Forbidden Access (Blackthorn Security #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

T his was a terrible idea.

Thorn had known it from the moment she’d been handed this assignment, but her instructions were clear: “Clayton is instrumental to the US government, a High Value Target who must be protected at all costs.”

As she parked her car down the road from the Lydian building, she let out an unladylike snort. The guy was a criminal. He’d started his career as a genius hacker, extorting money from people, and gone on to develop an illicit gambling platform and then a new cryptocurrency that fueled illegal activities on the dark web. People had died because of him. Okay, not directly, but the dark web was a cesspool of illicit dealings: weapons, human trafficking, pornography, terrorism.

Why the hell were they protecting this guy?

In reality, she knew why.

He was helping the FBI trace illegal transactions tied to terrorist groups, including those orchestrated by an arms dealer named Aleksandar Markov. Markov had been a person of interest to the U.S. authorities for years, but nobody could pin anything on him. Now, with Clayton’s revolutionary new upgrade, they might be able to tie Markov—and a bunch of other bad guys—into any number of crimes.

That meant Clayton had a big red bullseye on his head.

She scowled as she pulled her skirt down and tried to march in these ridiculous heels toward the front entrance of the building. She hoped to hell she wouldn’t have to make a quick getaway, because she wouldn’t get very far before falling flat on her face.

Better for everyone if Damian Clayton and his shady cryptocurrency vanished, but that wasn’t up to her.

Since joining Blackthorn Security as a private operator, she’d traded life as an undercover operative for lucrative private security contracts. Pat Burke, the resourceful ex-SEAL Commander and her new boss, had the inside track to government operations, ensuring his agency handled off-the-books missions for national security. Thorn preferred it to a mundane job on Civvie Street.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” she’d asked, back at the office. Crypto developers weren’t known for their altruism or government cooperation.

“He had an attack of conscience,” Pat had replied, offering no further explanation.

Thorn scoffed.

An attack of conscience, my ass.

People like Clayton didn’t change. They didn’t suddenly wake up and think, I don’t want to do this anymore. I think I’ll turn myself in, cut a deal and go on the straight and narrow. The authorities obviously had something on him, and were willing to overlook it, in exchange for his cooperation.

The Lydian building loomed ahead, a sleek three-story edifice of glass and chrome in Palo Alto. Silicon Valley was now her battleground. It was a far cry from the dusty streets of Baghdad where she had once navigated through market crowds, tailing insurgents without them ever noticing. Here, the enemy wore tailored suits instead of combat gear, and the weapons were lines of code rather than AK-47s.

Thorn walked up to Clayton’s building, clutching a manilla folder. Her strawberry blonde hair—a genetic gift from her Scottish grandmother and the one downside to undercover work because it was so noticeable—was pulled back into a stylish chignon.

Her plan—if you could call it that— was to walk right in the front door. She would stride into the secure Lydian building looking like a sexy businesswoman, someone who fit right in at the sleek office block and wouldn’t draw any suspicion.

Except, she needed an “in”.

Opportunity struck when she saw a frazzled businesswoman in the parking lot juggling binders, coffee, a purse, as well as pulling a suitcase behind her. The woman dropped a binder, cursed under her breath, and stopped walking.

Thorn rushed over, pushing the folder under her arm. “Let me help you with that.”

“Oh, thank you,” the woman replied, gratefully, as Thorn bent to pick up the binder. “I'm not having a good day.” The suitcase tipped over. The woman scoffed. “See what I mean?”

“Don’t worry, I totally get it.” Thorn handed her the binder, but as she did, she stealthily unclipped the laminated ID card attached to the woman’s blazer pocket. Oblivious to the sleight of hand, the woman thanked her before picking up her suitcase.

Thorn smiled and hurried on up the paved walkway toward the entrance. The path curved as it wound through a landscaped garden bursting with colorful flowers and lined with silent oaks gazing judgmentally down. She moved quickly, aware the woman could notice her missing ID at any moment.

A uniformed security guard stood just inside the entrance, behind the turnstile. Thorn assessed him.

Six-foot, two-fifty. Solid build, but a little soft.

Threat level: manageable.

She swiped the stolen ID through the scanner, flashing the guard a confident smile. “Morning, Reggie.” His name was on his badge.

“Morning, ma’am,” he responded, his eyes on her, not the monitor. The scanner beeped, and she stepped through the turnstile.

A moment later, the guy behind her scanned his card, and the machine beeped again. The guard’s focus shifted back to the monitor.

She was in.

Thorn’s heels echoed across the bright lobby, with its towering glass ceiling, marble floors, and stark white walls. She barely glanced at the massive bronze phoenix, wings spread wide, rising from the ashes in triumph. Sunlight filtered through the tinted ceiling, making the statue almost seem alive, its burnished surface glowing as if it held some hidden power.

It had to mean something to Clayton—his building, his symbol. Maybe she’d ask him about it, if the opportunity arose.

Thorn scanned the lobby. Only one visible exit—the same way she’d come in. The reception desk to her left buzzed with activity, people getting visitor passes. Above it, a floor directory caught her eye. She quickly located Damian Clayton, CEO.

