49. Graham
49
GRAHAM
The clock on my desk ticks over to the thirty-minute mark.
I flex my fingers against the desk, the muscle in my jaw ticking. My phone sits next to me, screen dark, mocking. I could turn my servers back on. Run a trace. Break every rule I set for myself about patience and discipline.
I don’t. Instead, I open my messages.
Me: Update?
I watch the screen. Wait and wait some more.
I stare at my phone, then at the screen in front of me. The last text from Francesca sits there, the pin she dropped still open in a window on my laptop. It’s a machine custom-built for situations like this. When everything goes to hell and I need a fucking lifeline. The case meticulously engineered to be impervious to fire, water, extreme temperatures, just about everything. It weighs a solid fifteen pounds, but that reassuring heft is a small price to pay for the peace of mind it provides.
This isn’t the sleek, lightning-fast setup I usually use, but it has the basics. And more importantly, it’s a hard-wired set up that independently connects to my encrypted backup server.
Which means I have Sentinel, Oracle, my database, and access to all the information I pulled from the Blackwire computer. So I dumped everything I have into the programs and instructed them to cross-reference my database. On my regular setup, this would take an hour or two.
On my apocalypse laptop? We’re on hour seven.
Seven hours of waiting.
For my wife. My programs. My server.
I blow out a breath and rest my palm on Romeo’s back. He was a little distraught after Francesca left, but after a few hours, he mellowed out a bit. He hasn’t left my side, and I didn’t have the heart to put him in his kennel.
I open the text thread with my wife and stare at the screen. Fuck it, she should’ve texted me by now.
Me: Francesca.
When she doesn’t immediately reply, I force myself to take another deep breath. I flex my fingers, tunneling them through Romeo’s fur, grounding me. It’s not as good as my wife’s hair, but it’s not bad either.
It’s hard to curb my impulse to take action. Power up my servers, run a trace, fly across the country to get my wife. The need to do something rides me hard. But that’s the problem. Doing something impulsively is exactly what they’d want. If they’ve been watching, waiting, this is the perfect moment to bait me into making a mistake.
And I’ve learned that lesson already.
The apocalypse laptop beeps, a signal that it’s done sorting.
“Here we go, Romeo,” I murmur, my heart kicking inside my chest.
He groans as stretches his legs out next, eyes still closed.
I lean forward, my fingers flying across the keyboard as I sort and sift through the data now populating my screen. Sentinel and Oracle have finished their analysis, compiling all the information into a comprehensive dossier.
First, the financial records. Small transactions, buried deep. The kind that don’t set off alarms unless you know what to look for. Everyone knows you have to follow the money.
My eyes narrow as a pattern emerges. Shell corporations, offshore accounts, complex webs of transfers designed to obscure the money trail. But with Sentinel and Oracle untangling the threads, a clear picture starts to form. I just need one mistake, one slip up.
And there it is. A single transaction, larger than the others, made from a shell company tied to another company. One not hidden behind an alias.
Baldini Holdings.
The timestamp is from a month ago, right around when Giovanni Baldini showed up at Fiction & Folklore.
Coincidence? Not a fucking chance.
My pulse steadies, slow and lethal. I picture it. Baldini standing too close to Francesca in her store, planting something on her systems while she was distracted. A backdoor for Blackwire.
“You son of a bitch.”
Anger sears through my veins, white-hot and consuming. But I force it down, compartmentalize it. I can't afford to let emotion cloud my judgement, not when every second counts.
That discovery is circumstantial at best. I push deeper. I need more.
A minute later, I hit the motherlode. There was a red kill folder buried deep in the recesses of the computer. Dozens and dozens of files on their clients and their targets, perfectly laid out on who paid what and when.
It’s insane and risky and fucking thorough.
My eyes widen as I scroll through the contents of the folder. It’s all here. A verifiable roadmap of Blackwire Collective’s entire operation. Client names, targets, payouts, attack vectors. It’s meticulously organized and damning as hell.
