Code(70)

Hi and Shelton had bailed, claiming family obligations. I’d had to endure thirty minutes of instructions before Shelton was satisfied I could handle Spotter.

“Sneaking around will be trickier,” I said. “Today’s a workday.”

“We’ll just blend in with the staff,” Ben answered. “Plus, I doubt anyone uses that upstairs terminal.”

“True, but we have to avoid Hudson this time. I don’t need Kit finding out.”

“You could practice catwalk turns in the courtyard.” Ben’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Or waltz your way upstairs.”


“Are you done?” It was his third crack since we’d left the Morris dock.

He didn’t reply, but suddenly I’d had enough.

“Ben, stop the boat.”

He looked at me funny. “We’re in the middle of the ocean, Victoria.”

“Stop the damn boat!”

Ben rolled eyes, but eased off the throttle. Sewee decelerated until we just bobbed along with the current.

“Did you want to jump in?” Ben asked dryly. “Water’s pretty cold in October.”

“I want to know why you’ve been such a jerk lately.”

My anger caught him off guard. “I have not.”

“Ben, enough! We never used to fight. But now it’s like a storm cloud follows you twenty-four/seven.” My voice softened. “What is it? Tell me.”

I saw a flicker of something in his brown-black eyes. For a moment he seemed almost . . . stricken. Panicked, even. Then he looked away.

Seconds ticked by. Ben seemed about to speak. Instead, his features hardened.

“I hate that douchebag Jason, all right?” With a jerk of his wrist, Ben restarted the engine. “He’s a classic silver-spoon asshat, yet you can’t get enough of him. It’s pathetic.”

Sudden flashback. Ben’s drunken rant after the pool party. I knew that lately his problem with Jason had reached a boiling point.

But for some reason, I was certain Ben had been about to say something else. I didn’t know what, exactly, but I felt it in my bones.

One last effort.

“Jason’s my friend,” I said quietly, “but he’s not a Viral. He’s not part of my pack. He’ll never mean as much to me as you do.”

Ben’s eyes snapped to meet mine. He stared intently. I felt my cheeks burn.

“And Hi and Shelton, of course,” I added quickly.

“Of course.” Ben goosed the throttle and we lurched forward.

Whatever opening might’ve existed was gone. The stone mask was back in place.

The trip proceeded in silence, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Uncomfortable ones.

How did I feel about what Ben said that night? His slurred declarations about Jason and me. I’d never answered that question. Like I was hiding the issue from myself.

Am I any less confused than he is?




“I’m in.” I searched for Spotter on the LIRI network. “Shelton said the program was buried in a subfolder.”

“There.” Ben tapped an icon halfway down the list of applications. “Capital S.”

There’d been no more talk of feelings. Thankfully, focusing on our task dispelled the lingering tension. We had a job to do. We needed to work together.

Our entrance had been trouble free. We’d strolled through the gate and over to Building Six. Finding the lobby empty, we’d scurried upstairs. Alone in the stripped-down lab, we’d exchanged an awkward high five.

Best buds, right?

I opened Spotter and clicked “prior searches.” A sparrow with giant binoculars informed us that our query was complete.

“Here we go.” I tapped the link.

A stop sign flashed on-screen. The cartoon sparrow frowned: No Matches.

“Damn!” My disappointment was incalculable.

“Told you.” Ben shook his head. “These programs never work.”

I clicked “More Information.” A text box stated that the sample image was of insufficient quality to find a match.

“My pic was bad?” I slammed a fist on the desktop. “Why didn’t the program say that before running a three-day search!?”

Ben straightened. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” My attention was fixed on hating the developers of Spotter.

“Something rattled, or fell, when you . . . I think you knocked something loose.”

“Whatever.” Sulky. Couldn’t help it.

Muttering four-letter words, I moved to my second task—tracking the permit Marchant had mentioned. There had to be a record somewhere.

Ben was opening and closing desk drawers. Loudly.

“What are you doing?” I snapped, still irked by our failure.

“I swear I heard something. These drawers were empty when I checked three days ago.” Ben paused. “Why not ask your dad about the guns?”

“My interest might be a little hard to explain, don’t you think?”

“True.”

My second query was another dead end. I checked dozens of LIRI folders. Procurement. Supplies. Acquisitions. Inventory. Even a subfolder entitled “Weaponry,” which listed several animal control devices but no snare guns.

I tried to open the security subfolder. Access was denied.