Chapter 1 #2
“Hey, Frank. Yeah, sorry for the late call. I need a favor. Can you send your most trusted and discreet agent to Carl Brent’s house?
They’ll look good on the front pages of every newspaper in the city.
” As he says that, Harrison locks eyes with Dad who nods once, confirming he’ll get it done.
It helps that he owns most of those newspapers.
Then it clicks in my head, he’s calling Frank Huxley, the director of the FBI—the man who, embarrassingly, has my number and uses it whenever a hacker tries to get into their networks, just to make sure it’s not me . . . again.
When the call ends, Harrison looks at me. He knows about my brush with the law, but I doubt he’s thinking about that right now.
“An agent will be here soon, and you need to be able to explain everything to them and help them figure out how to shut that down and find every victim and client or whatever the fuck they call themselves. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” I agree after a heavy sigh, surprised he’s going to bring me in on this. I doubt this agent will have an issue with that . . . I’ve paid my dues with them, and the CIA. But even top agents in major cities don’t know about me, not the full truth anyway.
I remember my place belatedly, though, and turn to Dad, because I’m the Heir to his Chair, and it’s not my place to agree to do this. I’ve never been in a situation like this with the Turris before.
“You can stay, Michael,” Harrison tells Dad. “And sorry, Tucker, I need you to stay for a while too. Everyone else, get out of here before anyone sees you, and if you see that security guy, tell him to come in here.”
Tucker’s father, Jim, frowns disapprovingly at Harrison, but he nods at Tucker, and then he’s the first one out the door.
Iris goes in search of something to tie Brent up with and comes back with a roll of heavy-duty tape raised triumphantly over her head, then she slaps a long piece over his face while Tucker holds him still.
All the while, I keep trying to take control of the website, but whoever designed it knew what the hell they were doing.
I can’t dismantle it with only my tablet, I’d have to go to my home office—where I keep all my best toys—and spend a few hours doing it. But I don’t have that time right now since the FBI and a few trusted reporters are on their way to this house.
What I can do, thanks to the laminated piece of paper with the passwords, is get every single receipt of payment the website has ever gotten. That’s pretty much all the information the FBI will need, I think, before Brent’s arrest spreads out.
Whoever made the website, though . . . I have no doubt they’re going to shut it down the second the news gets out, so I focus all my energy on finding a signature in the code—every hacker I’ve encountered has one.
Ego is more often than not the downfall of geniuses, but I’ll never let it be mine, not again. In my na?ve youth—okay, four years ago—I did leave my signature behind, but not because of ego, more because of a brand.
In certain circles, my handle is a stamp of approval, something that tells everyone there are good intentions behind my actions, but I’m past that nowadays.
“Eli.” Dad’s loud voice finally snaps me out of my trance, and I look away from the screens and see Tucker, Dad, Iris, Harrison, and a new man who I suppose is an FBI agent all staring at me. Brent is lying on the couch on his side, hands behind his back, still bound.
“What?” I ask, just a smidge exasperated, but come on, I was in the zone. “I’m trying to find the hacker’s signature so I can track ’em later. As soon as news gets out, they’re probably going underground, and clearly . . .” I pause to gesture at the agent. “Time is running out.”
“What did you find, son?” Dad asks, he’s the only one who’s recovered from my rant, which makes sense because he’s been witness to them my whole life.
“I have every transaction ever made. From what I could see just skimming the list, a lot are Cayman Island accounts, so that’s gonna be tough, but all the others will probably be easy enough to identify the owners of.”
“That’s . . .” the agent says, wincing.
“Illegal?” I ask, smiling widely at him. “Yes, I know. All of this is very illegal.”
I refuse to apologize for one single thing I’ve done tonight now that I understand what’s really been going on under everyone’s noses.
“Find the signature so they can take him,” Harrison says, his voice still ringing with that power he has.
“Yes, boss,” I mutter and get back to work.
It takes me twenty more minutes, and as far as I’m concerned, no one speaks in all that time. I sure as shit don’t register a word, especially when I finally find it.
Hidden like a straw of hay in a haystack—don’t ever get me started on the needle thing—the signature is infuriating: tgr81gotcha
The great one gotcha?
