I jump slightly, so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t even see the man approaching my desk. I force a shy smile as I look up at the floor manager, a guy named Gary who has halitosis and a wandering eye.
"Just finishing them now, Gary," I say, my voice pitched an octave higher than normal. "I organized them by date and priority, just like you asked."
"Good girl," he says, leaning too close. "Keep it up, and we might look at keeping you on past the Valentine's rush."
I repress the urge to stab him in the eye with my ballpoint pen. "That would be a dream come true."
He wanders off, and I let the smile drop, exhaling a breath filled with disdain. A notification pops up on my screen, a company-wide email.
SUBJECT: Heart of Gold Party – Security Protocols
My pulse kicks. This is it. I click it open, scanning the text. Thorne is hosting a massive charity party on Valentine’s Day at her private vineyard estate in Napa Valley to launch her new "Heart Health" initiative. The email is a reminder to staff that the office will be closing early on the 14th and that security badges will be reset. But it’s the attachment that interests me.A PDF of the event schedule. I quickly execute a script I wrote last night, a tiny piece of code that mirrors the file to a remote server I can access from the van before deleting the trace of the transfer.
I need that schedule. I need to know where she’ll be, when she’ll be vulnerable, and most importantly, when she’ll access the "Heart-Box."
Rumor on the dark web has it that Thorne keeps a biometric safe in her office at the vineyard. It doesn't hold cash or jewelry. It holds the original patent deeds and the algorithmic keys to the debt collection software she’s created, the smoking gun that proves the Debt-to-Life model is illegal entrapment, not a financial service. If I get those files, I don't just rob her. I destroy her. I burn Horizon Wellness to the ground and piss on the ashes.
The clock on the wall ticks over to 5:00 PM. I save my work, grab my cheap tote bag, and shuffle toward the exit with the rest of the drones. As I step out of the climate-controlled lobby and into the gray, drizzling San Francisco evening, the damp cold hits me like a slap. I pull my coat tighter, head down, merging with the crowd of commuters rushing for the BART. But I don't go to the station. I walk four blocks west, into the shadows of a parking structure that smells of urine and gasoline.
There she is. Betty. My rusty, trusty Sprinter van. She looks even sadder than usual under the flickering fluorescent light, rust creeping higher around her wheel wells. Don’t care, I love her just the same. I could easily afford something better now but staying in this van keeps me grounded. It keeps me hungry to finish this fight before I allow myself any comforts. I unlock the back doors and slide inside, locking them instantly behind me. The sound of the latch clicking home usually brings me a sense of relief, a feeling of safety. Tonight, it just brings the silence.
I toss my bag onto the narrow cot and turn to look at the pink dog bed I had bought for her. It’s empty. There is no tiny red sweater. No beady eyes judging my outfit. No frantic tapping of paws or sassy yaps demanding treats. My chest tightens, a physical ache that has nothing to do with the cold damp of the van.
Skipper.
I squeeze my eyes shut, and the memory of waking up in that Santa Monica rental house crashes over me. The headache, the dry mouth and the confusion of waking up alone in that massive bed after one of the best nights of my life. I remember stumbling out to the living room, legs shaking, body still humming from the things Black, Red, and Green did to me. I remember finding the empty room. No guys and no dog. Just a note on the nightstand.
“Catch us if you can, Blue. Skipper’s safe, but she misses her partner in crime. Bring that sass and ass. We’re waiting for you. So is your future if you’re brave enough to take it.”
Those motherfuckers. They played me. They flipped my own game back on me. I drugged them on Halloween, so they drugged me on Christmas. I stole their haul, so they stole my heart and my dog. Technically, they stole the dog I stole, but that’s splitting hairs. I roll my eyes at my own dramatics and scoff a bitter little laugh that echoes back to me in the empty van. I don’t have a heart for anyone to steal except maybe for Skipper.
I groan and rub my face with my hands, kicking off the ugly orthopedic shoes I wear for the Martha persona I’ve created. "I should have her back by now," I whisper to the empty van.
I should be chasing them. I should be tracking them down, kicking in their door, and demanding my dog back. I ignore the fact that I want to let Marcus charm me, let Damon hold me, let Andre claim me like he promised he would. But I can’t… not yet.
I look up at the whiteboard secured to the metal wall of the van. Photos of Thorne, maps of the vineyard property, financial records and in the center, a photo of my mom. She looks so tired in the picture, her skin gray, but she’s smiling at me.
I can’t go to them, not with this hanging over me. If I went to them, if I let myself fall into whatever future they were offering, I’d lose my edge. I’d get soft. I’d get distracted and Aris Thorne would keep destroying people, families with fucking fine print. No, I have to finish this. I have to take down the White Whale. Then and only then can I go get my dog… and maybe the men who kidnapped her.
"I hope you're biting them, Skip," I mutter, reaching for the mini-fridge. "I hope you're peeing in their shoes."
After I remove the dull brown wig and contact lenses from my aching eyes, I pull out a bottle of cheap Pinot Grigio, pouring a glass and downing half of it in one gulp. The alcohol burns, but not enough to numb the silence in the van. It’s deafening. I flop down on my cot and toss the blankets over my legs to block off the damp cold and sigh. I miss them. God, I hate myself for it, but I miss them. I miss the way Damon looked at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve. I miss Marcus’s dimples and his dirty mouth. I miss the way Andre made me feel safe even when he was threatening to wreck me.
"Get it together, Demi," I scold myself, "Focus."
I sit up and open my laptop, the screen illuminating the cramped space with a harsh blue light and pull up the files of information that I have been able to put together.
I start scrolling through the schematics of the estate I hacked from the architect’s cloud server a week ago. It’s a fuckingfortress. Twelve-foot perimeter walls, motion sensors, armed patrols and then there is the safe itself… "The Heart Box". It’s a prototype with voice recognition, retinal scan, and a pulse reader. It requires a live subject to open it. Specifically, Aris Thorne.
My confidence wavers. This isn't like cracking Hensley’s safe with a keypad spoofer. This isn't a simple smash-and-grab. This requires getting close to Thorne, neutralizing her security, and forcing her to open the vault, all during a party with three hundred guests and enough security to guard the President.
I’m good. I know I’m good. I’m the girl who robbed and exposed Chad Lamott and Victor Hensley and walked away with a smile. But this? This is a much higher level of heist and I’m not a hundred percent sure I can pull it off....by myself.
I look at the empty passenger seat again.
“You don’t have to be alone anymore,” They had said that night. “Use us as tools in your fight and we will have your back.”
I slam the laptop shut, the sound echoing too loudly in the small space.
