“I can,” I answer, thankful that I’ve already done the legwork. “But I want something in return.”
His eyes narrow. “Name it.”
“More freedom. No more tracking my every move. And I want access to my own equipment.”
Landon studies me for a long moment. “Done,” he finally says. “But you work from here, where I can keep you safe.”
It’s not perfect, but it’s a start—a small crack in his armor. For the first time since the Hunt began, it feels as if a fragile bridge is forming between us.
Landon disappears from the office and returns minutes later carrying a sleek black laptop. He sets it on the desk beside my current workstation with surprising care.
“This has direct access to our closed server network,” he explains. “The security protocols I designed myself, but something’s not right.”
I open the laptop, which boots instantly to a login screen. “What’s the username and password?”
“Already set up for you. Fingerprint access.” He takes my hand, guiding my index finger to the small scanner beside the trackpad.
“What exactly am I looking for?” I ask as the system recognizes my print and loads a complex dashboard of network statistics.
Landon’s expression darkens. “Information about our supply chain is leaking. Orlov knew about a shipment route that only five people had access to. Our security team has been running diagnostics for three days and found nothing.”
I scan the network architecture displayed on screen. It’s impressive—multiple layers of encryption, firewalls that would make government agencies jealous.
“How quickly do you need this?”
“Yesterday,” he says flatly. “Orlov’s getting bolder. If we don’t plug the leak, people die.”
The severity in his tone tells me this isn’t hyperbole. For all his psychological games with me, Landon’s business is deadly serious.
I crack my knuckles and dive in, fingers flying across the keyboard. First, I need to understand the system’s structure. I pull up logs, examining authentication protocols, access points, and data pathways.
Twenty minutes pass in silence. Landon remains in the room, watching me work. Unlike his usual patronizing stare, he’s watching me in a way that resembles respect.
“Here,” I say, pointing to an anomaly in the logs. “See this traffic pattern? It’s subtle, but there’s a data packet leaving your network every eight hours through this proxy. It’s disguised as system maintenance, but the timing is too perfect.”
Landon leans over my shoulder. “Can you trace it?”
I nod, already typing. “I’ll need a couple of hours, but I can find where it’s going. And more importantly—who set it up.”
I work for several hours straight, completely absorbed in the code. I track the data leak to its source, finding an elegant but detectable backdoor installed in their system.
“Here,” I point to the screen, highlighting the suspicious code. “Someone on your security team embedded this. Based on the signature, it was added six weeks ago. It’s sending regular data packets to this offshore server.”
“You’re fucking brilliant,” he says. The way he speaks is different from his usual tone—almost proud. “You found in hours what our team couldn’t find in days.”
I shrug, uncomfortable with his praise despite the small flutter of pride I feel.
“You should work for us full-time,” Landon continues. “The Blackwood Group could use someone with your skills. We’d triple whatever you’re making now.”
I stop typing and swivel my chair to face him. His assumption that I’d just fall in line with his plans irritates me.
“I’m happy with my job,” I state. “And I don’t want any more ties to you or the Blackwood family than I already have.”
His expression hardens, the moment of professional respect vanishing. The temperature in the room plummets several degrees.
“Is that so?” Landon’s voice is quiet now. “You’re already tied to me for the next eleven months and ten days. The contract is binding.”
“The contract covers my body, not my career,” I snap back. “My professional life is still mine.”
