Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  I blink, nonplussed. “Honestly, Tabby. The things you find arousing.”

  “One thing’s for sure. Whomever Parker Maxwell employed to secure his shit is good. Like, National Security Agency good. Like, World of Warcraft level 100 good. Like, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine good—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, I’ve got it, he’s good! But that’s bad for us, right?”

  She tilts her head, smiling like a cat that’s just gorged itself on a nice fat mouse. “I’ve already mounted a brute-force attack with administrator obfuscation and a custom fifty-GPU cluster to get the encryption key.”

  I stare at her. “Any time you’d like to revert back to English, it would be appreciated. The natives here don’t speak computer geek.”

  “Forget it. The bottom line is, I’ll have access soon. And then we’ll see what dirty little secrets Mr. Maxwell is hiding in cyberspace. They might be even better than what he’s hiding in his safe.”

  For the first time since Parker asked me about Texas last night, the knots in my stomach begin to unfurl. Tabby has relieved some of my concerns about the Drudge Report story and given me renewed hope about finding something compromising in Parker’s background that I can use to screw him over. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and rest my head on the back of the chair.

  After several moments, Tabby’s hesitant voice breaks the silence. “So…how was Laredo, anyway?”

  I know what she’s really asking: how was Eva?

  Without opening my eyes, I admit, “About as fun as having all my skin peeled off with a potato peeler and then being thrown into a saltwater bath.”

  Another span of silence follows. This time when Tabby speaks, her voice is deadly serious. “You know the real reason I do this job isn’t for the money, Victoria. You know that, right?”

  I tilt up my head and look at her. Today her outfit of choice is a pair of black men’s suspenders attached to black skinny jeans, a tiny white T-shirt with the Batman logo in electric blue stretched taut across her boobs so it’s pulled all out of proportion, and Chucks with no laces that, judging by the look of them, she’s owned since junior high school. The jewel in her belly-button ring matches the blue of the Batman logo, and so does her nail polish.

  I ask, “Are you about to confess that you’re in love with me?”

  She doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “I’ve had a major girl crush on you since before we even met, superstar, but that’s not the reason either.”

  My brows lift. This is getting interesting.

  She says, “I work for you because I believe in what you’re doing.”

  “Which is?”

  “Empowering the powerless.”

  She says it with deep respect and reverence, as if it’s Gandhi or Nelson Mandela she’s speaking about. I’m a little taken aback by the quiet passion in her voice. I’ve never heard her talk like this before.

  I joke, “Maybe we should make that the company slogan.”

  She retorts, “Kid all you want, but it’s true. You’re the only one out there telling women that the source of our own power is within ourselves. That we don’t have to rely on anyone else for our happiness. That what’s in our best interest isn’t having babies and playing house, but stretching ourselves and finding our true potential, because that’s also in the best interest of the rest of humanity. We had the sexual revolution and the big feminist movement in the sixties and seventies, made all kinds of strides forward for women’s equality and rights, and almost fifty years later, we’re still only making seventy-seven cents on the dollar compared with what a man makes. And we’re supposed to be content with that. Well, I’m not.”

  “Believe me, sweetheart, you’re making a hell of a lot more than any other man in your position.”

  She says vehemently, “Yes, I am. Because I have a badass boss who cares only about the quality of the job, not what’s between my legs. And if every other employer in this country were like you, we’d have true equality. Women wouldn’t be afraid to leave their shitty marriages, because they’d be able to support themselves and their children alone. Women wouldn’t have to put up with all the crap they put up with from men, and compete against one another, and freak out about getting older, and deform themselves with Botox and fake tits and lip injections, because men have more money, and therefore more power, and ultimately more worth than women do. You’re the only loud, proud, unapologetic voice left telling women to stop being so fucking passive and take control of their lives. And that’s why I work for you. Because you’re not afraid of anything, you don’t take shit from anyone, and you’ve got a pair of balls on you bigger than any man’s.”

  When I sit there gaping at her in silence, she smiles. “And also because I’m a little bit in love with you.”

