Chapter 7 Wesley
Wesley
In for a penny, in for a pound.
Madison doesn’t leave the house very often, apart from the occasional coffee or food run—bit of a shut-in, that one, though I suppose I can’t judge because I’ve been accused of the same—so I’ve been stuck in the van for days, waiting for the chance to get in her apartment.
While I waited, I got all the information I could from the usual places.
I was able to find out where she was born, how she grew up, her school records, her social security number, her bank accounts, her car’s VIN, her credit history, her payment history, her medical records, her weekly routine, her pizza order, her gym membership, her fucking Netflix account…
Once I started, it was hard to stop collecting the details of her life.
And now I have everything, but it’s nowhere near enough.
I can’t stop myself from trying to catch glimpses.
My eyes are glued to her every time she goes anywhere.
The pull to get those cameras inside her apartment has become almost a physical pain in my chest—and even that might not be enough to satisfy this hunger.
I know I shouldn’t have made contact like that—before I had all the data and was ready—but I rationalized it because I needed to get a tracker in her purse, and I haven’t had many opportunities.
But truth be told, I didn’t even try to come up with another plan.
I saw her turning into that coffee shop, and I just went after her.
And once I saw the way she looked at me with those sultry caramel-colored eyes and heard the purr of desire in her voice…
With a sigh, I grab the energy drink can from the holder in the center console and drain the last drops, making a face at the metallic tang that the last warm sip of something always seems to take on.
Madison’s car tracker stops moving at the retirement home where I now know her grandmother lives, and I realize this is my chance. Last time, she was there for over an hour—that should be enough time to get in and do what needs to be done.
Before I leave the van, I shut down or divert any security cameras that might catch me, both on the block and within her building.
I adjust the white hard hat and grab a clipboard that has the fake paperwork that I’ll pretend to fill out using a pen with the cable company’s logo. Because details matter.
The building itself requires two keys for entry, but an elderly tenant passing through lets me in even though she’s “not supposed to” when I tell her I’m upgrading their internet.
Madison’s flat has a physical lock that I pick, two cameras that have easily diverted feeds just inside, and a door alarm that triggers after 30 seconds without a code.
Luckily, this particular system has an override code that they use at the factories when refurbishing them for resale.
Oh, and a guard cat.
I bend down and allow the cat to sniff my fingers.
Having given the proper greeting, I’m accepted easily, and I give him a scratch behind the ear.
But when he tries to rub up against my trousers as I stand, I dodge out of the way.
I like cats, but being covered in hair is sort of the antithesis of being sneaky.
I pause for a second to take it all in. This is her private space, and I get to poke about without her knowledge.
I can see how she lives when no one is watching.
Heady excitement thrums in my veins. I’m hardly ever out in the field anymore, what with Mac and Dimitri having it well in hand, so I half-forgot what an adrenaline rush it can be.
It’s a tidy place, full of color and knick-knacks. I inhale deeply, smelling feminine soaps with indistinct florals, kitchen grease, cleaning supplies and weed. There’s a pipe with blackened bits on her kitchen counter, which makes me smile, for some odd reason.
I move through methodically until I find what I’m looking for. Her bedroom. Well, her computer—it just happens to be in her bedroom.
The desk and desktop computer occupy almost half the space.
I note with appreciation how well-managed her cables are and how recently she’s cleaned her lint screens.
She takes good care of her investments. The computer has a mismatched look, which I know means that she built it herself and that she only replaces components when they get too old or slow to serve her anymore.
I’m impressed—this is more than I was expecting to find, since the vast majority of people buy machines pre-assembled.
Madison Cooper must be good with computers.
I tap the mouse to wake up the screen and win that bet with myself that there’s a password.
Of course, there’s a password. Well… that’s what the cameras are for.
If I can properly aim one at her desk, I should be able to see as she types it the next time she logs in.
Once I have her phone cloned, not even dual-factor authentication will be a problem, if she has it.
The sound of my own phone buzzing in my pocket nearly startles me out of my skin. I check the ID and only just manage to catch my groan. For a sniper, his timing is terrible sometimes.
With a sigh, I place an earpiece in. “What?” I ask, hearing an edge in my voice as my heartbeat slowly readjusts to the lack of imminent danger.
