Chapter 7 Wyatt
He wasn't going to cut the fiber. That would just scare them away. Instead, he spent the first half of the workweek writing a custom localized containment routine—a digital box that would snap shut the millisecond the intruder’s hardware initiated its handshake with Enigma.
On the surface of the grid, everything would look identical to the previous three weeks.
But underneath, the moment they turned on their terminal, their device would be entirely frozen, the interface locked down, and a high-resolution traceroute would pinpoint the exact physical coordinates of the connection.
He was putting the finishing touches on the script's latency buffers later that week, working at the heavy walnut desk in his office.
After hours of being locked in and staring at the glowing monitors, he finally blocked the terminal windows, grabbed his tablet, and walked out into the main area of the suite to stretch his legs.
Zane was already out there, leaning back against one of the long marble tables in the center of the room. He was idly tossing a heavy metal paperweight from hand to hand, looking bored out of his mind.
"I'm telling you, it's a former contractor," Zane said, catching the weight as Wyatt walked up. "Someone who helped lay the foundation loops during the transit build five years ago. Nobody else has that layout. When we find them, I get to break their router."
"You aren't breaking anything," Wyatt said flatly, his thumb scrolling through a log on his tablet. "I want the hardware intact. I want to see what kind of rig can siphon that much data without dropping the nitrogen line pressure."
Before Zane could respond, a sharp, distinct sound echoed down the carpeted hallway from the corner office.
Smack.
Both men paused. Zane’s hand caught the paperweight mid-air, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face.
Wyatt didn't shift his expression, though he set his tablet face down on the marble table with a quiet click, his eyes tracking toward the end of the hallway where Silas's heavy office door stood cracked open a couple of inches.
From behind Silas’s heavy, double-insulated mahogany doors, a familiar, indignant voice rose above the acoustic dampening.
"Daddy! That is completely unfair and you know it!"
Smack.
"Ow! Stop it!"
"You will keep your voice down, Lennon, and you will listen to me," Silas’s tone was low, smooth, and utterly immovable, carrying that absolute weight of authority that none of them ever dared to question.
"The zoning boards in the southern district are already looking for an excuse to delay our transit permits.
When I tell you a footprint needs to be adjusted by three feet to clear the municipal easement, you do not argue with the city surveyor. You change the blueprint."
Smack.
A muffled, watery gasp followed the strike.
"I was going to change it," Lennon protested, her usual fiery sass muffled by the fact that she was clearly draped over her father's lap. "I just wanted to check the structural integrity of the retaining wall first! You didn't have to pull me over your knee right in the middle of a workday!"
Smack.
"I am checking your compliance, not your structural integrity," Silas replied, his voice flat and entirely unbothered by her attitude.
"And since you decided to text the company thread at seven-thirty on a Saturday morning calling me a terrible boss, we are handling your review today.
Hands on the floor, little girl. Keep them there. "
Smack. Smack.
Zane leaned back against the table, crossing his arms as he chuckled softly. "Sounds like our little architect is getting a refresher course in corporate hierarchy."
Wyatt let out a low, dry breath, shaking his head.
He walked a few steps down the hall, completely unbothered by the domestic discipline happening behind the door.
He’d known Silas and Lennon long enough to understand exactly how their dynamic worked.
Lennon was a brilliant, fiercely independent force of nature, but she had a mouth that constantly ran ahead of her logic, and Silas was the anchor that kept her from spinning out of control.
Wyatt was actually the only one of the other men in the circle whom Lennon trusted implicitly in that regard.
She was protective of her dignity, fiercely so, but there had been a night six months ago when her attitude had completely crossed the line right here in this suite.
She had been throwing a bratty, dismissive fit over a flooring issue, digging her heels in and telling Wyatt to stay in his lane.
Silas had stepped out into the hallway, cutting the air like a sudden frost, and marched her straight into his office, ordering Wyatt to follow.
Faced with a non-negotiable lesson on respect, Silas had given her a terrifying choice: a bare-bottom spanking from him while Wyatt watched, or a spanking over her panties from Wyatt right then and there while he watched.