  To my deep surprise, I’m moved by Tabby’s words. Seeing the look on my face, she scoffs, “If you cry right now you’ll totally nullify everything I just said, you big wuss.”

  I sniff. “I can still be a badass and get a little misty-eyed, can’t I?”

  She grimaces and rises from the chair. “No. Don’t be such a girl. God, I hope we crush Parker Maxwell soon, because your hormones are starting to get out of control.”

  Don’t I know it.

  Rule #6: Men make bitches messy.

  Tabby stands behind me and starts to massage my shoulders, something she occasionally does when I’m really grouchy. For such a wisp of a thing, she’s got hands like a rugby player. I groan in pleasure as she works the knot in my left shoulder that never completely goes away.

  “All right,” I sigh, ready to start kicking butt and taking names. “What’s on deck for today?”

  While Tabby recites a list of meetings, phone calls, and tasks to be completed, I allow myself one fleeting, beautiful memory of the way Parker looked at me when he put his hand over my heart last night, the way his eyes were so soft and so thrillingly wild.

  “Hearts can’t lie,” he said.

  Maybe not.

  But that’s only because they’re so stupid.

  27

  Parker

  The call comes as I’m headed to Xengu at five o’clock. I hit the answer button on the steering wheel and say hello.

  Without bothering with any preliminaries, Connor says abruptly, “I need you to come to the shop to take a look at something. Soon as you can.”

  I steer the Porsche through the heavy afternoon traffic but am no longer paying attention to the road. “Why? What’s up?”

  He pauses. “Somethin’ you need to see. And Parker?”

  “Yes?”

  “Shut off your phone as soon as we hang up. Don’t forget.”

  Connor disconnects the call.

  I make a hard right turn, cutting off a taxi in the process and earning me a shouted curse from a guy stepping off the curb whom I nearly run over, but all I care about is getting over to Connor’s to see what he’s found out.

  From the sound of it, it’s not good.

  Connor’s “shop” is located in a converted warehouse in the Meatpacking District, a block from the Hudson River. There are no signs that advertise the name of his business, and it’s not listed in any directory, online or otherwise. Metrix is off the grid, in all the ways that count. All its clients are referred by word of mouth and accepted only after ironclad contracts have been signed, exhaustive background checks have been conducted, and substantial amounts of money have changed hands.

  There’s nothing Metrix can’t secure, but it’ll cost you.

  I pull up to the solid steel entry gate, roll down my window, look up at the small black bubble mounted high on the barbed-wire-topped brick wall that flanks the gate, and wait. I know that behind the black bubble is a scanner reading both my license plate and the contours of my face, and behind the scanner is a computer analyzing the results, and at the computer is a man who can kill me with a single blow to my windpipe if he’s in the mood.

  I hate to think what would happen if I failed the scan, because I suspect th
e two panels inset in the brick wall on either side of the driveway would burst open to reveal a pair of computer-operated machine guns.

  In seconds, the gate slowly swings open. I drive through.

  The warehouse itself is your typical three-story, institutional-looking brick affair built at the turn of the previous century. You don’t notice until you’re walking up to the door at the front that all the windows are blacked out, and there appears to be only one entrance. As soon as I approach the door—hammered steel, ten feet tall and half as wide—it slides open on silent tracks.

  There stands Connor, arms crossed over his broad chest, legs braced apart, wearing head-to-toe black, a Glock semiauto handgun strapped to his waist, and an expression that would do a serial killer proud.

  I ask warily, “Why do you look like you’re about to invade a small country?”

  In answer, he jerks his head and turns, expecting me to follow.

  If the outside of Metrix looks average and unassuming, the interior is anything but. It’s like walking into a bank vault…if the bank were on a spaceship manned by anal-retentive aliens with genius IQs and itchy trigger fingers.

