Page 7 of Black Heart
With a hot cup of coffee by my side, I sit at my makeshift desk, my four computer monitors humming to life. It doesn’t take long to pull all her public information. Her address, social security number and passport are all child’s play. Using that, I spend an hour attempting to access her private data.
I expected to have her personal passwords fifty-five minutes ago.
I grunt, leaning forward on my elbows, my fingers flying like an expert pianist at a concert hall, using all the backdoors I can think of.
Each time I have to restart or try something new, my temper flares. Yet so does my intrigue.
“Come on, sweetheart, drop those firewalls for me,” I growl and croon at the same time.
Like stroking a sensitive inner thigh while the woman under my touch whimpers with want. I’m gentle and patient with the promise of tongue.
At last, she opensin submission, and I’m scrolling through Layla’s life, from the beginning of her birth certificate (born in Santa Fe, California) to her new internship at Pulse Dynamics, a mediocre tech firm with below-average accolades and a bare-minimum clientele list.
I snort. It’s as if whoever named the company thought slapping the promise of a heartbeat and “Dynamic” together would magically spawn innovation. The kind of person who deserves the Scythe at his doorstep.
Within two hours of scouring behind the scenes on her personal laptop, I have all the information I need on Layla Verona. It becomes clear very quickly that Miss Verona is massively overqualified but desperate for a job matching her degree in this flailing economy.
I sit back, folding my arms as I mull over her files, projects, and what catches my eye last—a drive she left open named HR Compliant Files containing recent security footage.
The most recent recording catches my attention first, and within seconds, I get my answers on why she’s being offered on a platter to assassins for hire like me.
The footage continues to play after the preening supervisor, Emmitt Dawson, gets his throat worked over by a cleverly concealed attacker. I switch cameras when the attacker stalks out of the office and into the main area.
All my training should have me focused on the back of the attacker, taking note of his gait, his approximate height, and any habitual tics or marks identifying the man. Fuck, I should be able to tell if they’re male or female atleast.
I can’t tell you a thing.
Because all my attention goes to the light-haired beauty darting around the cubicles like a lost, wingless dove as she attempts to hide from the attacker.
And I think,Hide. Come on, conceal yourself before he finds you.
My chest tightens when she slides under her desk and cowers just in time for the attacker to pause at her cubicle. With my lashes providing the only flicker of tension on my expressionless face, I note the pale sliver of her hand pulling a USB stick from her computer tower before huddling deeper into her small crevice of safety.
And I release a long exhale as the attacker leaves the frame, a stumbling Mr. Dawson following suit a few minutes after.
Layla pokes her head up after fifteen minutes of no movement. I watch every millisecond of her pulling herself together, collecting her things, and tentatively making her way to the exit, her head twisting and turning under the threat of getting jumped.
She has no idea that as easily as she overheard and made personal copies of this conversation, she signed her death warrant. The sheer danger of knowing about this piece of tech could bring every crime lord down upon her pretty head. I should take her copy from her, give it to whomever wants it, and bargain to keep her out of harm’s way. Yet ... that is not my first thought.
She intrigues me, this gentle wraithling with her moon-pale skin and wide, supernatural eyes.
Not a single muscle in my body moves as I watch her on the screen as if I’m hiding in the shadows behind her, sharing her same air.
I replay her movements ten times before I decide to rewind and give the attacker a better look. Inexplicable rage uncoils from my gut toward the man who put the fear of God in her, a woman too smart for her job, too innocent to acquire such information, and too beautiful to wear such terror on her face.
And when I dig deeper into company security footage history, that rage becomes an inferno.
Mr. Dawson has some explaining to do, touching her the way he does.
Feelingher the way he wants to.
Trailing fingers across her shoulders, holding her arm too tight when he stops to converse with her in the hallways, ensuring his palm brushes across the side of her breast…
The small tent inside his pants when he turns to leave.
He deserves death.
It’s a simple thought. Unbidden. And similar to the one running parallel to it:no one touches her.