A few names jump out at me immediately. Biotech startups on the cusp of major breakthroughs. Green energy companies poised to disrupt the fossil fuel industry. Tech giants with their fingers in classified government contracts. All of them victims of crippling ransomware attacks in the months leading up to buyouts or corporate takeovers.
Eighty percent of them were ordered by Baldini Holdings.
It’s a smoking gun.
My pulse is a slow, steady roar in my ears as understanding dawns on me like a bucket of cold water. I reach for my phone and call Francesca.
It rings, and rings, and rings. Her voicemail picks up, her cheery voice asking me why I’m calling and not texting her.
I hang up and try again. She doesn’t answer.
Me: Call me. It’s important.
I stare at my phone. Five whole minutes. A reasonable amount of time to wait before assuming the worst. Five minutes pass without a response. My stomach turns to stone.
I don’t move for five whole minutes. It’s a reasonable amount of time to give her before I let myself spiral into full-blown panic. I simply stare at the screen, breathing slowly through my nose.
When my phone remains silent, an icy fist of dread clenches around my heart. Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones, a certainty that sits like lead in my gut.
Francesca always answers me. Always. Even if it’s just to tell me she’s busy, that she’ll call me back later.
But not this time. This time, there’s only silence.
The air in my office turns thick and stifling, pressing down on me like a physical weight. It’s time to move.
My fingers are already moving before the thought finishes.
Me: I’m coming
I close my laptop and set it next to me on the couch. Romeo lifts his head, eyes tracking my movements like he can feel the shift in the air too.
“Alright, boy, time to go visit Uncle Beau. I’ve gotta go get our girl.”
I throw on clothes and get Romeo’s stuff together in record time. I shove the bag shut and clip his leash on, barely pausing to scratch behind his ears before heading toward the door. He trots at my heels, tail wagging like we’re just going for a walk. Like nothing’s wrong.
I wish I could say the same.
In fifteen minutes, I’m knocking on Beau’s door through the shared apartment. I don’t have time to walk out of my house and go to his front door like this is just some chat. I keep every part of me locked down tight, operating on pure instinct.
My brother opens the door with a frown. “Why are you pounding on my door at ten o’clock at night?”
I hold up Romeo’s leash. “Can you watch him?”
Beau’s eyes flick to the dog, then back to me. “Not answering my question.”
My jaw flexes. I don’t have time for this. “Can you watch him or not?”
Something shifts in Beau’s expression. The easy, laid-back energy he usually radiates sharpens. He studies me, his grip tightening on the edge of the doorframe.
Beau studies me. “You in trouble?”
I hesitate. A fraction of a second. A breath held just a little too long. But for me, it feels like I might as well be singing it in front of a stadium of people.
Finally, I exhale. “Yes.”
Beau doesn’t blink, doesn’t ask for details. Just nods once, turns, and grabs something from just inside his apartment. He returns a moment later, feet stuffed into boots and keys clutched in one hand, a bat in the other.
“A bat,” I deadpan.
Beau shrugs, resting it over his shoulder like it’s an extension of his arm. “It’s never let me down before. I don’t think it’ll start now.”
I don’t waste time arguing. “Fine. Bring the bat.” I hold out Romeo’s leash and bag. “But I still need someone to watch him.”
“I’ve got him,” Eloise murmurs from behind Beau. “Is Francesca okay?”
I nod my gratitude as she steps forward and takes Romeo’s leash. I crouch down and drop a kiss to the top of his head, running my palms over the side of his face the way he likes. “Be a good boy. I’ll be back soon.”
Eloise and Beau murmur their goodbyes, and my brother doesn’t waste an opportunity to kiss her like I’m not standing a foot in front of them.
I straighten and turn toward the door, not waiting for Beau to follow. I can hear his boots against the hardwood as he falls into step behind me.
We’re silent as we make our way out of the building and to my car. The night air is cool against my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat simmering just beneath the surface. Every muscle in my body is coiled tight, ready to snap at a moment’s notice.
As soon as we’re both in the car, doors shut and engine humming to life, Beau turns to me. “Where are we going?”
My voice is lethal. Absolute. “To bring my wife home.”