Chapter 13
Ty
I pressed myself against Charlotte’s kitchen counter, trying to stay out of the blast radius while she worked.
She’d commandeered the breakfast table, transforming it into some kind of quantum command center—three monitors arranged in a semicircle, cables snaking across the surface like digital veins.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard with the precision of a concert pianist performing Rachmaninoff.
If Rachmaninoff had written code that could save thousands of lives.
The morning sun slanted through her kitchen window, catching the copper threads in her auburn braid.
She’d twisted it up and secured it with what looked like a spare USB cable, because of course she had.
Every few minutes, she’d reach up absently to adjust it, her fingers already moving back to the keys before her hand fully left her hair.
My phone vibrated against the countertop. George’s name lit up the screen.
“Talk to me,” I said, keeping my voice low as I stepped toward the living room. Charlotte probably wouldn’t notice if a meteor crashed through the ceiling right now, but I didn’t want to risk breaking her concentration.
“Things just went from bad to clusterfuck.” George’s voice carried that particular brand of exhausted tension I recognized from my Army days—the sound of someone running on coffee and determination.
Background noise filtered through—phones ringing, urgent voices, the mayhem of a federal crisis in motion. “Charlotte okay after yesterday?”
“Bruised. Shaken. But functional.” I glanced back at her. She’d started muttering at her screen, something about recursive functions and quantum entanglement. “She’s going at it strong.”
“Where are you two? The lab?”
“Working remotely today.” I kept my answer vague, not mentioning Charlotte’s house specifically.
After yesterday’s coordinated attack, I wasn’t taking chances.
Not even with George’s office. The FBI had already proven they had at least one mole when the Cascade Protocol got stolen.
No reason to assume that was their only leak.
“Figured a change of scenery might help her focus.”
George paused, and I could practically hear him connecting the dots. Smart man. “Probably wise. Keep the location need-to-know.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Good. We need that countermeasure yesterday.” Papers rustled on his end.
“We’re running out of time. The Cascade Protocol auction is set for next week.
Our cyber division’s been monitoring dark web chatter—whoever stole this is accepting bids from every terrorist organization and hostile state actor with a cryptocurrency wallet. ”
Fuck. My gut tightened. “How bad?”
“The auction’s getting serious interest. We’ve intercepted communications from at least twelve potential buyers—all the usual suspects, plus some new players we haven’t seen before.”
“Not fucking surprised, given that the Cascade Protocol can turn a billion devices into weapons with the right frequency attack.”
He let out a sigh. “The director’s breathing down my neck. If this gets deployed before we have Charlotte’s countermeasure ready…”
I watched Charlotte through the doorway, her whole body tense with concentration as she debugged something on her center screen. She knew what was at stake.
“What’s the FBI doing about the auction?”
“Cyber division’s creating a shell terrorist organization, trying to get an invitation to bid.
Complete with fake dark web presence, cryptocurrency accounts, the works.
If we can trace the seller, maybe we can stop this before it spreads.
” He paused. “But that’s a Hail Mary at best. Too many variables. Too many ways it could go sideways.”
“Leaving it until the auction is suicide,” I said. “If something goes wrong, if they smell FBI—”
“They’ll accelerate the sale or go completely dark.
I know.” His frustration bled through the phone.
“Had a briefing with the director this morning. She made it crystal clear—if this gets out, if even one city gets hit, it’ll make 9/11 look like a firecracker.
That’s why your girl finishing that countermeasure is critical.
It might be our only safety net if this thing gets loose. ”
Your girl. The words stuck in my head as George continued talking about contingency plans and threat assessments. Charlotte wasn’t mine. But after this morning…
Christ. This morning.
The memory hit me like a physical force—Charlotte’s body arching beneath my touch, those little gasps she’d made when I’d found exactly the right spot, the way she’d looked at me afterward with such wonder and vulnerability it had taken every ounce of self-control not to gather her up and never let go.
Turning down her sweetly logical offer of reciprocity had been torture. She’d gazed up at me with those enormous green eyes, all earnest determination to balance the equation, like pleasure was something that needed to be fairly distributed according to some mathematical formula.
The innocence of it had nearly broken me. Made me want to show her exactly how good it could be when both people were focused on giving rather than keeping score.
But this morning hadn’t been about me. It had been about showing Charlotte that she was worth taking time with. Worth savoring. Worth more than some clinical experiment or rushed encounter.
That she was beautiful.
“Hughes? You still there?”
I shook off the memory. “Yeah. Sorry. So, timeline?”
“Seven days until the auction. Can she do it?”
I looked at Charlotte again. She’d switched to her left monitor, lines of code scrolling past faster than I could track. Her lips moved silently, working through some problem, and then she let out a little victory whoop that made me smile despite everything.
“If anyone can, it’s her.”
“Good. Keep her safe, Ty. Whatever it takes.”
The line went dead. I stood there for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear, processing everything George had just laid out. Twelve potential buyers. Making 9/11 look like kids’ play. The director breathing down his neck.
And Charlotte in the next room, carrying the weight of the only solution we had.
I shoved the phone into my pocket and pulled it back out almost immediately, switching to messages. If someone inside Vertex was involved—either knowingly or as an unwitting pawn—we needed to know before they made another move.
Any updates on those Vertex financials you were digging into?
Jace’s response came almost immediately.
Just finished the preliminary scan. Nothing obviously suspicious. No sudden wealth, no lifestyle changes that don’t match salaries.
Me: That’s good, right?
