53. Mandy
MANDY
Iguess the world has a fucking limit, because the next time the phone rings, Hendricks sighs and lifts me off him, holding the condom in place.
After he disposes of it, I settle against his chest and groan. “I hate whoever that is.”
“Even if he found our girl?”
Pursing my lips, I think about it. “Then I’ll hate him less, but he’s still an asshole.”
Chuckling, Hendricks reaches for the phone. One glance at the screen and the amusement disappears from his face.
There he is. My terrifyingly competent bastard is back.
He returns the call and puts it on speaker. “Hendricks.”
“About time.” The voice is male, clipped and professional. “I’ve got your information.”
I start to move, but Hendricks’s arm tightens around me. “Go ahead,” he says.
Apparently, intelligence briefings are now a naked group activity.
“I ran the girl through everything I have access to,” his contact begins. “Facial recognition. Missing persons. DMV. School records. Social media archives. Nothing.”
Hendricks goes very still. “Nothing?”
“Not a usable hit.”
I shake my head. “That’s not possible.”
“Who’s that?” the contact asks.
“Someone who knows it’s not possible,” Hendricks replies dryly. “Keep going.”
I almost smile.
“There are traces,” the man continues. “Fragments mostly. But nothing that gives me a clean identification. Either she’s managed to live almost completely outside the system or somebody made sure the system forgot her.”
The last of my post-orgasm haze disappears. I know something about disappearing. Doing it this thoroughly takes more than skill. It takes money.
But the real question is why was she hidden? And who did it—someone trying to protect her or someone wanting to erase her?
“I’m sending you the full search,” the guy continues. “Parameters, rejected matches, partials, everything. Maybe you’ll see something I didn’t.”
Hendricks’s fingers move absently against my hip. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. I found a memory card hidden in the notebook.”
Hendricks and I look at each other. “Hidden where?” he asks.
“Inside the back cover. There’s a pocket cut into the binding. You wouldn’t know it was there unless you were looking for it.”
“Did you open it?”
“Made an image first, then opened the copy. No malware. The original is untouched.”
Of course Hendricks has people who make forensic copies of memory cards before opening them. Why is competence so fucking hot? I rub myself against him.
He grips my ass, holding me in place, but his cock is already hardening. “What’s on it?”
I smirk at the little bit of gravel in his voice, and he squeezes my ass in warning.
“That’s the interesting part,” the contact says, oblivious. “Photos. Documents. A few encrypted files I haven’t cracked yet. I’m uploading the accessible material to your secure server now.”
Hendricks sits up, taking me with him. “How long on the encrypted files?”
“Give me a few hours.”
“You have one.”
A sigh comes through the speaker. “Nice talking to you too.”
Hendricks ends the call.
A second later, his phone chimes, and a notification flashes on his screen: FILES RECEIVED.
He smacks my ass. “Get dressed.”
I get off his lap, watching him grab a pair of sweatpants out of a dresser. He pulls them up, right over his hard cock.
Apparently, saving lives requires pants. Tragic. I pout as I reach for his T-shirt.