finding much. “There’s a gap here of about ten years.”
Laura looks up from her screen. “We’re suspecting that she erased some of her own history. Maybe a juvenile criminal record, maybe a foster parent she doesn’t want connected to her...I’m really not sure.”
Locke was briefly under investigation as part of an underground Seattle hacking ring known as Spider’s Web. It was disbanded in 2011 after the ringleader was accidentally killed in a police raid.
This part I’ve read through already, but the addendum beneath surprises me and makes me smirk at the same time.
Almost immediately after the raid, the Nudes Exchange scandal struck Seattle PD leading to the discipline of over a dozen officers. That was followed by the release of several suppressed and very incriminating dashcam tapes resulting in four officers being fired, two jailed. This was followed by...
“Wow. So, she was behind the Great SPD Shitstorm of 2011. She must have really loved this Spider guy. Maybe he and his friends took her in off the streets?”
“Maybe so.” Laura taps her lower lip with the tip of her stylus. “If she had the skill to do these sorts of hacks seven years ago, I feel a little better about her slipping past all our security.” She looks at me and then blushes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”
“No, you’re right. The kid’s a rock star when it comes to hacking. But what she doesn’t have is a team, like you, me, and the IT boys. Apparently, she is pretty used to being part of one. I’m wondering if she misses it.” I scratch my chin, scrolling down further. “No current, clear photos of her?”
“There isn’t a single current image of her anywhere online except for what we pulled off those security camera images. And even with enhancements, she was covering her hair and eyes. Only the facial recognition AI was able to get a lock on her, and even then, I had to expand the age parameters before I got a real hit.”
“Alright, have the AI spit out an aged-up image of
those photos of her at twelve. I want some clue of who I’m looking for when I walk into that restaurant. Otherwise, I’m at a real disadvantage.”
I scroll to the bottom. Robin Locke has been slowly building a small fortune in real estate purchases in South Park. All low-income housing, all fixed up to well above industry standards since she bought them, all just barely making enough profit to continue improvements.
I check the files on the buildings owned by Greenhood Properties, her sole proprietorship. Look at these. LEED certifications, solar and wind installations, building battery banks, emergency generators, insulation ratings so high you could be cozy in a Boston winter. Five-year leases with no rent raises. She isn’t profiting off these tenants, she’s protecting them.
Laura is typing away as I mull over the documents. “Done. Just give it a few moments. I need to ask—what are you planning to do once you’ve made contact?” She sounds a little concerned.
I look up at her, the last of my anger having ebbed away somewhere between learning about Miss Locke’s past and looking over those building improvements. “She’s made a mess. She needs to work with us to clean it up. If she’s cooperative, performs well, and can sufficiently justify this ‘noble cause’ she robbed me for, I’ll want to take advantage of her strengths. Once the danger of having gangsters banging down my door has passed, I’m giving serious thought to offering her a place on our team.”
She tenses slightly. “IT?” She’s still blaming herself for the breach and is clearly worried about being replaced because of her failure. It’s an industry standard for the IT head to take the fall for a breach. But I don’t operate that way, and we designed those systems together. I’m just as much at fault as her.
“No, actually, charitable giving.” At her surprised look, I flash a grin. “If she’s not just some ass who’s fortifying her conscience with a little financial kindness, if this really is her mission...”
I pause, considering the documents in front of me. My anger at this woman’s invasion of my life has been replaced by fascination and deep curiosity. Perhaps it is because I understand something of the lonely terror and helpless rage that her younger self must have felt—the same that I once felt as a young boy before I got stronger.
Robin’s also right. Those twenty-five thousand Bitcoins were chump change for me. My investments alone will make that money back for me in less than six months.
It all hinges on what happens when we meet. But I’ll give her a chance. One chance.
I chuckle with a bravado I don’t entirely feel. “If she’s so keen on spending my money saving people’s lives and homes, maybe I’ll keep her busy doing just that.”
Laura actually smiles a little; I know she’s struggling to hide her relief. “Well, keeping her busy would keep her out of trouble.”
“Maybe. She does seem to have an awful lot of energy.” And drive.
This is the kind of person who takes out their anger at the world by making it a better place. I don’t particularly appreciate being caught up in that fury, but if Robin Locke ends up adding her considerable talents to my team as a result, I’ll take it.
Another message notice arrives: the AI has finished its work. I open the results.
Well, damn.
Robin Locke is beautiful. Even with the awkward, doll-like smoothness of a simulated likeness, she looks like a sweet-faced, delicate, blonde angel with enormous brown eyes. I look at her, and I want to hide her away from the cold of the world, and then...well.
It’s been a while since I’ve had a woman in my bed. I’ve been too busy. But it doesn’t mean I don’t miss it. Looking at her image, I suddenly remember how much.
“Very good,” I say distractedly. “I’m going to get ready. If you find anything else, make sure I have it before I get on the road.”
“Of course.” Laura bends back over her laptop as I get up to go take a shower.
At eight sharp I’m sitting at one of my restaurants downtown, pre-gaming with a single Manhattan, which I nurse very slowly as I watch the door. The walls are made of structural-strength glass panels, thick enough that the rain striking their outsides is distorted a little. From my seat at the edge of the mezzanine above the bar, I can covertly watch everyone walking or driving by outside.
