But she’d spent a decade studying, developing, programming systems—their ins, their outs. Whatever he built, she could break. It gave her a great deal of satisfaction to invade him, to peer into his private world, shatter his privacy.
Her only regret was he’d never know.
He’d never fear as she had feared.
But she cost him.
Every now and again, when she had enough, when she was sure of the data and her own safety, she found a way to leak bits of information to an agent with the FBI—one she’d thoroughly researched, one she felt she knew as well as she knew herself.
Whoever she happened to be at the moment.
She signed the brief, data-heavy memostvoi drug.Russian for “your friend.” There were files, profiles, searches, queries, ontvoi drug.Most believed the informant male, and connected within the Volkovbratva.
Tvoi drughad cost lives. Abigail hoped she’d saved some. Her greatest achievement, on her gauge, had been compiling enough information to generate a raid on a warehouse in South Chicago, and dismantle and destroy the forced prostitution ring operating out of it.
Now she studied recent activity. Codes, cryptic phrases, false names. She passed over information on basic computer scams. If the federals couldn’t handle those on their own, they didn’t deserve any help.
But the money laundering, she considered.
Scraping away at the Volkovs’ bottom line offered satisfaction. Maybe not the deep and visceral satisfaction ofknowing she’d played some small part in freeing more than twenty girls from sexual slavery, but diminished funds made their business more difficult to operate.
Yes, the money laundering would be her new personal project. She’d consider it a kind of wedding gift to Ilya.
She set about compiling snatches of information from e-mails—Ilya’s, the accountant’s, a handful of other contacts. It amazed her, always, what people revealed with keystrokes, how careless they were. While she worked, she thought in Russian, entrenched herself in it. So much so that when her phone rang, she muttered a mild Russian oath.
She expected no calls, but a few clients seemed to prefer phone conversations or texts over e-mails. She glanced at the display. Frowned.
Brooks had managed to dig up her cell phone number. Not really that hard, but it would’ve taken some time and effort.
Why?
Cautious, she answered.
“Hello.”
“Hey. It’s Brooks.”
“Yes, I know.”
“What do you like on your pizza?”
“I…It doesn’t matter.”
“Pizza toppings matter, Abigail. They’re vital to the pie.”
She supposed he had a point. And she wished everything about him didn’t appeal and confuse. “I like black olives and hot peppers, particularly.”
“That’s a go. Any objection to pepperoni?”
“No.”
“Perfect. I’ll be by in about a half hour.”
“I didn’t ask you to come by.”
“Yeah, I noticed. You really have to start doing that.”
“I’m working.”