“Hey buddy. How’s it going?” Mac asks around a mouthful of something.
I swear that bloke is always eating. “Fine. I’m a bit busy for a chat,” I say. Even though I’m alone, I keep my voice low—you never know how thin the walls are in a place like this. “I’m setting up surveillance in the target’s flat.”
The cameras are of my own design and well-built, if I do say so myself. They’re incredibly small and contain powerful microphones as well as decently high-resolution cameras—but not capable of swiveling or zooming in, so strategic placement is necessary.
Mac whistles. “You’re inside her place right now? Why the hell did you answer the phone?” he chuckles.
With a noise of frustration, I stretch up and deposit a camera just inside the lip of the air vent in the ceiling, facing the front door. “Despite all evidence to the contrary, you do occasionally have something useful or important to say.”
“You flirtin’ with me, Short Round?”
I snort and move to the other side of the room to place another camera on a bookshelf among the various knickknacks, facing the only external window in her apartment. This has a good sideways view of the couch and into the kitchen.
“Shall I draw you a map to the point or will you get there on your own?” I ask as I move to place the final camera in her bedroom, concealed atop a corner bookshelf and angled to capture her desk.
“Well, I called to check in. It sounds like you’ve got things handled, if you’re bugging the place. But I also called because someone—not me—got himself locked out of the shared drive and didn’t want to call you to reset his password.”
Sometimes I feel like bloody IT support. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Dimitri told me he wrote it down.”
Dimitri’s low voice is faint on the other end, like he’s listening through Mac’s phone. “I lost the Post-it.”
“I told you not to put it on a Post-it,” I grit out. “Make it memorable or there’s no point in having one at all.”
Distantly, there’s some Russian muttering. “He says he’s sorry and he’ll never do it again,” Mac says. I can hear the smile.
“He did not,” I snort as Dimitri scoffs, “I did not.”
A loud banging noise out in the hallway startles me. I recognize the sound from my own entry and know it was the front door of the building. It reminds me of the ever-present risk of discovery. Time to go.
With my blood pounding in my ears, I move into the main room just in time to hear the grinding of a key in the deadbolt.
“Fuck,” I curse softly.
“What happened?” All teasing is gone, and Mac is suddenly alert.
“She’s coming back!” I whisper, darting forward to grab my clipboard off the entrance table.
“Hide!”
I don’t bother to voice my sarcastic remark—fucking obviously—as I whirl around, assessing.
There aren’t many hiding spots for a bloke my size in a place this small.
She might immediately need to use the loo, and the shower curtain is transparent, so that’s out.
Her kitchen is completely open. Her bed frame is open with no skirt, so she might see me… closet it is.
The deliberation feels like it takes ages, but by the time I get her closet door almost entirely closed—leaving it open a hair so I don’t have to fuss with the knob in case I need to move quickly—she’s just stepping inside her flat.
I hear the metallic clinking of keys hitting a bowl and a few soft thuds that I imagine are her shoes getting tossed into the pile by the door.
“Hey SB, how you livin’?” she says. Her voice is muffled through the layers of wood and plaster, and nearly drowned out by the loud, rapid beating of my own heart. Adrenaline tends to sharpen the senses.
A loud, demanding trill follows her question.
“I know, I know, you can see the bottom of your bowl. Customer service is processing your complaints, and someone will be right with you,” she grumbles.
I fight the grin. Damn it. She’s funny. I didn’t need another reason not to want to kill her.
“How’s it going, Wes? You good?” Mac asks.
Instead of responding audibly, I send him a thumbs-up emoji in our group chat.
“We should not have allowed him into the field. It has been too long since he got up from his desk,” Dimitri admonishes in the background.
“Yeah, Short Round. Getting caught with your pants down? Rookie mistake.” Mac chuckles, clearly convinced I’m in no real danger. “In her file she looked pretty small, though. If she finds you, I bet you could take her.”
Dimitri snorts. “You say this because you have not seen the footage of his combat with that drug dealer last month. He threw away his weapon. He is lucky it was not his last mistake.”
“Gasp,” Mac replies instead of actually gasping.