Jace: Maybe. But these are computer engineers we’re talking about. They know how to hide digital footprints better than most. Running deeper analysis now, looking for more subtle patterns.
Me: Check Raymond Wilmington specifically. Head of security. Guy’s been hostile since day one.
Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again.
Jace: Oh, this is interesting. Your boy Raymond isn’t taking bribes, but he’s got a serious addiction issue.
Me: Drugs? Gambling?
Jace: Warhammer 40k.
I pocketed my phone and moved back toward the kitchen, drawn by the sound of Charlotte’s voice. She’d progressed from muttering to full conversations with her code.
“No, no, no. You can’t cascade there, you beautiful disaster. The quantum state’ll collapse if you—yes! There you go. Play nice with the stabilizer function.”
She talked to the code like it was a living thing, coaxing and scolding in equal measure.
Her whole body moved as she worked—shoulders rolling with frustration when something didn’t compile, a little bounce of victory when a function executed properly.
She’d kicked off her slippers and had one foot tucked under her, the other tapping against the chair leg in some rhythm only she could hear.
Here in her own space, without everybody staring or me distracting her—although I had to admit, I very much liked that I did—she moved with a fluid grace I hadn’t seen at the lab.
No hesitation in her movements, no second-guessing.
This was Charlotte unplugged. Unfiltered. Completely in her element.
It was mesmerizing.
She pushed back from the table suddenly, stretching her arms overhead with a groan that did inappropriate things to my concentration. Her T-shirt rode up, revealing a strip of pale skin that made my mouth go dry.
“Inferior recursive loop,” she announced to her laptop, then spun her chair to face the center monitor. “You’re better than that. We both know you’re better than that.”
I looked back down at my phone, trying to wrap my head around what Jace was saying about Raymond Wilmington.
Me: Warhammer, as in the game and books?
Jace: Dude spends literally every spare penny on tiny plastic soldiers.
Credit card statements show purchases from Games Workshop, eBay listings for “rare Primarch figures,” whatever those are.
Last month, he dropped two grand on something called a “Titan Legion.” His apartment probably looks like a shrine to the Emperor of Mankind.
Me: You’re joking.
Jace: I never joke about financial forensics. Or grown men who paint miniatures for fun. Actually, strike that. I definitely joke about the second thing. Your security head is basically a weaponized nerd with a badge.
Me: So no red flags?
Jace: Unless the Chaos Gods are involved, he’s clean. At least financially. Though spending $500 on something called a “Mortarion, Daemon Primarch of Nurgle” should probably be illegal. I’m sending you pics of his eBay history. It’s…extensive.
I scrolled through the images Jace sent. Raymond’s purchase history read like a fantasy novel glossary—Space Marines, Orks, something called Tyranids that looked like H.R. Giger’s nightmares. The man had spent more on miniature soldiers in the last year than I’d spent on my truck.
Jace: Best part? He’s got a painting blog under a pseudonym. “GrimDarkPainter47.” Posts detailed tutorials on “dry brushing techniques” and “battle damage weathering.” His latest post is a 3,000-word essay on the proper shade of red for Blood Angels armor.
Me: This is the guy who acts like I personally insulted his ancestors by existing in his building.
Jace: Probably imagined he was challenging you to honorable combat for the glory of the Imperium. I’ll keep digging on the others, but honestly? If someone’s using an inside man, my money says they’re being manipulated, not paid. These people are too smart to leave obvious financial trails.
Charlotte’s phone rang, the sound sharp enough to make me look up. She didn’t react. Didn’t even twitch. The phone continued its insistent buzzing on the table next to her, but it might as well have been in another dimension for all the attention she paid it.
I walked over and checked the screen. Alex Richards.
“Charlotte.” No response. I touched her shoulder gently. “Charlotte.”
She blinked up at me, pupils dilated like she’d been staring into the quantum realm itself. For a second, she looked completely lost, as if she’d forgotten where she was. Her fingers still hovered over the keyboard, frozen mid-keystroke.
“What?” The word came out rough, like she hadn’t spoken in hours.
“Your phone,” I said, holding it up. “It’s Alex.”
She stared at the screen, processing the information like it was written in a foreign language. The phone stopped ringing. Started again immediately.
“Should I answer it?” I asked.
She nodded slowly, still partially caught in whatever coding fugue she’d been in. “Yeah. Yes. Answer it.”
I swiped to accept the call. “Dr. Gifford’s phone.”
“Who is this?” Alex’s voice was tight, stressed. In the background, I could hear what sounded like multiple people arguing.
“Ty Hughes. Charlotte’s right here, but she’s deep in coding mode. Want me to put you on speaker?”
“Yes. Charlotte, are you there?”
She leaned toward the phone, blinking rapidly as if trying to shift her brain from code to English. “I’m here, Alex.”
“Thank God you’re okay. I heard about the accident yesterday and got your email that you weren’t coming in this morning. But Charlotte—” His voice shifted from relief to something sharper, more urgent. “Did you take the stabilizer code drive out of the lab?”
Charlotte’s entire body went rigid. Every muscle locked up like she’d been flash-frozen. “I—”
“Please tell me you didn’t remove classified materials from a secure facility without authorization. We’ve been through this before.”
I watched the color drain from her face as the implications hit her. Her fingers curled into fists on the table.
“Alex, I can explain—”
“You need to come in immediately,” Alex said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Right now, Charlotte. Bring the drive with you. We need to talk about this before it becomes a bigger problem than it already is.”