The door opens one minute after eight, and a slight figure strides in, wrapped in fawn-colored gabardine. She puts her hood down, and I blink slightly as I focus on her face and the glossy mane of shoulder-length hair surrounding it.
The AI had the face nailed. She has the innocent features of a Renaissance angel. She hasn’t gone heavy on the makeup—it’s all tasteful and subtle…except for short fingernails the color of steel—and that hair.
She looks like a class act, too, in all aspects but one. Those tresses. Soft flattering waves, dyed in multiple colors, giving it depth and texture...but...those colors are all shades of green. Emerald strands shimmer in the light as she shakes out her hair and takes off her coat, revealing an aubergine dress and tights beneath. A simple strand of steel-colored pearls crosses her throat. She looks like a punk—an elegant punk, tastefully outrageous.
I wonder if she has any tattoos under that dress. And then I have to fight down a surge of lusty curiosity, because apparently my cock doesn’t give a damn what color her hair is.
I stand after a moment, ignoring any mild awkwardness, and gesture to the hostess. She nods and goes to bring Miss Locke up to me.
“Good evening,” I greet the young hacker once the hostess has left us alone on the mezzanine. “Thank you for joining me, Miss Locke.”
Chapter 7
Robin
He’s even hotter in person. Big, graceful, the faint scent of an expensive, spicy cologne hanging around him. Photos can’t capture the power of those steely eyes or the subtle play of emotions across his beautiful face.
I could watch him all day. That’s dangerous.
He pulls out my chair for me as I try to figure out how to respond. “Thank you,” I finally manage as I sit down. “Not like you gave me much choice.”
“I apologize for that. But even though you may have included me in your little… venture…by mistake, actions have consequences, and this needs to be put right.” He smiles tightly as he settles into his chair, his eyes locked with mine.
I stare back, resolving not to let him take full control of the conversation. Rich guys always act like they have the right to dominate those around them. It pisses me off.
“I’ll help get Marcone off your tail,” I say quickly in a low voice. “And if you want to know how the money was spent, I’ll show you. But I swear to God, if you go after those people I’m helping—”
He holds up a hand, sounding tired but firm. “I’m not going to go after them. I just want to know what task is so important that you would risk making such dangerous enemies to complete it.”
I pause, sizing him up again. Past all that self-assured, dominant beauty, the man across the table from me doesn’t actually seem angry. Not unhappy at all, actually. Instead, he seems very curious.
I hesitate on the edge of opening up a little, skittish as a stray cat with this stranger who has every reason to want to ruin my life. “So, you didn’t bring the police. I’m presuming you didn’t bring recording equipment, since that fan up there puts out enough white noise to ruin any attempt.”
“That’s deliberate,” he replies smoothly. “I’m not here to call the police on you, lead you into a trap, or gather incriminating evidence. I want exactly what I asked for. The truth.”
He’s being a gentleman about this, way more than I probably deserve at this point, especially from his point of view. I lay my briefcase on the table, open it, and pull out a folder of printouts.
“Last night alone your money saved these families from everything from foreclosure to death. If you want me to apologize for that, I’m not going to. But if you want me to apologize for mistaking you for someone you’re not, and for potentially getting you in trouble with those
…other guys, I’ll kiss your fucking boot.”
His eyebrows climb toward his hairline. But then he just smiles lopsidedly and rumbles, “That won’t be necessary. But given your vehement free-spiritedness, I’ll take the apology with the gravity you intended.”
“Good. If I didn’t feel like crap about catching you up in this, we wouldn’t be talking.” I slide the folders over to him. I’ve redacted all contact information and social security numbers—he could probably still find them, but it won’t be by my hand.
“The whole idea is to make those who don’t give a damn pay their share anyway and save people who don’t have a chance otherwise. But you’re already paying yours. I should have caught that.”
I can’t stand sloppy work. I know that the mess with the apartment next door knocked my emotions off the rails and is half to blame for my rash decision, but it’s more than that. I was just looking for rich guys who ticked enough boxes on my “evil” list to justify stealing from. Hell, I vetted my recipients more closely than I did my “donors.”
“You’re blushing,” he comments without looking up from the profiles he’s slowly paging through. There is the tiniest note of teasing in his voice.
“I…uh…ah…” Shit! How does he do that, without even really trying?
I’m blushing even harder now, and I can’t stop. I stare down at the tabletop, my face burning. “Look, I’m just bothered that this happened. Let’s not make a big deal over some dilated capillaries.”
“Oh, I’m not, but apparently you are.” His lips curve in a faint, lopsided smile before he goes back to reading. “Why not pick targets halfway across the world, or give to people well away from where you are, to keep anyone from connecting you to this location?”
It’s a fair question. I can’t tell him how little I actually care about my own outcome in this, as long as I finish the job, so instead I simply say, “This is my community. And their needs are more important than my safety.”
“And so, apparently, is my safety,” he murmurs, sounding even more intrigued. “You’re poised to die for your ideals, aren’t you? Rather than risk an innocent man getting killed?”
Hacked For Love & The Dom's Songbird: A Billionaire Romance Collection Page 4