Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(78)

Tabby grimly nods. “Undetectable by your software because there’s no mathematical pattern. A computer sees it as completely random. It’s technically not even a program. You have to scour the code manually line by line to find it. You have to look past all the noise and focus through the code to see the picture that emerges.”

“Did he know you’d find this?” Chan asks.

“He knows everything,” Tabby replies without a hint of irony.

That murdery feeling in my gut makes a reappearance. Ryan’s hand clamps down on my shoulder. I close my eyes, breathe through my nose, and silently count to ten.

“Does this mean you can see his real location?” asks Ryan.

Something about Ryan’s question makes her fall still. She stares in silence at the screen for a moment before saying, “No. Not yet. I need more time to go through the code.”

Her tone is odd. Off, somehow. I want to ask her about it, but Chan interrupts.

“A group from Washington is due to arrive any minute.”

Right. Nine dead federal agents gets you a shit storm of attention from Washington.

I say, “They’ll relieve you of command, debrief the group, including us, and install another team to finish the op.”

Agitated, Chan runs a hand through his hair and nods. “Working in conjunction with Homeland Security and the DOJ. And now that we know Killgaard’s cybercrimes are international, the CIA and the NSA are involved.”

Tabby repeats faintly, “The National Security Administration. Perfect.” She laughs softly. It sends chills down my spine.

“There’s nothing for you to worry about, Tabby. Your involvement in this job was at the specific request of Miranda Lawson. Everything you’ve done has been sanctioned by her and a federal agent. They can’t blame anything on you.”

She looks at me. In her eyes, I see that strange farewell again, the same expression she wore when she told me I was a good man, as if it would be the last time she’d ever see me alive.

She turns her faraway eyes to Chan. “Agent Chan, please. Let me try to find something before they get here. Just give me a few more minutes to look through the code.”

“Tabby—”

She cuts me off. “Connor, I need to concentrate. Five minutes, okay? That’s all I need, and then we can talk.”

I look at Chan. He shrugs his shoulders, agreeing. I look at Ryan, at the remaining agents, at Miranda near the windows, her back still turned to us all. “Fine,” I say, my voice low. “Five minutes. Do what you can to find this bastard, and then let it go and let the suits handle it.”

Her eyes glimmer. She whispers, “I will.”

She waits until the three of us have stepped away and then turns her attention to the computer screen in front of her. She bends her head over the keyboard and goes to work.

Five minutes later, as Ryan and I are talking quietly in a corner, the door to the room bursts open. Guys in matching beige trench coats and murderous scowls swarm inside.

Feds. Top brass, by the looks of ’em.

And supremely pissed off.

One of them, a tall, thin man with iron-gray hair and a voice like a bullhorn, holds up a cell phone and thunders, “The director of the NSA would like to know who in this room just hacked their f*cking mainframe!”

Gleaming under the lights as they slip out from beneath trench coats, nickel-plated shotguns appear.

Time stops. All the air is sucked out of the room. I look over at Tabby, but she’s not looking back at me. She’s calmly looking at the man with the iron-gray hair, and she’s standing. She’s raising her hand. She’s opening her mouth to speak.

“I’m your huckleberry.”

It happens fast.

Handcuffs flash. Men shout. Trench coats flare around running legs.

I leap forward with a roar, adrenaline searing my veins, but they’ve slammed Tabby down onto the desk and twisted her arms behind her back before I can reach her. I shove through the crowd—

And get the business end of a Glock .40 caliber handgun jammed under my jaw.

“Hello there, Mr. Hughes,” says the man with the iron-gray hair. His eyes, I note, are exactly the same color. “Now say good night.”

The butt of a shotgun cracks hard against the back of my skull. Stars explode in my vision, flashing pinpricks of pain. The room slips sickeningly sideways.

The last thing I see is Tabby, handcuffed, being dragged away by a knot of armed men.

Why is she smiling?

Everything goes black.





Twenty-Eight





Tabby




After a short flight on a C-130 military plane, I’m seated at a table in a small, cold room in a government complex in the middle of who knows where. I had a black hood over my head when they brought me in, but they took it off, and now I can observe my surroundings.

Cement floor. Cinderblock walls. Cement ceiling inlaid with a row of florescent lights. The black plastic eye of a closed-circuit camera high on the wall in one corner.

A glass of water sits on the table to my left. Beside it is a sleeve of Oreos, which I find amusing. Apparently, the government wants you to have a tasty snack before they start with the waterboarding.

At least they removed the handcuffs.

The door opens. A man walks in. Caucasian. Thirtyish. Built. He’s tall with shaggy reddish-blonde hair, handsome with the exception of acne scars pitting his cheeks. His suit is black, as is his skinny tie. I’ve never seen eyes that color, pale amber, like honey. He looks like a friendly ginger tabby cat, which I know is intentionally misleading.