Page 77 of Black Heart

The device is sleek and lightweight, its matte black finish absorbing the ambient light rather than reflecting it. I unfold it with a practiced flick of my wrist, the keys clicking into place with a satisfying snap.

Connecting the keyboard to the main computer is a simple matter, the USB cable snaking out from the device and plugging into an open port.

The arrogance of it all, the sheer hubris of thinking themselves untouchable, sends a surge of righteous anger that boils.

Until the numbers on the screen shift and morph before I touch a key.

For the second time tonight, I curse out loud. My contact is dry to the point that it’s nothing but a knife to my cornea, so I pull it out and flick it into my purse, never to be used again.

Now that I can see properly, my fingers fly across the keyboard. I’m not just deleting the AI; I’m obliterating it. My custom-made virus will spread like wildfire through the Pulse Dynamics’ servers, corrupting the AI’s core and poisoning its data beyond repair.

But I’m not stopping there.

With each line of code, I’m weaving a digital trap, ensuring that any attempt to recreate this monstrosity will trigger a devastating system-wide meltdown. I think of how Dawson manipulated me and my colleagues, using our innovations forhis twisted agenda, and the contract they put on my head because of it. This isn’t just about destroying a dangerous creation—it’s personal.

With three minutes to spare, I’m about to seal the fate of Morelli’s illicit empire. Let Dawson try to do a test run tonight. Let him try to rebuild from this, I think, a fierce smile playing on my lips. I’ve just turned this technological nightmare into digital dust.

But in the space between one heartbeat and the next, everything changes.

The lights cut out with a sickening electronic whine, plunging the room into a darkness so absolute, I let out a squeak of surprise. The servers fall silent, their constant hum snuffed out.

And then, before I can even process the sudden shift, a strong hand clamps over my mouth from behind, stifling the scream on my tongue.

24

KADEN

I picture my next home with a white picket fence staked with all the heads I’ll collect tonight.

Wishful thinking, since I haven’t had a place to call my own in over a decade. Homes are for people with families, with lives. Not for soulless monsters who leave trails of blood and screams in their wake.

I stalk through the darkened halls of Pulse Dynamics, my footsteps silent as a reaper’s sigh. The office rooms and cubicles I pass are quiet at this late hour, save for the distant hum of servers and the occasional flicker of fluorescent lights. I can feel the weight of my blades against my forearms, hungry for flesh. Everyone’s on the sixth-floor rooftop, enjoying Dawson’s event where he promises to unveil cutting-edge technology and put it up for bid to the wealthy, elite clientele stumbling about the building, drunk on champagne and power.

I’ve learned a lot in the thirty minutes since Layla gave me the slip, tracking Ethan’s van to a spot across the street from Pulse. It wasn’t there when I arrived, but that’s no matter.Ethan got lucky. I’m confident Layla’s not inside the vehicle anymore.

The second I laid eyes on her office building and recalled her brief, frustrated phone call to Dawson, it all fell into place. Wraithling is using the opening that a party gives her to destroy Morelli’s new technology, with everyone gathered in one room and the rest of the building empty.

If I weren’t so furious with her, I’d be impressed at her gall.

I’m a fool for letting my guard down and allowing Layla to worm her way under my skin. When I returned to her house and found her gone, a cold, familiar wrath gripped my heart. The kind of ferocity I haven’t felt since Cassie.

In a blind rage, I lashed out, shards of glass and broken tech slicing into my knuckles, but I barely feel the sting. The pain inside is far worse.

How could I have been so careless? I should know better than to trust Layla, to care for her.

Attachments are a liability. They make you vulnerable, distracted. And now, because of my foolishness, Layla is out there alone, unprotected, and at the mercy of men like Dawson who make friends with the Mafia.

The nightmare of my daughter’s lifeless eyes, her tiny body broken and bloody, floods my mind. I never got to say a final goodbye to her. Never got to hold her one last time, warm or cold.

I can’t lose Layla, too.

I move through the shadows of the service corridors like a phantom, my tactical suit and mask obscuring any move I make. The layout of the building is etched in my mind from when I initially stalked Layla, memorized from blueprints and hours of surveillance. I know every blind spot, every potential choke point.

As I round a corner, I recognize a lone security guardpatrolling the hallway ahead. He’s young, barely out of his teens, with a bored expression on his face as he scrolls through his phone. Poor kid. Wrong place, wrong time.

I wait, still as a panther spotting a rabbit, until he’s just a few feet away. Then, with a burst of speed, I lunge, one hand closing over his mouth while the other finds the pressure point at the base of his neck. He struggles for a moment, eyes wide, but my grip is iron. In seconds, he goes limp.

I ease the unconscious guard to the floor, propping him against the wall as if he merely dozed off.