Chapter 10 – Silas - Needle in the Vein #3
I nod toward the loft behind her. “One of your camera feeds. I saw it from the rooftop. Someone’s in the system.”
Her mouth closes. Then opens again. But no sound comes.
“May I come in?” I ask.
She steps back without speaking. Just enough to let me pass.
The door shuts behind me.
The room feels smaller than usual.
Not because of its size.
Because of what’s hanging between us now — the things we haven’t said and the way she hasn’t looked away since I arrived.
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a small device—black, matte, about the size of a lighter. Without a word, I set it on the table near the door and press the side. A tiny LED blinks green once, then goes dark.
She watches, eyebrow raised.
"Audio scrambler, it blocks microphones in a fifteen-foot radius." I say quietly. "We can talk now, no one will be able to hear us."
Her eyes shift from the device to my face. "I don't think Drazen's system has audio. I've said things in here that would've gotten me killed if he'd heard them."
I pause. She's probably right—most surveillance setups prioritize visual over audio for storage and bandwidth reasons. But "probably" isn't the same as certain.
"Better safe," I say.
She nods slowly. "Careful."
"Always."
I move toward the console on instinct.
The monitor is still lit. The glitch is subtler now. Almost gone.
I crouch, tap the edge of the screen.
“It’s not a bug,” I say. “It’s a forced stream loop. Someone’s piggybacking.”
She crosses her arms behind me.
“How do you know?”
Because I’ve done it.
Because it’s what I’d do if I wanted to keep a target watched without alerting anyone on the local feed.
“I just do,” I say instead. “Do you mind?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
I start tracing the stream. The software Drazen installed is overkill for a loft this size. Too many layers of redundancy, too much encryption. That alone was a red flag the first time I saw it. Nobody installs this much surveillance on someone they trust.
Only on someone they want to own.
I kill the current access line and start tracing the entry point.
Lydia doesn’t speak.
She just stands there, watching me work, like she’s trying to decide whether to trust me or throw me out.
She walks into the kitchen, opens a drawer, pulls out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. She doesn’t ask. She just pours.
By the time I finish tracing the access logs, I find what I was looking for—and what I wasn't expecting. The surveillance system has multiple access points. Drazen's, obviously.
But there's another one buried in the code, routing through an external network I don't recognize. Someone else has been watching her feeds. Someone with technical skill and resources.
Not Drazen. He wouldn't need to hack into a system he installed himself.
Which means someone else is in the loop. Someone who either paid for access or took it.
I make a note to dig deeper later.
She's already set one glass beside me and taken the other to the far end of the couch.
"Did Drazen tell you he gave someone else access to the feeds?" I ask.
"Drazen?" She takes a sip, eyes sharp over the rim of the glass. "He doesn't tell me things. He just makes sure I know he's watching."
"That's not what I'm asking." I lean forward slightly. "Someone else has been accessing your surveillance. A third party. The access signatures don't match Drazen's primary network."
Her expression doesn't change, but something shifts in her posture—tension bleeding into her shoulders that wasn't there before.
"Who?"
"I don't know yet." I glance back at the screen. "The routing's sophisticated. Whoever it is doesn't want to be traced."
She's quiet for a moment, processing. Then her expression shifts—not panic, but calculation.
"If someone's in Drazen's system without him noticing, they're better than I thought possible."
I look at her. "Why?"
"Because I did bypass his surveillance once. Had someone set up a loop system." She takes another sip. "Drazen caught it in forty-eight hours."
That stops me cold.
Forty-eight hours. That's not just good security—that's obsessive monitoring.
“Which means whoever this third party is, they're either exceptionally skilled, or they have access Drazen doesn't know about. Or both.”
"Dom?" she asks again, but this time there's less certainty in her voice.
"Maybe. Or someone with resources that rival Drazen's." I pause. "Or someone inside his organization covering the tracks."
That last possibility hangs in the air between us, heavy with implications neither of us wants to voice.
"I'm installing something," I say. "A monitoring system. If anyone accesses your cameras—third party, Drazen, anyone—I'll know."
She sets her glass down. "No."
I look at her.
"If you touch Drazen's system, he'll know. I bypassed it once, and he caught it in forty-eight hours. You add anything, even something small, and we're both dead."
She's right. I know she's right.
"Then I won't touch his system," I say. "I'll monitor from outside.
Install a network tap between your router and the building's main line.
It reads traffic passively—doesn't send any signals back into Drazen's infrastructure.
If anyone accesses the feeds, I'll see the data flow. No trace left behind."
She considers that. Studies my face like she's looking for the lie.
"You can do that?"
"Yes. It's how intelligence agencies monitor communications. The device sits on the network, copies packets as they pass through. Drazen's system won't see it because it's not interacting with his cameras directly—it's watching the data highway his cameras use."
"And Drazen won't know."
"Not unless he's running forensic-level traffic analysis. Which is possible, but unlikely. He's watching you, not the network architecture."
She's quiet for a moment. Then: "How long will it take?"
"Ten minutes. I just need access to your utility closet where the router is."
She nods once. "Okay."
I reach into my jacket and pull out a small black pouch from the inner pocket—the kind that's compact enough to stay flat against my ribs but holds the essentials I might need at any moment.
Multitool. Flashlight. USB cables. And today, the network tap I've been carrying since I first realized I'd need eyes on her place.
The tap itself is no bigger than a USB drive. The wireless transmitter is about the size of a lighter. Both fit in the palm of my hand.
I've had them on me for days, waiting for the right moment. Undercover work means being prepared for opportunities you can't predict. You don't get to go back to your car or run home for equipment. You carry what you might need and hope it's enough.
She leads me to the utility closet. It's cramped—barely enough room for both of us—but the router's right there, mounted on the wall with ethernet cables running in and out.
I crouch down, pull out the multitool, and carefully splice the tap into the outbound ethernet line. It takes less than five minutes. The device is small enough to tuck behind the router's casing where it won't be seen unless someone dismantles the setup.
The wireless transmitter goes on the shelf above, tucked behind a stack of old modem boxes. It'll send encrypted copies of the network data to a remote server I control. Battery backup built-in, good for seventy-two hours if the power goes out.
I stand, brush off my hands, and pull out my phone.
Open the monitoring app.
The feed loads—live footage from Drazen's cameras in her apartment. Kitchen. Living room. Bedroom.
I close it immediately and pocket the phone.
"It's active," I tell her. "If anyone accesses those feeds, I'll get an alert."
She nods, but there's something in her expression—like she knows I'm not telling her everything.
She's right.
What I didn't say: monitoring the network traffic means I can see everything those cameras see. Not just when a third party accesses them. When Drazen watches. When anyone watches.
And what they're watching.
It's not about the third party anymore.
It's about making sure I know the second anything threatens her.
Even if that threat is the man who installed the cameras in the first place.
Eventually, she asks, “You do this often? Barge into apartments, fix systems you didn’t install, tell half-truths like they’re gifts?”
I look up.
There’s an intensity in her gaze, yet it’s not unkind.
“No,” I say. “I don’t.”
“Then why me?”
I don’t answer.
Because I’m not sure if it’s about her.
Or the way she makes me hate every leash I ever learned to wear.
But I say something close to the truth.
“Because if they’re watching you... I want to be the one who knows it first.”
She sets her glass down.
Stands.
Walks to the console.
Her fingers hover above the keyboard where mine just were.
Then she turns as I get up.
We’re inches apart again, just like in the hallway back at the club.
But this time, she’s the one who moves first.
She opens the door for me.
Not like she’s kicking me out.
But like she’s allowing me to leave.
And that difference is everything.
The door closes behind me without a sound.