Boiling Point (Crossing the Line #3)(2)

Goddammit, he’d never felt an ounce of possessiveness over another human being in his thirty-one years. But just then, he wanted more than anything to walk up behind Polly, wrap an arm around her hips, and drag her back against his lap. Look those tossers right in the eye as he licked up the side of her smooth neck. Mine, you pathetic drunks. You wouldn’t last a minute up against the brilliance of how she thinks. How she reasons and makes decisions. Piss. Right. Off.

When the tumbler shook in Austin’s hand, he quickly set it down and looked busy going through his cell phone. He put the device to his ear and turned sideways, away from Polly, but at an angle that allowed him to watch her through the bar’s back mirror. He’d taken great pains applying the phony beard and gray wig so she wouldn’t recognize him, but he wouldn’t take any chances. If she made him, there wouldn’t be a hope in hell of him discerning her game.

Anxious. The hacker who had once breached the White House’s technological firewalls was actually anxious. Which made him…jumpy. Fucking hell, he didn’t do jumpy. Rule number one, however, was knowing the lay of the land before running an operation, and he had no clue what Polly’s game was.

A gut feeling told Austin he’d find out tonight.

…

Here, kitty kitty.

Polly Banks ordered a dry white wine and crossed her legs in what probably looked like slow motion to the handful of douche bags behind her. The bartender had already started to pour her drink of choice prior to her placing the order, however, which was troubling. It told her she’d been here one too many nights, and tomorrow called for a venue change. Not good. She was running out of nighttime haunts to locate her mark. After this, she knew of a single nightclub where Charles Reitman was known to frequent when in Chicago. After that, it would be back to the drawing board. Or keyboard, as it were.

Her time in Chicago hadn’t been designated simply to play house with the undercover squad. No, no. Each and every move Polly made was planned down to the tiniest degree and orchestrated with precise, thoughtful keystrokes. There was a debt that needed settling, and she’d come to Chicago to do just that. If her daylight hours were dedicated to aiding the same law enforcement machine that had ruined her fun and sent her to prison? Well. She’d be free of their confines soon enough. Free to navigate cyberspace at will, locating information and selling it the highest bidder.

Just as soon as she located Charles Reitman and got close enough to take back every penny he’d stolen from her fathers.

Yes, her vendetta against the man who’d swindled her fathers out of their life savings was pretty hypocritical. After all, her bread and butter happened to be blackmail. But Polly had a code that dictated whom she stole from and why. It was simple, really. If the f*ckers deserved it, they were open season. Her fathers hadn’t deserved it. They’d barely made it into the black with their clothing line before the financial security had been swept out from under them like a rug. By Charles Reitman. The man who’d posed as an investment banker and vamoosed with six hard-earned figures, sending Polly’s family spiraling into bankruptcy.

Life had been hard after that. They’d lived in motel rooms, rationed food, and been turned down for assistance from people they’d considered friends. She’d watched the parents who loved her suffer, battle to keep her fed and clothed. Keeping her warm and safe when no one else would do the same for them.

And then it had gotten much, much worse.

Polly had grown up and learned how to get even. Now if only the topper to her revenge cake would come into the bar and proposition her for sex, she could move on with her plans of world domination, secure in the knowledge that justice had been served.

Polly accepted the glass of wine from the bartender with a half smile, curling a hand around the back of her neck in a flirtatious gesture. He coughed into his fist, mumbling that the group of gentlemen had bought her a drink. Polly turned and sent them a fluttery-fingered wave. Just one drink? How generous among the eight of you.

Although dressing the part had been necessary, Polly didn’t like being ogled. She placated herself with the fact that she could hack into the bar’s point-of-sale system and have each man’s credit card information by morning.

Polly turned back to the bar and sipped her wine, feeling a kick of adrenaline when the door opened and a slim figure breezed in. His looks were entirely unremarkable, but there was a caginess to him. Slim’s gaze swept the establishment’s interior in a casual glance that felt…practiced. Without looking at the bartender, he reached out and shook the younger man’s hand, calling him by name. The bartender floundered a moment, as if surprised the newcomer knew his name, but recovered by offering to buy him his first drink.

“Beefeater, rocks. Thanks, man,” Slim said, his attention landing on her. Staying there. “And whatever the lady is having.”

That was when Polly recognized him. It wasn’t whom she’d been expecting. Not Charles Reitman, but his face…she explored the recesses of her mind trying to place it. For years, her free time had gone into researching Reitman, following his movements. Not an easy task when you’re tracking a slippery con. A snake in the grass, just like all con men. There. Her photographic memory delivered the DMV record her memory bank had been seeking. This man—Slim—was an associate of Reitman’s. Did that mean she’d been correct and Reitman was in Chicago? Yes. Polly’s heart pumped double time. Finally.