Mortified, Lennon had blurted out that she'd let Wyatt do it. Wyatt hadn't hesitated. Right there in Silas’s office, under her Daddy’s predatory, intense gaze, Wyatt had hauled Lennon over his big thighs, flipped her skirt up, and given her a blistering, heavy-handed spanking over her pale pink lace panties.
He hadn't held back, turning her skin a bright, angry rose color while delivering a stern, heavy lecture until she was sobbing out apologies to both of them.
It had been a stark, unforgettable lesson that Wyatt was entirely off-limits for her sass, and since that night, her respect for him had settled into a deep, unshakable trust. He was steady.
He didn't yell. But he wouldn't tolerate a single ounce of disrespect from her.
The office door clicked open a minute later.
Lennon walked out, her face flushed a deep, pretty pink, her eyes slightly bright as she pointedly avoided looking at Zane, who gave her a cheerful wave from the center of the suite.
She was tugging down the hem of her tailored gray sweater her shoulders rigid.
"Wyatt," she muttered, her voice still holding a trace of that stubborn, defensive edge as she spotted him near the glass partition. "Tell your friend he's a tyrant."
Wyatt didn't blink. He looked at her flushed cheeks, then down at the slight tremor in her hands. "Did you fix the three-foot easement on the southern loop?"
Lennon bit her lip, her chin tilting up. "I'm doing it now."
"Then he isn't a tyrant," Wyatt said calmly, his voice dropping into that low, corrective cadence that always made her posture straighten.
"He’s an executive saving his contractor from a professional disaster.
Go back to your desk, and look over those southern blueprints again.
You know better than to let your schedule get ahead of your manners. "
Lennon opened her mouth to shoot back a sassy retort, but she caught the steady, warning look in Wyatt’s dark eyes and thought better of it. She let out a small, huffy breath, shifted her weight uncomfortably—clearly feeling the sting of her Daddy's hand—and marched across the room to her office.
Silas stepped out of his office a moment later, rolling his shirtsleeves back down to his wrists. He looked completely unruffled by the scene, his focus already shifting back to the company’s infrastructure.
"That should keep her focused on her work for the rest of the week," Silas said, adjusting his watch as Zane finally pocketed the paperweight. "Where are we on the 4th and Main anomaly, Wyatt?"
"The trap is built," Wyatt said, picking his tablet back up. "I'm running a simulated load test tonight. Thursday, I’m putting eyes on the physical location."
Silas nodded, his eyes dropping to the schedule on his desk. "Keep me updated. If it's an outside asset, I want to know who funded them before the weekend is over."
"Consider it done," Wyatt said, turning back toward his own office as the conversation ended.
As the week ground on, the gray mist settled heavily over Bridgeport, turning the industrial sector into a bleak landscape of cracked asphalt and rusted iron.
Wyatt drove his black SUV through the grid of the demolition zone later that afternoon, his eyes scanning the massive, decaying structure of the forty-two-story commercial high-rise at 4th and Main.
He didn't park close. He left the vehicle three blocks away, walking the rest of the distance with his collar turned up against the damp, biting wind.
The building was a hollow, concrete carcass.
Every window on the lower three floors was covered in thick, weather-beaten plywood, spray-painted with faded orange demolition codes and trespass warnings.
The iron security gates on the main entrance were wrapped in heavy chain, secured by a massive, rusted padlock.
Wyatt walked a slow, deliberate perimeter, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark overcoat. To the casual observer, he looked like a real estate developer looking over a bad investment. But Wyatt wasn't looking at the brickwork. He was looking at the ground.
Near the rear of the building, half-hidden behind a row of overflowing industrial dumpsters, he found what he was looking for.
A heavy concrete utility cap had been pried loose, a jagged gap showing where the old municipal fiber maintenance loop ran beneath the foundation.
A few feet away, a loose plywood panel on a ground-floor window sat just slightly askew, the edge worn smooth where it had been pulled back regularly.
Wyatt stepped closer, examining the raw wood. There were no heavy tactical boot prints in the mud, no forced iron bars, and no massive grease marks left behind by commercial gear. Whoever was slipping inside was doing it like a ghost, leaving almost no physical trace behind.