Page 4 of The Stalking King

I wonder if she’s thinking—or wishing—I mean her.

Focus, man.

“A phone,” I tell her.

Her eyes widen for a moment. She knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“Are you a federal agent too?” She says cynically.

“A federal agent?” I step closer, aware of how she sucks in an anxious breath. Or maybe it’s excitement. Or a mixture of both. Or, hell, maybe I’m just projecting. “Someone’s been here already?”

She nods. “You’re not with him…” A pause. “That’s a space for you to give me your name, Mike.”

Mike was the name I gave before. She didn’t believe it at the time, rolling her eyes sassily at me.

“Maksim Volkov,” I tell her. No harm now, since I’m here as a civilian and not a patient.

“I’m not with whoever was here before. Whoever they were, they were lying to you. They’ve got no claim to that phone.”

“Why is everyone so interested in it?” she asks.

Because it’s very important. The phone is part of a physical authentication process that slows access to the Volkov files. Gigabytes of material on politicians and business owners. Blackmail, some folk might call it. I’ve never claimed to be a good man.

“It has a scratch on the back,” I tell her. “In the shape of a V.”

“Does it?” she says.

“Go and check,” I tell her. “Then bring it to me.”

“I can’t just give you a patient’s phone. And anyway, it’s not my job.”

She’s right. But from watching her, I know she’s close with the head security guard. He seems like a nice enough man. Decent at his job. But he’s too trusting, and Lia has taken on a sort of guardian role with him. She’s a good person. Far too good for me.

“It’s a custom model, but if you look at the bottom, near the headphone jack, you’ll find a serial number. 8750284.”

She huffs. “Wait here for a moment.”

I smirk again. That ignited my... not obsession.

Infatuation? I don’t know what to call it. Interest. Yeah, maybe that’s for the best.

She turns and walks away. I try not to watch the sway of her hips. She moves confidently. But I’ve seen her quieter moments, alone in the break room or on a night shift, when sadness enters her eyes.

At times like that, I want to reach through the feed and hold her tight to my chest, stroke my hand through her hair, let her know that everything is going to be okay. Even if I should know better.

I take a seat in the waiting room, drumming my fingers against my leg. If Vale gets access to that phone, he won’t be able to access everything. But it’s bad. It would mean we’d lose access until we restructure the whole system. That could take weeks, months. We’d lose millions and, more importantly, the respect of our clients. Conrad, the smug prick, would take over DC.

Will my men stand for that? It’s always precarious at the top.

The worst-case scenario is that there’s a breach in the phone we haven’t foreseen. Some code or recoverable file that would allow Vale to bypass our security.

I grit my teeth, thinking of other Bratva organizations, ones that deal in guns, protection, hijacking, and dozens of other criminal enterprises.

At times, they appear less complex than data.

Almost thirty minutes pass before she returns. No one keeps me waiting like this.

It’s odd, but it increases my admiration for her.