“Well, this batch is different,” I say carefully. I don’t like to make assumptions too early because often we only find out the sordid details once we really start digging into the person. But on the surface, these three aren’t much like the lowlifes we usually get, and it’s leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. “I’ve only just started collecting information, but it’s not drug lords and black market dealers; it’s… Jeremy Umberlee is a whistleblower, and Louis Whitcomb is a tech journalist.”
Dimitri winces. As a Russian, he knows the token target of a dictator regime when he hears one. People who tell the truth are often silenced by those whose power is threatened by it. “And the other name? Madison Cooper?”
“As far as I can tell, she’s a streamer—a content creator. At least, that’s what the IRS thinks she does. I’ll find out soon enough. I figured I’d start with her, since she’s local. Umberlee is in Chicago, and Whitcomb is in New York.”
Mac frowns. “Wait, you’regoing out? Like,alone? You want me to grab my stuff and come with?”
I shake my head. “If Felix is following you, it’s best if I handle this alone. I’m an unknown to him. Unlike the two of you, Felix has never seen my face. Plus, we need to do things differently—Alfano’s laptop was a dead end. I can’t get past the bloody SmarTech encryption.”
“I’ve heard of SmarTech,” Mac nods. “Biggest tech security company in America.”
“Second biggest,” I correct.
“Only the second?” Mac snickers. “What, you having some performance issues, Short Round?”
I lift a brow. “Remember Rossi?”
“You mean the guy we killed almost two years ago? Yeah…”
“I’ve been trying to break into his secure files ever since. He used SmarTech for data encryption, too. I could keep trying to strong-arm it, but Dimitri might die of old age before I break it, even if I were to dump another million dollars into computing power. Not even the NSA would bother.”
“Whoa.” Mac looks at Dimitri, whose face hardly shifts, except for a slight deepening of a frown—perhaps at the mention of his mortality.
“I’d joke that we would have more luck trying to get into the Pentagon, but I’m pretty sure they subcontract their security to SmarTech, too.”
“Do you think it is a coincidence that both Rossi and Alfano used SmarTech tools?” Dimitri asks thoughtfully.
I shrug. “Could be, but like Mac said, they’re one of the biggest names in the game, and their tools are top-tier. I don’t personally use them, but I know plenty of my spiders do.” I sigh and rub my eyes. “I don’t want to risk the same issue with the next person. If I have any hope of figuring out why the General wants these people dead, I need anunlockedcomputer, time to copy the data over, and potentially the cooperation of the target. I might need to consider making contact with her under an alias and speaking directly to her. Discreetly, of course,” I add, when I feel the heat of Dimitri’s intensity directed at me.
“Well, if you say you’ve got this, I’m not gonna complain about some uninterrupted time with my girl.” Mac grins. The chair under him screeches against the floor as he pushes it back and stands. He approaches me, hand outstretched. “As thanks, I’ll do your dishes. Gimme.”
“What a prince,” I drawl.
I grab my bag and head out to the garage. It’s a nice day, so I decide to take my bike for the initial drive-by of the address I got from Madison Cooper’s DMV file. No one can see my face through the mirrored visor on the helmet, and in some places a bike is less conspicuous than a van.
I run a gloved hand along the body of my Harley CVO Glide, rubbing at a smudge on the black powder-coated metal. If there’s one thing Americans know, it’s motorcycles. Horsepower in general, really. This one is particularly fun, cutting corners like butter and easy to open up for a sprint along the flat, straight roads surrounded by fields in the more rural parts of the area.
As I cruise through the streets, the wind slides over the leather of my jacket, chilling any exposed areas and ripping through my denim trousers. The roar of the engine between my legs disrupts the perfect silence of the scenery, making me feel oddly powerful and reckless and destructive. The city skyline disappears and then reappears in my rearview mirrors as I effortlessly circumnavigate the worst of the traffic to the east.
As suburbs abruptly shift to city, I notice again how much Ulysses reminds me of Manchester, with its roots in manufacturing, smoggy air, and scrappy population of people who’ll do anything to get by. In my youth, I worked hard to smooth the harsh edges of my accent to satisfy the rich snobs at my private school, an effort that serves me well now, since I can’t be him anymore. That boy disappeared long ago. He had to.
Madison Cooper lives in a decent neighborhood. I memorized the make, model, and license plate of her car, so I recognize it among the others parked along the curb in front of her building. I slow my bike and make a show of pretending to “accidentally” tap her bumper. I reach down to “check the damage,” but really I’m discreetly placing a tracker in the underside of her wheel well.
I continue down the street and grab a spot in front of an Indian restaurant, angled away from her place so it looks like I’m waiting for a delivery or on my way in. Using my mirrors, I take note of my surroundings. Looks like the same cable company services this area that I’ve already made up a uniform and van decal for. There are other service vehicles parked on the street, too, so mine won’t stick out. All good.
A flash of movement in the corner of my eye draws my attention. Her building’s front doors open and… wait, is that her?
I turn my bike in the spot so I can see better as a short, curvy woman flounces down the steps and makes a beeline for the old Toyota parked on the curb that I just tagged.
Oh, fuuuuuck. Her driver’s license photo does her absolutely no justice. She’sgorgeous—my alt dream girl come to life, dressed head to toe in black and wearing some kind of infuriatingly flippy, flirty,shortskirt. She’s got green streaks in her hair, a nose ring and plenty of tattoos across her chest and arms that are on full display, dark even against her tan skin. The overall effect is badass as hell.
And that’s saying nothing of her body, which is practically a crime. I’d write poetry to her luscious curves if I could. She’s all tits, ass, tummy, and a cute round face with dark eyes and lips like pillows that would look incredible wrapped around me—puffy, swollen and red. Hips I could really grab onto. And she’s a short thing, too, so she’d be easy to lift onto a desk, ass up.
I’m sure she’s heavy, and damn if that doesn’t add fuel to the fire. I’m strong, and that’s just how I like to flex it. Hell, that’swhyI got strong—my ideal weight to lift is whatever hers is.
And the way her ass jiggles as she bounces off the sidewalk and circles her car to the driver’s side… I know just how it would move as it absorbed a strong smack. I want to bite it, to leave a round mark and make her squirm as the arousal sharpens to pain and melts back into arousal. My hands tense against the handles of my bike, but it’s a sorry substitute for what I really want to be squeezing.
She drives off, and I scramble to grab my phone from my pocket, cursing myself for allowing such a thorough distraction. I ensure the tracker is operational, then fire my bike back up.
