A gold screen came up.Progressing to authentication step two.
No.
Please input or scan your authentication code.
She smacked her palms on the table, either side of the keyboard. He used two-factor ID for a subfolder? Most people would use two-factor ID for a site log-in, not a single folder. What was important enough to have security within security within security? Which at least backed up the theory that whatever was in the treasure chest was not for public consumption.
She pushed the chair away from the table and pressed her knuckles over her mouth. This wasn’t close to being over. “Dammit.”
Two-factor ID.Something you know,andsomething you have.
She chewed on a knuckle.Think.If his first factor was the password—something you know—the second—something you have—had to be a gadget he carried with him. Gold Linings issued their clients 2FA fobs that created new authentication codes every minute. Whenever the clients logged in, the site would ask for the current code. Hyland could be carrying it on his key ring or belt or watch or some other accessory. A private detective she’d once consulted for had one clipped into her bra.
Samira typed Hyland’s name into an image search. And there it was, in photo after photo, clipped to his belt loop—a tiny white rectangular case. She enlarged a high-res photo and zoomed in. The Gold Linings logo.
Nausea pulsed in her stomach. She swallowed. Sixteen hours before the password changed and they lost their one window of opportunity. And the only path into the folder was attached to the waist of her number one enemy. She opened his itinerary. An enemy who was currently sleeping in the Balfour Hotel, surrounded by diplomatic service agents, as well as the personal bodyguards he took everywhere, and hotel security staff, and no doubt a floor full of lackeys and advisers, with maybe a dozen police keeping watch outside.
She flicked back to the image results and scrolled. Was it ever not on his belt? Yes, there—the White House Correspondents’ Dinner. A reunion of his Special Forces team. Several inauguration balls.
She blew out her cheeks. What did they have in common?
A tuxedo. He was wearing a tuxedo.
She narrowed the search parameters. Photo after photo of him standing with one or both hands in his pockets and the tuxedo jacket artfully splayed open, like he was an Armani model. No fob. She returned to his Edinburgh itinerary. Meeting, meeting, meeting, photo, working lunch, press conference, meeting, meeting...cocktail reception. Dress code: black tie.
She rubbed her clammy face. The fire was dying down. She walked over and started poking at the embers, grabbing a piece of wood. Of course, it was all theoretical information. It wasn’t like she could march into Hyland’s hotel room and steal the thing while he was out, any more than she could walk up and rip it from his waist.
Her big heroic quest was over. There’d be no celebratory sex. Tess would remain in trouble. Charlotte would remain in danger. And Samira was stuck in the shadows permanently—well, until her “wanted” status changed to “arrested.”
Her phone lit up and began a tinny tune. She stared at it, her brain taking a second to compute.The A-Team.She pushed out a breath. Probably just someone going to the country house.
At this hour?
She pulled up her monitoring site. Her hand shook so much it took two attempts to access the camera feed. A white Peugeot.
“Jamie!” she yelled. “Get up! They’re coming! We need to leave.”
She grabbed the backpack and started shoving things in, her breath short. Their stuff was spread everywhere. What was important? Laptop. Phone. Chargers. Car key—where was the car key?
And what use was it? One road in, one road out. No movement in the bedroom. She yelled again. Warm clothes—they’d have to get out on foot, hide somewhere. Shit. This was why she always kept her belongings packed. She couldn’t think and move at the same time.
She shut the laptop. On the kitchen counter, the low-battery light was blinking on Jamie’s cell phone. Weird—she’d just charged it. She picked it up. The back of it was hot—the battery had been working overtime. Shit. And the GPS was on. She tried to switch it off but it was stuck. She checked the settings, wincing. It was uploading GPS data to a server in the United States. Hyland’s people had to have launched a virus onto the phone, a reverse hack after she’d infiltrated his email using Jamie’s Wi-Fi hot spot. Shit.
She opened the fridge door and laid it on a shelf at the back, as carefully as if it were a bomb. If Hyland’s goons had control of the phone they could have an audio feed up. Since when? It’d been fine when she’d put it on charge—and the conversation had quickly turned personal after that. They hadn’t discussed the hack. And the bandwidth was too low for video, thank God. She closed the door. The damage was already well done but no point in giving their pursuers further clues.
“Jamie!”
What the hell was he doing? She ran into the room, tripped and flew onto the bed, smacking onto some bony body part. Shock rattled through her. He murmured.
“Jamie, wake up!”
She jumped astride him and shook his shoulders. “Come on, Jamie. Please, we have to go.”
She grabbed her cell phone, switched on the flashlight app and shone it on his face. His eyelids flickered but stayed shut. Would she have to slap hi—?
The syringe. It was on the bedside table. She grabbed it. Half-empty. It’d been full when he’d left it on the kitchen counter. She reared up and yanked the covers off. He wasn’t sleeping; he was sedated. He’d drugged himself.
“Jamie, please, I need you.” Her voice shook. “They’re coming. We have to get out. I can’t do this without you.” She was sobbing, panic clutching her chest.
