"Maddox."
There's another pause and this time, I feel the skepticism ooze through the line as he says, "The girl?"
"She's good with systems. She'll figure it out."
"Rafe, this isn't a bank transfer. This is federal documentation. If she screws this up?—"
"She won't," I bark, and he knows better than to challenge me.
Feodor exhales, and I can hear the reluctance in the sound. But he doesn't argue because we're out of options.
"I'll meet you at the warehouse in a half hour," he says.
I hang up before he can say more and I'm already moving toward the living room. Riley's going to fight me on this, but she doesn’t get a choice. I need her help, and I'm not a man who responds well to pressure when I feel the heat breathing down my neck. When faced with the certainty of jail time or forcing someone to do a job they aren't sure about, the choice is easy.
When I walk in, she's hunched over the computer, typing away at the screen. Her hair is tied into a messy bun with a pen shoved down the center of it and she sits with crossed legs, more comfortable than I've seen her in the week she’s been here.
"Get dressed," I say. "We're leaving in twenty minutes."
She blinks at me, dazed and still half focused on the computer. "Leaving? What?"
"I need you to fix something at my warehouse."
Her expression shifts from confusion to wariness as she turns on the chair and plants her feet on the ground. "What needs fixing?"
"I'll explain on the way. Get dressed," I order, and I walk back out of the room before she can protest. In my room I pull on jeans and a sweater while I walk through what I'm going to have to do.
With Lombardi's credentials, Riley should be able to make the changes necessary, though backdating them will be challenging if we're going to avoid getting caught. And I'd rather not pin it on a mistake on her part. It could keep us from getting the shipment seized, but it'd make us look foolish for employing someoneincompetent. Not to mention how it would cast doubt on us in the future.
When I walk back into the hallway, Riley's already waiting by the front door. She's dressed in jeans and the oversized sweatshirt she's been wearing around the house, her hair brushed and pulled into a ponytail. Her face is pale, but her eyes are alert.
"Let's go," I say.
She follows me out to the car without a word and we're five minutes into the drive before she speaks.
"So, what am I fixing?" She sounds hesitant, but I'm confident enough for the both of us.
I keep my eyes on the road. "Reroute paperwork for a pharmaceutical shipment. The Feds flagged it for inspection because the manifest doesn't match the routing codes. I need you to hack into the database and backdate the filing so it looks like everything was filed correctly."
She turns to look at me. "You want me to forge federal documents." She stops and exhales, rubbing her temples. I can see the way lines crease on her forehead in tension. She's not happy, and I don't care. "This is federal documentation. If they trace it back to me?—"
"They won't." I don't have time to offer vague reassurances. Every minute that passes shortens the time we have to fix this before DEA agents show up and start snooping.
She stares at me for a long moment with a hard glare, then she turns back to the window and says nothing.
Riley doesn't speak again until we pull into the warehouse parking lot. Feodor's car is already parked near the entrance,and I see him standing by the door with a grim expression. I park and kill the engine, and Riley unbuckles her seatbelt but doesn't move to get out.
"What happens if I can't do this?" she asks quietly.
I look at her. "You will."
"But if I can't?—"
"Then we all go down. You, me, and everyone in that building. So I suggest you figure it out."
Her throat moves as she swallows hard, revealing her anxiety about this. It's either her or nothing. I can't even cut and run. My name is all over this business.
Feodor meets us at the entrance, eyes flicking to Riley before settling on me. "System's set up in the office. You've got an hour and twenty minutes."