  The ceilings are high, the lights are low, and the temperature’s cool enough to make me shiver through my coat. The polished concrete floor gives off a subtle, expensive sheen. Black computer towers extend the length of the north wall in blinking, softly humming rows. The video and television screens that glow from dozens of cubicles on the east wall are stared at by hard-jawed men at keyboards wearing headphones. Locked, backlit cases of weaponry displayed in military precision along the south wall look eerily menacing. They’re also new. Last time I visited Metrix, they were absent.

  “What’s with the hardware?” I ask Connor’s back as we walk toward his office.

  He replies over his shoulder, “Gotten into extractions recently. Good money in it.”

  Extractions? I decide not to ask.

  Then we’re in Connor’s office. The first thing he does when the door is closed is turn to me and hold out his hand.

  “Phone.”

  I stare at him. “Okay, now you’re starting to scare me.”

  He insists, “Gimme your damn phone, brother.”

  Knowing resistance is futile, I withdraw my phone from my coat pocket and hand it over. Connor inspects it and then nods, satisfied. “You turned it off. Good.”

  “Why is that good?”

  He looks at me. “GPS is disabled when the phone’s off. You can’t be tracked.”

  That doesn’t make me feel any better. “Now would be a great time to tell me what the hell is going on.”

  “What’s goin’ on,” he says, moving to his desk, a slab of black granite at least six feet wide, “is the fuckin’ sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, my friend.”

  He swivels his computer monitor so it faces me. It’s dark, except for an odd animated character cheerfully waving as it slowly bounces from top to bottom, side to side. It’s whiskered, white, and cartoonish, and vaguely resembles a cat.

  A thought bubble over the cat’s head reads, “Nice try, idiot!”

  “Interesting screensaver. What is it?”

  He says sarcastically, “Oh, that? Yeah, that’s only the emblem of one of the most notorious hackers out there.”

  I frown. Hacker? “So what’s it doing on your computer?”

  “Aggravating the fuck outta me, is what it’s doing!”

  I raise my brows, lifting my gaze to his. If there’s one thing Connor Hughes is known for, it’s his nerves of steel. If something’s aggravating him, it must be bad.

  Really bad.

  I say drily, “I can see that. Are you going to fill me in as to why?”

  Connor folds his arms across his chest and glares at the computer as if he’d like to whip out a pair of six-shooters and start blasting. “This asshole,” he snaps, jabbing his finger toward the screen, “has been a thorn in my side for years. He’s arrogant, subversive, smart as fuck and, worst of fuckin’ all, untraceable. Goes by the code name Polaroid because of his supposed photographic memory.” He mutters, “Prick.”

  I’m starting to have a terrible feeling about this. “And Victoria Price is somehow related to this Mr. Polaroid?”

  He grunts. “Not that I could easily prove it. The son of a bitch has developed mathematical obfuscation software that not only cloaks his identity but also erases all traces of the source code and location once the payload has been delivered, like those self-destruct messages in the Mission Impossible movies. The only thing he ever leaves behind is that”—Connor jerks his chin in disgust at the cartoon cat on the screen—“because he wants you to know he’s the one who just bent you over and fucked you.”

  “I don’t get it—if his code name is Polaroid, why a white cat and not a camera?”

  Connor barks, “Because he’s a dick, that’s why!”

  Then it hits me.

  White: the only color I’ve ever seen Victoria wear is white. Her clothing, shoes, handbags…all white. Even all the furnishings in her apartment are white. It’s her signature color.

  Cat: I remember what I told Marie-Thérèse said about Victoria: “She’s all bark and no bite. A pussycat.”

  To which Marie-Thérèse responded: “Cats have long claws and sharp teeth, and kill billions of small mammals a year. They’re basically cute serial killers.”

  Photographic memory: Victoria is known for the rousing, intelligent speeches given at her sold-out seminars…all made without the assistance of a teleprompter. Every word is inside her head.

  I sink slowly into the chair in front of Connor’s desk. He stares at me, the questioning look on his face no doubt caused by what must be the expression of utter shock on my own face. He prompts, “What?”

  “How do you know Polaroid is a man?”

