CHAPTER 1
Gemma
The encrypted drive is no larger than a pack of peppermint gum, but sitting in the center of my cluttered desk, it feels like it has its own gravitational pull.
I did it.
I actually bypassed Marcus Thorne’s firewall, walked right into his physical server room wearing a stolen catering uniform, and walked out with the holy grail of corporate blackmail.
I lean back in my desk chair, the cheap plastic wheels squeaking against the scuffed hardwood floor of my apartment.
I should be packing. Pippa told me to pack.
Get the drive, get the money, and get on a plane to somewhere that doesn't have an extradition treaty, she’d said through the encrypted burner phone yesterday.
But my limbs feel like lead. I just need five minutes to let my heart rate drop below the danger zone.
I reach for the half-empty mug of coffee next to my keyboard.
The liquid is ice-cold and tastes like battery acid, but I swallow it anyway, hoping the caffeine will kick-start my brain into survival mode.
I need to format my hard drives, wipe the apartment, and disappear before Marcus realizes his IT department is entirely useless.
I set the mug down. The ceramic clinks too loudly against the wood.
"You should have left twelve hours ago."
The voice doesn't come from my computer speakers. It comes from the dark corner of my living room.
My fingers instantly lose all feeling. The cold coffee turns to lead in my stomach. I don't scream. Screaming requires oxygen, and my lungs have completely forgotten how to expand.
Slowly, agonizingly, I swivel my chair around.
There is a man sitting on my thrift-store sofa.
He isn't wearing a ski mask. He isn't dressed in tactical gear. He is wearing a dark, impeccably tailored suit that probably costs more than my entire apartment building. His legs are crossed at the ankle, his posture entirely relaxed, as if he’s waiting for a meeting to start in a corporate boardroom rather than trespassing in a hacker’s fifth-floor walk-up.
And resting casually on his right thigh is a matte-black handgun with a silencer screwed onto the barrel.
My brain, usually capable of processing thousands of lines of code per minute, flatlines. I stare at the gun. Then I stare at the man.
He has dark hair, neatly styled, and eyes that reflect absolutely nothing from the neon glow of the streetlamp outside my window. He doesn't look angry. He doesn't look rushed. He looks... bored.
"I usually require at least a text before a guy lets himself into my apartment," I say.
The words spill out of my mouth before I can stop them. It’s a sickness. A literal, psychological defect. The more terrified I am, the faster my mouth moves.
The man doesn't blink. He just watches me. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, pressing against my eardrums. He isn't playing the game. He isn't rising to the bait.
I swallow hard, tasting the bitter remnants of coffee.
"Did you pick the deadbolt? Because my landlord promised that was a high-security lock. I’m definitely asking for a deduction on my rent.
Assuming I live to see the first of the month, which, looking at the hardware on your lap, feels like a coin toss right now. "
He tilts his head, just a fraction of an inch. "Are you finished?"
His voice is low, smooth, and carries a faint, clipped precision that sounds vaguely British. It’s the kind of voice that doesn't need to yell to make you obey.
"I don't know," I say, my fingers gripping the armrests of my chair so tightly my knuckles ache. "That depends. Are you here to rob me, or are you here to kill me? Because if it’s the former, the most expensive thing in here is my graphics card, and it’s bolted to the motherboard. If it’s the latter... well, I’d like to finish my coffee first."
"I’m here for the drive, Gemma."
Hearing my name in that quiet, clinical tone sends a rush of ice down the back of my knees.
He knows who I am. He didn't stumble in here. This is a targeted hit. Marcus found me.
"Right. The drive." I force myself to look away from the gun and meet his eyes. It’s a mistake.
Up close, the absolute lack of empathy in his gaze is terrifying.
He looks at me the way a person looks at a weed in a garden.
A minor inconvenience to be eradicated. "I assume Marcus sent you. Which means he’s paying you.
Whatever his number is, I can double it. "
"You don't have Marcus's money." He doesn't sound insulted. He states it as a simple, mathematical fact.
"I have his offshore routing numbers on that little piece of plastic behind me," I counter, my voice pitching up slightly despite my desperate attempt to sound in control.
"Give me ten minutes and a secure connection, and I can wire you enough money to buy your own private island.
You can retire. Take up golf. Never wear a suit in a dingy apartment again. "
The man finally moves.
He uncrosses his ankles and stands up.
The sheer size of him suddenly makes my living room feel like a shoebox.
He has to be over six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, moving with a fluid, silent grace that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.
He doesn't point the gun at me. He just holds it by his side, angled toward the floor, as he walks slowly across the faded rug.
I press my back flat against my chair, my brain screaming at me to run, to throw the coffee mug, to do something . But my legs refuse to cooperate.