Well, that was simple.

As expected, his office was on the top floor. She turned and headed for the elevator.

During the ride up, Thorn stayed at the back, silently observing her fellow passengers. Always assessing, always alert. After all these years, she couldn’t turn it off if she tried. But this crowd didn’t offer much in the way of threats.

The three men were slim, under a hundred and fifty pounds, all wearing eyeglasses—likely from too many hours staring at screens. No muscle, smooth hands, faces etched with the kind of passivity that comes from sitting in a cubicle all day.

She couldn’t understand how anyone could find coding appealing—felt like an air-conditioned prison cell to her.

The men got off before she did, leaving her alone as the elevator continued to the fourth floor. When the doors slid open, she stepped into a stylish lobby. No reception desk, no one to greet her—just two plush leather sofas flanking a sleek coffee table. Against one wall, a state-of-the-art coffee machine gleamed on a polished counter.

Classy.

She scanned the room for surveillance cameras but didn’t spot any. Not that it mattered—she’d be gone before anyone realized she was a problem. Thorn noted the names on the doors. Clayton’s office was right off the lobby, along with the CFO, Michael Ambrose, and the Head of HR, Delia Smithson. Taking a steadying breath, she gripped the handle and pushed open Clayton’s door.

Instead of Damian Clayton behind a big wooden desk, she was greeted by a pretty blonde assistant in a sharp pantsuit, her fake breasts strategically highlighted by a white blouse.

Thorn resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

This was just the outer office. Besides the assistant, two hulking security guards flanked the CEO’s office door. She sized them up.

Ex-military, three hundred pounds each, definitely armed.

Threat level: high.

The guards gave her a once-over and then relaxed, assuming she wasn’t a threat.

BIG mistake.

“Can I help you?” the pretty assistant asked. She had a high-pitched voice like a barbie-doll. Thorn pasted a harassed smile on her face.

“Oh, yes. Thank you. I’m here to see Mr. Clayton.” She flashed the stolen ID, praying the woman wouldn’t look too closely at the photograph. “Sarah Flannagan from Finance.”

Sarah didn’t have red hair, but she was auburn, and at a push, the strawberry blonde could be a recent dye-job.

Barbie didn’t even glance at it. “You don’t have an appointment.” The sign of a good personal assistant—she knew her boss’s schedule without having to look it up.

“Damian asked me to bring him these figures.” She gave a dramatic sigh and held up the folder in her left hand. Her right she kept free in case she had to reach for the Glock holstered to her inner thigh. “You know how he is, wants everything yesterday.”

Barbie gave a reluctant nod. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

“Thank you.”

Thorn sat down, observing the guards. They wore earpieces and stared straight ahead, their eyes fixed on some imaginary spot on the far wall. She tapped out a message on her phone to Anna, the logistics manager at Blackthorn Security HQ, based in Washington D.C. Almost immediately, the phone on Barbie’s desk began to ring.

She hurried over. “Hello. Mr. Clayton’s office.”

Thorn waited.

“Oh, God,” came the expected reply. There was an urgency to her voice now. “Yes, of course. I’ll send them down.”

Thorn watched as Barbie hung up, then swung around to address the guards. She kept her voice low, but not low enough so Thorn couldn’t overhear. “Someone was seen tampering with Damian’s SUV. There’s a ticking sound coming from underneath. It could be a bomb.”

The guards dashed out.

Fools.

Barbie glanced at Damian’s door, as if she was trying to decide whether to inform him or not. Shit. That wasn’t part of the plan. She had to distract her.

Thorn rose from the couch. “Something wrong?”

“No. Well, actually yes, but I’m sure it’s a false alarm.” Her voice was shaky.

“I hope so.”

She took a step toward Barbie, prepared to restrain her if necessary, but at that moment, she said, “Excuse me, I’m going to use the restroom.”

And leave your boss alone, unguarded.

Perfect.

Barbie might be pretty, but she had shit for brains.

“Take your time.”

Thorn waited until she was out of the office, then followed, slipping something from her jacket pocket as she moved. Once Barbie was in the restroom, Thorn slid a small, triangular wedge under the door. She tested the handle—it wouldn’t budge. Satisfied that Barbie was locked in, she headed back to Clayton’s office.

Reaching under her skirt, Thorn drew her Glock, the cold steel familiar and reassuring in her hand. She paused at the CEO’s door, listening.

Silence. He was alone.

Slowly, she turned the handle and stepped inside.

“Good morning, Mr. Clayton.” Thorn closed the door behind her and locked it.

Clayton looked up from his desk, eyes landing on the gun. He jumped out of his chair. He was fit, toned, and in great physical shape. Not the desk-bound geek she’d expected.

Six-two, two hundred pounds of lean muscle.

Threat level: moderate.

“Where’s Christine?”

Interesting. His first thought was for his assistant, not his two security guards or even himself. Maybe there was something between them. Wouldn’t be the first time a CEO got involved with his P.A., and it definitely wouldn’t be the last. She didn’t care either way.

“Who are you?” His eyes were on the gun. No fear, just anger. That surprised her.

She raised the Glock. “I’m the woman who’s going to kill you.”