Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(37)

“About one in seven hundred trillion.”

It’s Connor, from the doorway, holding a flashlight in his hand. The yellow beam sweeps across the room, landing on O’Doul’s scowling face. He adds, “The guards at the security desk downstairs confirmed the power outage isn’t anywhere else on the local grid or the rest of the studio campus. It’s only in this building. And it’s not the circuit breakers either.”

Someone says, “I’m sure the backup generators will come on any second—”

“Those will be disabled too,” I say. “He’s hacked into the servers of the local power station, along with the studio servers. Consider the power out in this building for good.” Smiling broadly, I add, “Except for over here, of course,” and make spokesmodel hands at my computers.

I can tell O’Doul is trying to decide if he should arrest me on the spot and ask questions later, so I throw him a bone.

“How about this? While I get busy winning my hundred bucks from Rodriguez—”

“I never said we were betting a hundred bucks!” protests Rodriguez.

“Two hundred bucks from Rodriguez, why don’t you get Professor Alfredo Durand in the Computer Science department at MIT on the horn and ask him about the Bank of America incident in 2007. He and other professors at the school can confirm the existence of S?ren Killgaard, even if all the records of his attendance have been erased.”

I look at my watch. It’s glow-in-the-dark, and therefore easy to read. “It’s after three a.m. in Massachusetts, but I’m sure Professor Durand won’t mind assisting the FBI, no matter the time. He’s a good sport like that.”

O’Doul cocks his head, his sharp eyes studying me. He says to one of the agents standing nearby, “Special Agent Chan.”

A young Asian man with glasses and unruly black hair, says, “I’m on it, sir,” takes a cell phone from his shirt pocket, and walks several feet away to make a call.

I point to my computer. “May I?”

O’Doul growls, “You’ve got five minutes, Miss West, and not a second longer. Don’t make me regret this.” He throws a shady look at Rodriguez, who I can tell he doesn’t particularly like.

I sit down in front of the computers. Everyone gathers around me, including Connor, who asks, “What are you doing?”

His voice is suspicious, but even more than that, it’s worried. I don’t look at him when I answer. “Oh, just this little thing called a bitch slap. It’ll only take a sec.”

Behind me, there are snickers. Ignoring them, I log onto my computer and begin.

For a full minute, there’s silence. The only sound is my fingers rapidly tapping the keyboard. Over my shoulders, everyone raptly stares.

At two minutes, a hushed voice says, “There’s a vulnerability in the web server.”

Still typing, I chuckle. “There always is.”

After another interval of silence: “Holy shit. Is that the remote login for the…crime database?”

“Yep,” I say cheerfully.

The agents behind me are getting restless, starting to mutter to each other.

“There’s no way she can get into the mainframe. They fixed all the holes after the Trilogy software disaster.”

“She’d need an administrator password—”

“Forget about passwords, she’s already at the Unix shell!”

I say, “Oh look, the mainframe directory listing. Tsk. Your system architect should be tried for treason.”

Shocked silence. After typing for another few moments, I ask no one in particular, “Should we add Darth Vader to the Most Wanted list?”

Nobody answers.

Finally, Connor says, “Four minutes, twenty-six seconds.”

“Hold on, I’m looking for the president’s cell phone number. Let’s text him a dick pic—”

O’Doul slaps the laptop closed, cutting the connection.

I swivel slowly around in my chair, look at the stunned faces staring down at me, and smile. “Any questions, ladies?”

Connor’s flashlight provides enough light that I can see how pale Rodriguez’s face is. He says, “That was pure luck.”

Connor is the one who responds, in a voice like silk. “No. That was pure talent.”

Our eyes meet. He gives a slight, annoyed shake of his head, chastising me for showing off, but I see the admiration in his eyes.

O’Doul snaps, “Posell, coordinate with studio security to find us another space to set up. Rodriguez, get all this shit ready to be transported. And you,” he says, jabbing a finger in the air in my direction, “come with me.”

He spins on his heel and heads for the door.

I stand and follow, Connor right behind me. Over my shoulder, I call, “When I get back, you better have my money, Rodriguez!”

I’m gratified to hear a low, aggravated, “Fuck.”





Fifteen





Connor




The elevators are out, so we take the stairs to the ground floor. The yellow beam of my flashlight leads the way. Harry doesn’t ask why I’m following along, but he doesn’t tell me not to, which is good because I don’t want to have to knock him on his ass.