Chapter 3 #2
“Right.” She hooked a lock of hair behind her ear.
“The computer system has to be tapped from the inside,” Elin said. “Not something I can hack remotely. We need physical access to their internal ledger.”
Ellory nodded. “We’ve traced the shell companies and the transfers. But the ledger will show who actually controls the accounts—authorization keys, sign-offs, everything. Once we have that, the Treasury Department can freeze every dollar tied to Cipher.”
The room silenced, and she realized everyone was staring at her. Oh no. No, no, no.
“So you’ll send someone in undercover to—” she began.
“It has to be you.” Opal’s voice carried from the end of the table.
Ellory’s head whipped around, along with several others’. The woman gave her a sympathetic look.
“What? No. I’m support. I analyze financials. I don’t—I’m not field ops.”
“But you’re cleared for it. It’s how we met,” Opal reminded her gently.
“What makes Ellory the right person?” Ash’s gritty voice threw her even more off-balance.
Opal met her stare. “Because she might see something that we don’t notice. Because she has a photographic memory.”
If there were documents, receipts or anything financial, Ellory wouldn’t just catch it—her mind would take a snapshot of it to pull up later.
Ash was shaking his head. “We have recording devices for that. Body cams.”
But Dante was nodding. “Even with video, we could walk right past something important.”
Suddenly, Ellory wished she’d gone to vet school after all.
But she knew they were right. She wouldn’t just know what to look for—she would remember it.
Going into a bank to gather information on safety-deposit boxes that had been blown open was one thing. Walking into office space rented by a known terrorist was another.
Ellory had already traced a web of shell companies tied to Cipher.
Those companies owned properties across the country, laundering money through legitimate-looking rental income.
Some of that money had been converted into cash and valuables and stored in safety-deposit boxes—assets Cipher could access later to fund his operations.
The team could link the boxes to Cipher. What they still needed was proof his operatives had accessed them.
If they could tie the terrorists taking orders from Cipher to those boxes—through access logs, surveillance, anything that showed the money moving from Cipher’s control into their hands—the government could freeze every asset in the network.
She looked from face to face, searching for an out, but she only found expectation. They were looking at her like they needed her. The operation needed her.
“Who’s going with me?” Her voice came out steadier than she felt, much to her surprise.
“I’ll do it.”
She jerked her head to see who’d volunteered, even though she already knew who it was. The man with the big biceps.
Body odor!
And the steely buns.
Probably hairy!
Of course it was the moody, brooding operative with shoulders built for tackling linebackers and a jawline that could cut glass. The one who looked at her like she was an inconvenience he was forced to tolerate even as his gaze penetrated her too deeply.
This was a terrible idea. And definitely a reason for her to stay on base.
Going into the field with Angelo Ash was about as smart as trying to do corporate taxes drunk. He was too good-looking. Too intense. And that whole silent, dangerous thing he had going on? It was so hot on him.
Which was exactly the problem.
She’d spent the last two days trying to convince herself his ass was hairy and he probably had body odor, but her traitorous brain kept circling back to the way his muscles shifted under his shirts and how his dark eyes tracked her every movement.
Yup. Staying on base was safer. For the mission and her sanity.
“When?” she heard herself ask, even as her mind screamed at her to find an excuse.
“Now.” The order came from Con, and there was no arguing.
The nod he gave her didn’t provide any peace of mind.
“Ash, take the van. Steele, Mason, get them both prepped.”
All three men shoved away from the table, jumping into action. Only Ash paused to settle his gaze on her. It was just a beat, but it was enough to make her pulse speed up.
Sophie and Opal swept her away then, urging her down the hallway. A bag was shoved into her hand while her kitten heels clicked rapidly on the marble floor as she tried to keep up with Opal’s brisk pace.
“I can’t go into an op wearing these heels.”
Opal didn’t glance back at her as she led the way to the garage. “This is my go-bag. Boots are inside. You can change in the van.”
They reached a side door, and Opal swung it open. Before Ellory blinked, she was faced with a running van. Behind the wheel sat Ash.
Opal turned to her, placing her hands on Ellory’s shoulders. She was an inch or two taller than Ellory, and the woman’s authority fed her a little strength. “Your job is to get in, access the computer and catalog anything financial. In and out. Fast.”
In and out. She nodded.
As soon as the van door closed, Ash was backing out. Gripping her bag, she blinked at the headlights panning across the front of the garage, then hitting the trees surrounding the property.
“How long will this take?” Somehow she kept her voice even.
“The office building is a thirty-two minutes’ drive unless traffic gets heavier. Once we’re in the building, my guess is fifteen minutes.”
Fifteen minutes. She could do fifteen minutes.
Her breaths came faster, and she hugged her bag to her chest. What if something went wrong? She was just The Accountant.
“Ellory.”
She looked over to find Ash studying her, his dark eyes missing nothing.
Her chest felt too tight. Her palms were sweating. The rational part of her brain knew this was a low-risk op carefully planned by one of the best teams in the world.
That didn’t stop her mind from screaming demands that Ash turn the van around.
She had to deal with her anxiety.
Three things I can see.
One of the problems with being The Accountant was having so much dumped on her shoulders, whether she could carry it all or not. The grounding technique had gotten her through more than one panic attack.
She forced her eyes to focus.
One: the dashboard. Plain, unremarkable, standard van features.
Two: the side mirror. It reflected the road behind them, empty and quiet.
Three: Ash’s hands on the steering wheel. Large, capable hands with scarred knuckles and veins running up his forearms where his sleeves were pushed up, revealing golden skin and corded muscle.
She swallowed hard and looked away.
Three things I can touch.
Her fingers found the edge of the seat, and she gripped the smooth leather. The texture helped ground her in the present.
She whispered under her breath. “Seat. Seatbelt. Door handle.”
Except her brain wasn’t cooperating.
Instead of the door handle, she was imagining what it would feel like to touch Ash’s stubbled jaw. Would it be rough? Would he lean into her hand or pull away? And his arm—god, those arms—all ropes of sinew and prominent veins that probably felt like steel wrapped in warm skin.
“You good?”
His voice startled her out of the dangerous direction her thoughts had taken. She realized she’d been staring at his forearm.
“Fine.” She jerked her gaze to the windshield. “Totally fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I’m just…running through the plan in my head.” Not a total lie. She was definitely running through something in her head, even if it had nothing to do with the mission.
He glanced at her, and for just a second, his hard expression relented. “I’ve got you.”
She looked away before he could see what he did to her.
She touched the door handle. The seatbelt. The seat.
Three things she could touch.
None of them him.