  Connor answers without hesitation and with total conviction. “Of course he’s a man. Chicks don’t hack, and if they do, they’re never this good. Don’t have the brains for it.”

  I have a feeling Connor’s going to eat those words one day.

  Blowing out a hard breath, I rake a hand through my hair. “I think you should start at the beginning, when you left me this morning. Walk me through what happened. And then tell me what it all means.”

  Connor sets my phone on the desk and lowers his bulk to the large leather captain’s chair. He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest, and begins.

  “Started on your girlfriend with the usual background check. No felony or misdemeanor charges or convictions, clean DMV report, credit that would make Warren Buffett green with envy. No liens, civil judgments, or bankruptcies, pays her taxes on time, has more cash in one of her many checking accounts than I make in a year. And you were right, she has more money than you.” He pauses. “Wanna know how much more?”

  I say emphatically, “Absolutely not.”

  Connor chuckles. “Good. ’Cause it’d be a serious blow to your manhood, brother.”

  I clench my teeth together so hard, I’m surprised they don’t crack. “Moving on.”

  “Right. Moving on. Other than a single prescription required for a minor heart condition, she’s drug-free. No history of mental instability, no major surgeries, gets annual checkups with her gynecol—”

  “Enough.” I hold up a hand to stop him. “Don’t tell me about her gynecologist. I feel bad enough prying this much as it is.”

  Connor drawls, “—and no history of STDs. Gets tested regularly. Latest one was last month, and it was clear.” He smirks. “So you’re cleared to go ungloved.”

  I stare at him so long and hard, he finally relents, putting his hands in the air in surrender. “Moving on.”

  “Exactly,” I growl. I don’t care how big he is and how long we’ve been friends. If he makes a rude comment about Victoria’s reputation or sex drive, I’ll leap across his desk and put him in a chokehold until he apologizes.

  I’ll probably get my ass kicked in the process, but I don’t care.
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  “Education checks out, Social Security number checks out, everything right down to her birth certificate is legit. Didn’t see any obvious past connection between you two, though I’ll have to search other channels to confirm that. Cross-reference travel dates, business and social memberships, whatnot. Since private communications are always the best place to start to dig real dirt, I tried getting into her email.”

  He glances at the computer screen with a glower. “Which is when I ran into the problem.”

  I’m relieved that Victoria doesn’t have any red flags in her past, and also relieved there doesn’t seem to be, at first glance, a connection between us. Also, she doesn’t have money problems, which means there are only two reasons she would’ve been trying to get into my safe.

  One: she was simply snooping. She knows my reputation as well as I know hers. Maybe she was just curious. Maybe she did take a wrong turn on the way out and decided a quick look around my office couldn’t hurt.

  Two: she’s digging for dirt on me too. But why?

  And we’re back to square one.

  “So this Polaroid character.” I gesture at the bouncing cat on the screen. “Is he security for hire, like you?”

  Connor looks insulted. “He’s not security, brother. He’s a fuckin’ anarchist! Likes to play games, blow shit up, cause problems! He hacked into Citibank’s computers about six years ago just to prove he could, left a message that said, ‘Your security is shit.’ And guess who was Citibank’s security firm at the time?”

  My brows shoot up.

  “That’s right,” says Connor. “Yours fuckin’ truly.”

  I’m flabbergasted. Connor’s reputation in the security industry is unrivaled. If someone got past him, it means that someone is scary smart.

  And possibly a little unhinged. You don’t want a man like Connor Hughes as an enemy.

  I say, “I didn’t hear anything about that breach.”

  “That’s because no money was stolen. Though he had access to hundreds of millions of dollars in credit card and bank accounts, Polaroid didn’t take anything. He didn’t steal any customer data at all. He just hacked in for the fuck of it and cost me one of my biggest clients. But I’m not the only one. Every major security company has had to deal with this fuckwit at one time or another. He goes after all the big boys. Military, business, religion, you name it. Once took down the Church of Scientology’s computers for a full month.” He adds in a disgruntled caveat, “That one wasn’t so bad.”