"Youwere looking at the balance,"Itell him firmly. "Theyestablished a pattern of authorized access to build a backdoor so when theFedscame?—"
"Theycould frame me," he finishes.
"Exactly.It’sa remarkably good setup."
Liftinghis gaze to mine reveals a feral intensity burning in his irises.Hestares at me with raw, undisguised hunger.
"Youfound it intwenty-four hours," he says. "Ittook them eight months to build.Youtore it down before lunch."
"I'mgood at my job,"Isay.Mypulse flutters wild in my throat. "Ireally don't look good in orange jumpsuits."
Thecorner of his eye crinkles.Thetiny shift transforms his stark features entirely.
"Youneed to eat," he says abruptly.
Breakingthe contact, he pulls away.Myhand falls to the table.Iinstantly miss his heat.
Mystomach growls loudly.
Eliasmoves back to the kitchenette. "You'rerunning on adrenaline and spite.It’sa potent fuel.Itburns out."
Openinga sleek black refrigerator, he pulls out a container. "Blakedropped this at the secure hatch an hour ago.SweetPinesandwiches.Turkey, cranberry, no mayo."
Iblink. "Howdid you knowIhate mayo?"
Pausingwith the plate in his hand, he keeps his broad back to me. "Youpicked it out of the wrapLogangave youearlier today.Surgicalaccuracy.Youspent five minutes dissecting a sandwich while agents were threatening to arrest you."
"Ididn't think you noticed that."
"Itold you," he says, turning back with the plate and a steaming mug of coffee. "Inotice everything."
Settingthe plate in front of me reveals a heavenly looking sandwich.Thecoffee is black with no sugar, exactly howItake it.
"Eat," he commands. "Wehaveforty-eight hours left.Ineed your brain working."
Leaninghis hip against the table, he crosses his arms.Hisheavy frame crowds my space.Pickingup his own mug, he takes a slow sip while watching me over the rim.
Takinga bite of the sandwich delivers fresh bread, sharp cranberry, and savory turkey.Imoan around a mouthful, closing my eyes.
"OhmyGod,"Imumble. "Ifthe audit doesn't work out,I'mmarrying the person who made this sandwich."
"Blake'staken,"Eliassays instantly. "AndTiffanycarries aGlock."
"Pity."Openingmy eyes revealsEliasglaring at the sandwich.
"Focuson the data," he says gruffly.
"Iamfocusing."Itake a sip of the coffee.Itburns all the way down, waking up nerve endingsIforgotIhad. "So,Mr.Treasurer.Nowthat we know they're mirroring your keystrokes, what do we do?"
"Wefeed them poison," he says.Aruthless edge sharpens his tone. "Ifthey're watching whatItype,I'mgoing to type a narrative that leads them straight off a cliff."
"Ilove the disinformation angle.Wecreate a dummy account to transfer assets to a location that doesn't exist."
"No,"Eliasargues.Hesets his mug down. "Wetransfer the assets to a location that does exist.Somewherewe control.Wemake them think we're panicking.Makethem think we're moving the cash hoard."
"Andwhen they go to intercept it?"
"We'llbe waiting."