That’s . . . taunting.
But I make a mental note of it, not needing anything else to remember it, and finally look up.
“You can take him now. I’ve got them.”
The agent mutters something then finally rips the tape off Brent’s mouth and pulls him up to stand. He shouts in outrage and pain, and the way Harrison stares at me tells me that one thing I probably missed is him reminding Brent of the consequences of blabbing about the Turris.
“Now that he’s gone,” Harrison says, voice calm. He spends one second looking into each person’s eyes before they finally land on me. “I need you to make sure no one can ever find out about who was here before.”
Yeah, the implications would be insane.
“Got it.” I give him a sharp nod and start the process of hacking into the signal of the closest cell tower. The easiest way to find GPS signals that were recorded here tonight is to look at the phones, so I get right on that while Harrison keeps talking.
“I don’t feel, at this moment, that explaining everything will help, and I trust you three to not question me right now.”
So Iris knows everything Harrison isn’t saying, that’s interesting.
I keep my eyes on my tablet.
“And the official report will give out false details of course. The FBI will get full credit for this. None of us did anything, understood?”
Everyone murmurs their agreement quickly. None of us want to be connected to this type of news.
“I’m sorry for all the extra work, Eli, but I think that’s all we can do for tonight, right?”
“I can keep working from home, and I wouldn’t mind not spending another second in this place.
” Besides, it’s getting late and Lex’s game is starting soon on the West Coast. Even if his team isn’t the best, he is, and in order for him to believe me whenever I tell him this, I need to be able to back my statement up with facts, and that requires actually watching his games.
“Yeah, same, but how the hell are we going to leave this place if it’s surrounded by the press?” Tucker asks, his frat-boy look, tone, and confused frown belied by how smart and pertinent the question is.
“Let me call agent Dillon,” Harrison mutters and once more puts his phone to his ear.
It takes forty uncomfortable minutes until Dillon and the secret service agent assure us no one is around and we can all scatter.
I keep working on my tablet while Dad steers me along the sidewalk to the nondescript car we only ever use for Turris shit. When we walk into the brownstone ten minutes later, I smile to myself because my workflow doesn’t stop.
Dad maneuvers me around the kitchen until I’m seated at the big island, and a few minutes later, he takes my wrist and moves it until my hand makes contact with a big cup. I grip it on instinct, bringing it up to my mouth, and realize belatedly it has a straw.
Then I feel Lyla’s energy in the room.
“Hey, Lyla,” I mutter, eyes still on the screen and my fingers flying over it. I’m putting together a dossier for the freaking FBI, and it’s fun, not gonna lie—okay, it’s only fun because I’m very pointedly not thinking about the reason behind all this work.
I’m aware of Dad and my stepmom moving around, murmuring softly, the low sounds of a TV coming to life . . . I recognize they put Lex’s game on, and I let my subconscious listen to it, knowing I’ll probably see the replay when I’m done with all of this.
My insides go all warm and fuzzy.
I’ve never lacked love in my life, not with Dad’s unforgiving way of showing it, but it’s still special to feel it this keenly.
The kind of acceptance I get from them can only exist with boundless love, the way they take care of me, the way they understand how I work and never begrudge me for it. They make space for every single weird quirk I have—and there are a lot of them to go around.
I’m not unaware of how unhealthy I can be sometimes, I’m not clueless, but that still won’t stop me from staying awake until this is done. There’s no way my brain could rest if there’s important work to finish.
So I manage to eat the thick creamy celery soup they serve me—still without looking away from my tablet thanks to the long straw they provide instead of a spoon—and I stay hydrated.
Soon enough, I’m shuffled up to my floor of the house, into my office.
I feel two separate kisses to my temple, and then look away from my tablet only to be faced with my six monitors.
I’m meticulous, even if fast, because there’s no room for mistakes in this. And when I finally finish, I collapse onto my bed.
Though it seems a Herculean task, I raise my arm to snag my phone from the wireless charger on my nightstand and see it’s late Sunday night.
More than two days awake and now I get to sleep for at least fifteen hours.