Chapter 8 Rafe #2
The admin office is tiny compared to mine, but all we need is a computer hooked up to the network with access to all our systems and Feodor has supplied exactly that.
We squeeze into the closet-sized space I can never imagine Lombardi occupying, and Riley plants herself in the chair, already waking the computer up.
"Everything you need is here," he says. "Admin login is already pulled up. You'll need to access the federal shipping database and update the routing permits for shipment code seven-four-three-nine."
Riley sits down and pulls the keyboard toward her. Her fingers hover over the keys for a moment, then she starts typing. I watch her work for a few seconds. She's fast. Her eyes scan the screen, darting from line to line, and her fingers move without hesitation.
"How much time do I have?" she asks without looking up.
"Just over an hour," I say. "Maybe less."
She nods and keeps typing. The minutes crawl past. I stand behind her, watching the code scroll across the screen, and try not to think about what happens if she fails. Feodor steps out to coordinate with the men on the floor, leaving me alone with her.
"I need the original filing date," she says.
"Three weeks ago. November twenty-eighth."
Her fingers fly across the keyboard. "And the destination?"
"Seattle. Distribution center on the south side."
She pulls up another window and starts cross-referencing codes. I watch her brow furrow, her lips pressing into a thin line. She's nervous. I can see it in the way her shoulders tense, the way she keeps glancing at the clock in the corner of the screen.
"How did you learn to do this?" I ask.
"Online tutorials. Forums. Trial and error." She doesn't look at me. "I used to build custom mods for games I played. Tweaking mechanics, adding features. It's not that different from this."
Seconds tick by, then minutes. I lean against the wall and see how her hands are shaking, especially when Feodor knocks to let me know he's gotten a call and the agents are about fifteen minutes out.
Her nervous glances stop entirely after that, focus consuming everything she's doing.
And when Feodor knocks again, she hits the enter key and the printer in the corner buzzes to life.
"Done," she says, but her face is contorted in fear.
"They're here," Feodor says at the same time Riley speaks. The tension in this room is so palpable, I could play it like a guitar string.
"Let's go," I tell them, waiting only a second to snag the new paperwork before heading out.
The Feds are waiting by the loading dock, wearing dark suits with badges clipped to their belts. A woman in business attire stands beside them, holding a tablet and looking thoroughly unimpressed.
"Gentlemen," I say, extending my hand. "Rafe Ferretti. I manage this facility."
The taller of the two agents shakes my hand with a firm grip. "Agent Monroe. This is Agent Kellerman and Officer Davis from the compliance division. We're here to inspect shipment seven-four-three-nine."
I hand him the permits. "I was shocked to get your notice. It appears everything's in order on our end." I hand them the paper, still warm from the printer, but even I'm nervous this time. I'm banking everything in my company on the work of a bank teller from Brooklyn.
Nothing could possibly go wrong…
Officer Davis takes the papers and starts scanning through them with narrowing eyes as she scans each line. Riley stands behind me, her arms crossed, her face pale but composed. I can feel the tension radiating off her, but she doesn't speak.
"These permits are dated three weeks ago," Officer Davis says, frowning. "But the system shows the shipment was flagged yesterday for a routing discrepancy."
"Clerical error," I say smoothly. "One of our staff entered the wrong codes into the system when logging the shipment. It's been corrected."
She looks at me, then at Riley. "And you are?"
Riley straightens. "Riley…" She's wise not to mention her last name. "I handle documentation and filing for this facility."
"You made the error?"
Riley hesitates for half a second and she looks adequately terrified. Her pasty skin is pale as she says, "Yeah, I mean… I don't make mistakes at work so I'm sort of anxious. I must've just transposed two numbers."
Officer Davis studies her for a long moment. I think Riley's obvious nervousness must help us because Davis moves away from the topic too easily. She mutters something to the agents who stand beside her then looks up at me.
"While we're here, how about a tour of the facility?
Just check up on things a little." The matter-of-fact way she says it means we've shored up the issue and nothing can be done on their end, which means Riley pulled it off.
And I have no problem showing them around because this warehouse is always ready for a surprise inspection.
The agents spend another twenty minutes walking through the warehouse, checking manifests and inspecting pallets. Riley stays close to me the entire time, her hands shoved into the pockets of her sweatshirt, her shoulders tense. By the time they leave, Officer Davis is satisfied.
I watch their car pull out of the parking lot, and I don't exhale until they're out of sight.
I turn and look at Riley. She's still standing by the loading dock, her arms wrapped around herself, staring at the empty road where the Feds disappeared. Her face is still pale, her jaw still tight, and I can see the adrenaline draining out of her now that the danger has passed.
I walk over to her, but she doesn't look at me.
Watching her work this morning felt transcendent.
Not once did she buck me or try to get out of it.
And when she stood there in front of federal agents, she could've used her last name, which would've alerted them to her location and connection to me the very instant her family reports her missing.
Because at this rate, it's gonna take a bit longer than I hoped and they will definitely report her.
So why didn't she?
Why didn't she open her mouth and ask for help when she had two armed cops right there?
"You did well," I tell her, and I make sure I'm looking out at the road and not down at her. If I study her for too long, my dick will start to swell again like it did the other morning. "You could've let it all fall apart on me and I'd have been arrested."
"Then what?" she asks, turning to glare at me. "You have a gun to my sister's head. Right?" Her eyebrows lift and I look down at her. "Didn't think I had any choice but to play a part. Now, can we go? I'd like to finish my job and go home."
Riley walks off with feet slapping the polished concrete floor, and I smirk at her attitude. All of that, and she still has some sass to her. It makes me want to pull her hair and tell her what a bad girl she's being mouthing off to me like that.
But having the ability to take me down openly and probably go home to her family safely but not using it…
I'm impressed. I wonder what else she'll do for me considering I have a metaphoric gun to Lila's head.
And I wonder if the way she looked at me while we were standing on that deck has anything to do with the reason she just covered my tracks.
Maybe I'll get a chance to find out soon.