He stops two feet away from me. The smell of expensive cologne—something dark, like cedar and cold rain—washes over me, completely masking the scent of my stale apartment.
"I don't play golf," he says softly.
He reaches past me. I flinch, squeezing my eyes shut, bracing for the impact of the bullet. I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, the sharp sting of pain grounding me, keeping me from whimpering. Don't beg, I tell myself. If you're going to die in a Ramones t-shirt, at least don't beg.
But the gunshot never comes.
Instead, I hear the faint rustle of paper on my desk.
I open my eyes. He is holding the black encrypted drive between his long, elegant fingers. He inspects it for a second, then slides it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
"You have the drive," I say, my voice barely a whisper now. The sarcasm has completely evaporated, leaving only the raw, metallic taste of fear. "You can go. Tell Marcus I’ll disappear. He’ll never see me again."
The man looks down at me. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering for a fraction of a second on the way my teeth are still digging into my lower lip, before returning to my eyes.
"The contract wasn't just for the hardware," he says.
The air leaves my lungs.
This is it. This is the part where the screen goes black.
He raises the gun.
I don't look away. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cower. I stare directly into his dark, empty eyes, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard it feels like it might crack my sternum.
"Do it, then," I snap, the anger finally burning through the panic. "If you're going to shoot me, just do it. Stop standing there looking like a GQ model with a superiority complex."
A tiny, almost invisible line forms between his eyebrows. It’s the first crack in his perfect facade. He isn't used to people talking back to him when he has a weapon pointed at their chest.
His finger shifts on the trigger guard.
Then, the burner phone in my pocket vibrates.
The sudden, harsh buzz is deafening in the quiet room. The man’s eyes flick down to my pocket.
He doesn't shoot.
Instead, in a movement so fast my eyes can barely track it, he holsters the gun inside his jacket, grabs my upper arm, and hauls me out of the chair.
"Hey!" I yelp, stumbling forward as my feet hit the floor.
His grip is like a steel vise. He doesn't drag me toward the door. He pulls me flush against his chest, his other hand diving into the pocket of my jeans. I gasp, trying to shove his shoulders away, but hitting him feels like hitting a concrete wall.
He pulls out the burner phone. The screen is flashing with a text from Pippa.
He glances at the message, his jaw tightening. Then, without a word, he drops the phone onto the floor and crushes it beneath the heel of his leather shoe. The plastic shatters with a sharp crack.
"What the hell is your problem?" I yell, my panic completely overridden by the sheer audacity of this man. "You break into my house, you steal my drive, you threaten to shoot me, and now you’re destroying my property?"
"Your property is currently broadcasting your location to three different mercenary teams employed by the people you stole from," he says, his voice dangerously low.
I freeze. "What?"
"Marcus didn't just hire me," he says, his eyes scanning the window blinds. "He panicked. He hired a cleanup crew as a contingency. They are approximately three minutes away, and unlike me, they don't care about keeping the noise down."
My brain scrambles to process the information. "Wait. If they’re coming to kill me... why aren't you?"
He looks back down at me. The proximity is dizzying. I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jawline, the absolute stillness of his breathing.
"Because," he says, his grip on my arm shifting, tightening. "The contract just changed."
Before I can ask what that means, he moves.
He doesn't give me a warning. He doesn't ask for permission. He simply ducks his shoulder, wraps his arm around the back of my knees, and lifts me completely off the ground.
"Put me down!" I shriek, all the breath knocked out of me as I suddenly find myself upside down, staring at the back of his suit jacket. My hair falls into my face, and the blood rushes to my head.
"Keep your voice down," he orders, striding toward the door of my apartment with effortless, terrifying speed. He doesn't even seem to notice my weight.
"I will not keep my voice down! You are kidnapping me!" I start kicking, aiming my heavy boots at his shins, but he just shifts his grip, locking my legs in place with one massive arm.
"I am saving your life," he corrects calmly, opening my front door and stepping out into the dim hallway.
"By throwing me over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes?" I hit the center of his back with my fists. It does absolutely nothing. "Put me down, you psychotic wall street ninja!"
He pauses at the top of the stairs. I can feel the deep rumble of his chest against my ribs, right before he speaks.
"If you hit me again, Gemma, I will drop you down these stairs. Do we have an understanding?"
The absolute lack of emotion in his threat makes me freeze. My fists stop mid-air. I swallow hard, the reality of the situation finally crashing down on me. I am entirely at the mercy of a man who kills people for a living.
"Fine," I mutter, my voice muffled against his jacket. "But I’m leaving a terrible review on Yelp."
I swear I feel a tiny, involuntary exhale leave his chest—almost like a sigh, or the ghost of a laugh—before he starts carrying me down the stairs into the dark.