“Okay. Before I get started hacking that email account, I need you to go back to the beginning and tell me what in the world is going on here. Who’s Orpheus? Why does the FBI suspect one of their own is a murderer? And why thehelldid you call me in when it’s obvious you guys can do any and all the hacking and tracking you need?” She waved her arm in a circle at the bank of computers.
“We need you ’cause the guy who usually runs all this”—he mimicked her motion toward the back wall—“is vacationing in Spain with his wife. Orpheus is an infamous Russian assassin who, as I’m sure you picked up on, is so mysterious and clandestine that most people don’t believe he actually exists. As for why the FBI thinks Agent Beacham killed her partner? That’s ’cause her Swiss Army knife was the murder weapon.”
Hannah wasn’t a newb when it came to intrigue. But in her line of work, the enemy was lines of code, assassins came in the form of black hat hackers who could steal a person’s identity or a company’s private information, and the only things that got murdered were Trojan horses, malware, and viruses.
She wasn’t surprised she sounded breathless—shewasbreathless—when she said, “As they say, the sauce thickens.”
“We’re asking a lot.” Sam’s tone was sympathetic. “And if we had another option, we’d use it. But right now you’re our best bet.”
She swallowed. “If I ask a question, can you promise I’ll get a straight answer?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Anything you ask, I’lltryto answer.”
“What is this place?” She once more gestured around the state-of-the-art computer room. “There’s more going on here than the building of custom motorcycles. I mean, motorcycle mechanics don’t need someone to take down a Panamanian’s security system hours before news stories about a rescued DEA agent start circulating. And theycertainlydon’t have this much hacking equipment. So before I can agree to help you, I have to know. Are you the good guys or the bad guys?”
“I like to think we’re the good guys,” he said quickly and simply. “But sometimes the line between good and bad depends on who’s drawing it.”
She wanted to believe him, but she needed more. “Who do you work for, Sam?”
“Same entity you work for, Hannah.” His blue eyes held hers fast. “The good ol’ USofA.”
“In what capacity?”
“In whatever capacity we see fit. Black Knights Inc. is an independent government defense firm.”
Her stomach sank. “Like Academi?”
Back when Academi had been named Blackwater, it’d employed men who were little better than mercs. Soldiers for hire who’d proved frivolous with human life. They’d gotten away with mass murder in Iraq and Afghanistan and had covered it up with the banner of war.
“Academi is a huge company. They employ thousands of contractors to go into active war zones and engage in combat,” Sam said. “They’re a hammer. And like most hammers, they sometimes miss the mark and leave things broken and battered.”
“If they’re a hammer, what are you?” Her voice sounded hoarse.
“We’re a needle. Our mission isn’t war. Our mission is pinpoint operations too delicate or too important to be left to the heavy hand of traditional forces or groups like Academi. We target individual bad guys and bring them to justice. We go in and take out strategic supply lines so our enemies have trouble supporting their adversarial endeavors. We risk our necks rescuing Americans who’ve been captured and tortured or who’ve been left behind by our government ’cause Uncle Sam refuses to negotiate with terrorists.”
Her hesitation must’ve shown on her face. He quickly added, “I never woulda dragged you into this if I thought it’d impinge on your honor or your code of ethics, Hannah. I know you might not believe that. You don’t really know me anymore.”
“You haven’t changed that much,” she admitted softly. “You might look like you got in a fight with a weed eater and lost.” She gestured toward his neck. “But I get the impression that where it counts, you’re still the same Samuel Harwood who brought me bags of Garrett’s popcorn so we could watchRaising ArizonaandIntolerable Crueltyon my portable TV while Candy did her hair.”
“Your sister always did take forever to get ready.”
“Still does.”
“So…” His eyes roamed over her face. She would swear she could feel their movement like a physical touch. “You in?”
The reasonable, rational part of her brain told her she should shoulder her backpack and adios herself right out the front door. It was clear Sam and his friends, or coworkers, or super-soldier-spy-buddies—or whatever the hell one was supposed to call government defense contractors—were inrealtrouble. The kind that involved Feds and assassins and might very well end in gunfire. Which she’d managed to avoid her entire life and would like to continue the trend,thank you very much.
But the part of her brain that was stuck on Sam? The part that was beyond happy just to breathe the same air as him?Thatpart had her admitting, “I’m in. But you’re going to owe me a steak dinner at Gibson’s when this is all over.”
His teeth blazed white against the inky darkness of his beard. “Deal.” He pushed up from his laid-back lounge in the rolling chair and walked over to the railing where she was standing. He thrust out his big hand so they could shake on it.
The instant she slipped her fingers into his, she was struck.Seriously.It felt as if she’d been hit by a bolt of lightning from the clear blue sky.
His palm was warm and rough. His fingers were long and callused. She would swear the air around them crackled.
If she looked down, would she see the hairs on her arm standing up?
Sam had to feel it too.
