He brought the search back up. The screen suddenly exploded with row after row of strings of information. At a glance he knew he'd been caught, and those strings of code meant just one thing—the server on the other end was sending corrupt codes back to his server.
“Bloody hell!”
Whoever was doing this was no amateur. It was too sophisticated.
“Two can play this game.” He flexed his fingers and attacked the keyboard. He entered a string of codes, blocking the incoming information. Then went on the attack.
His fingers flew over the keyboard, blocking incoming code, then launching his own code. It was like a game of war, as another code came in, he fired back, sending a string of code that replicated itself over and over—strike, then counterstrike, corrupting that rogue server as it went along.
“Checkmate, you slimy bugger.” He watched with grim satisfaction as link after link in that rogue server flashed an error message, then he headed for the exit, covering his tracks along the way. But whoever was behind the attempted hack into his server wouldn't make the same mistake twice. They would try again.
When he was out, he sat back.
Christ! he thought. Who was doing this? And what were they after?
Cate's accident, the break-in at the Tavern, then the incident in London. Someone was playing for keeps and they were willing to kill to get what they wanted. But what?
He looked up, only just aware that Luna stood in the doorway of the office.
“What?” he demanded.
“A customer. He wants to know if you could help him.”
He frowned. “What customer?”
“At the front. He's new, haven't seen him before. He was asking about you.”
He looked past her, to the front of the café. He knew all the local gamers and computer geeks. At one time or another they found their way into his shop. He didn't know this one, thoughhe looked the part—jeans, sweatshirt, some brand-name sport shoe, long hair. Still...
“Tell him we're closed.”
She stared at him. “It's only half past, and there's the group coming in this evening.”
He glanced past her to the new customer. It was probably nothing to worry about.
He was always saying they needed new customers, and the coincidence of someone new walking into the café right in the middle of his game of sabotage was probably just that—a coincidence. Still...
“I've been thinking, luv. We need a little vacay.”
She looked at him as if he'd taken a hard right turn away from reality.
“A vacation? In the middle of winter?”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
MONT ST. MICHEL, COAST OF FRANCE
The last tour of the day had arrived, tourists and day travelers boarding shuttles at the car park for the ride over the causeway. A display screen at the information center announced that the last tour departed at 5:00 p.m. for the island.
They boarded the shuttle and found seats near the front, the driver welcoming everyone board in both French and English as the door closed.
“Good afternoon and welcome to Mont St. Michel.”
The driver, a woman, was both tour guide and historian, reciting information Kris remembered from an earlier visit years before.
“The abbey has been a holy site since the year seven hundred and eight,” their driver began.
