"It'stheVault,"Igrunt, the syllables grinding like gravel in a mixer.Ihaven't used my vocal cords this much in days. "WhentheFedscircle like vultures, standard procedure applies."
Shescans the perimeter.Hereyes catch the overhead light, flashing a sharp, bright green like new currency.
"It's..."Sheswallows hard. "Highlysecure."
"Impenetrable."Istep past her, my heavy enforcement boots echoing against the floor plates.Imove to the main terminal, putting crucial distance between us beforeIdo something reckless like press my face into her honey-blonde hair. "Yourequested seventy-two hours.Youclaimed you could find the anomaly.Themole."
Shebristles, her spine turning to rebar.Pureadrenaline usually causes sloppiness in civilians, but she is actively sharpening before my eyes.
"IsaidIcould find the discrepancy," she corrects, marching over to the steel tableIuse for dismantling weapons and reconciling ledgers.Theheavy leather bag drops with a solid thump. "Ifa mole exists, the numbers will point to them.Mathdoesn't lie.Peopledo."
Shepulls a laptop from the unzipped compartment, followed by legal pads and a handful of neon colored highlighters.Thebright plastic practically vibrates against the brushed steel table.
"Youhave a problem with my supplies?" she challenges, catching my stare.Herchin tilts up.
"They'rebright."
"They'recolor-coded.Pinkhighlights immediate flags, yellow handles reconciliation, and blue verifies assets."Shelines them up with military exactness, keeping the spacing perfectly parallel.
Thetight coil in my chest loosens.Shelikes absolute order.
"Theserver access is here,"Istate, typing the override code on the main terminal.Sixmonitors flicker to life, bathing the room in a cool blue glow. "Don'tmake me regret handing over the keys to the kingdom."
Shemoves next to me.Tooclose.
Herscent hits me then, a violent collision that erases the stink of gun oil and stale beer from my senses.Beneaththe surface of grapefruit and rain,Icatch the sharp, unmistakable musk of her arousal—the scent of a woman who is already drenched for me afterIclaimed her on that highway.Itmakes my blood roar and my cock throb with a heavy, leaden ache against my thigh.
Myjaw locks tight.
Shetaps the keyboard, fingers flying across the keys. "Ineed the last three years of transaction logs.Pullthe raw data, bypassing the summaries your accountant prepared for theIRS."
"Iam the accountant,"Igrowl.
Shepauses, tilting her head. "You?"
"I'mtheTreasurer.Ihandle the books."
Hergaze drops to my hands.Thickscars cover the rough skin, the physical cost of years of brutal fighting and welding.Calculationvisibly turns in her mind as she reconciles the highway violence with the incredibly delicate work of forensic accounting.
"Thenyou should know," she murmurs softly, "that summaries hide sins.Ineed the raw logs."
"You'llget them."
Ipull up hundreds of thousands of lines of code.Moneylaundering operates as a complex art form.Theclub runs legitimate businesses likePeakWildernessOutfittersand the auto shop, while simultaneously moving massive amounts of cash that completely evade the paper trail.
"Thiswill take time," she mutters, already scrolling.Hereyes dart across the screen, tracking the waterfall of data.
"Wehave time."Ilean back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest. "Seventy-two hours.Nobodygets in.Nobodygets out."
Herhand freezes over the computer mouse. "WheredoIsleep?"
"Youdon't."
Shespins the chair to face me, raising her eyebrows high.
"Wework until completion,"Iinstruct. "There'sa cot in the back if you pass out.TheFedsaren't sleeping, and neither are we."
"Fine."Sheturns back to the glowing screen. "Irun on caffeine and spite anyway."
