Chapter 1 #2
To say we gained major flack a few months ago when a classified governmental report leaked which recorded some of our tech showing up in the hands of Russian rebels is an understatement.
It prompted us to fit remote kill switches into anything applicable within our production line.
All of this was paraded to the press by some do-gooder hacker that I’ve been attempting to track down for months.
They hacked through my own advanced security coding like a hot knife through butter to obtain a confidential copy of that report and they seem intent on playing cat and mouse with me.
Little bread-crumbed clues here and there are buried in piles of code, all of which have sent me on a wild goose chase to nowhere fruitful.
The reminder instantly dampens my mood, frustration roiling beneath my skin.
I remind myself that I should know who the little fucker is by the end of the day.
The trap I set has taken weeks to lay—the code being some of my best work.
And if it goes without a hitch, I should have an IP address and maybe even a name within hours.
My wrist flicks up, showing me the shiny gears in my watch face. I’m tempted to reschedule this meeting again. It’s not even 9 a.m. but I’ve been here for four hours and I’ve got a proverbial fuckload to do today.
“Don’t even think about blowing it off, she’s been waiting for forty minutes.”
My eyes flare, glancing back at Tessa, who hasn’t moved an inch. She’s uncanny like that sometimes, like she’s got built-in sonar that picks up my every move and thought. Tugging the cuff of my charcoal Kiton suit back over my watch, I press open the doors.
“Miss Devonshire, my apologies for keeping you waiting.”
Light bounces around my office, reflecting off monochromatic art, dark glossed walnut wood and falling on the stout woman seated in a black suede chair opposite my desk: statement chunky black frames too big for her face, short coiffed grey hair, and a tight, forced smile emblazoned on a wide mouth.
She reminds me of a toad eyeing up a fat, juicy fly. Lord help me, I think I’m the fly.
“It’s miss and I’m sure you’re very busy with important things, Mr. Walker.” She stands sharply, pressing a stubby hand between us. The way she says this leaves me under no illusion that she understands I’ve been giving her the run around.
“Indeed, my apologies.” I shake her hand once and then drop it, striding around to my side of the desk. “Please, do get started. I have a hard stop in twenty minutes for my next meeting.”
I don’t, but I’ve learned over the years to come equipped with a pre-prepared excuse in situations that I don’t want to be locked into.
She hums a singular flat tone and glances down at the notepad in her lap as she sits again.
For all her odd appearance, I can’t fault her navy suit.
Sharp, crisp, and definitely tailored, given her unusually short stature.
“Mr. Walker, how do you explain your technology aiding known terrorist organizations?”
Christ. Straight for the jugular then. The corner of my lip twitches as I slide off my suit jacket and unhurriedly drape it over the back of my large black leather chair.
“It is regrettable that international enterprises have limited control in territories that experience civil unrest.” I straighten the cuffs on my shirt with a sharp tug on each and then lower myself into the chair.
“We’re working closely with the international guard to reduce pirate attacks on our supply routes… ”
I reel off the pre-prepared statement given to me by my head of PR first thing, but beneath the emotionless facade lives a secret beacon of burning anger.
Anger that my technology was used as part of an initiative to kill innocent people.
The security within my supply chain is second to none, so I’ve got private investigators working around the clock to try and find out how the fuck it happened. And I won’t stop until we do.
I learned to play politician before I even finished high school.
How to answer questions without really giving the information people are looking for.
How to direct focus onto other, more prevalent issues.
Most people are malleable and easy to direct, but given the downturn of Devonshire’s mouth, I’m not sure she’s one of them.
“Still, isn’t it your job to ensure the security of your own supply network?” She cuts through the flack and drives down her point, attempting to isolate me as the solitary culprit.
Oh, she’s smart, but I’m smarter.
“It is our job as worldwide providers to ensure we comply with all international shipping security regulations, which we take great effort to do.” I retain my casual stance and lazily straighten my tie, reeling off several of our largest competitors’ security breaches over the last couple of years.
All of which rival, if not exceed, our own.
Her wide mouth flattens in annoyance. She’s not the only one who came prepared. I might appear civilized, but this right here is my gladiator arena, and I will roar louder than any rabid lion put before me. Even one in Italian loafers and ridiculous glasses.
“We at Dev Tech Inc. have taken the additional step of fitting remote kill switches into all of our technology—the first in the market to achieve such a feat.” I lace my hands together in front of me, my elbows resting on the chair arms as I meet her steely gaze dead on.