by Misha Bell
Hard Byte
Misha Bell
♠ Mozaika Publications ♠
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
Excerpt from Hard Code by Misha Bell
Excerpt from Wall Street Titan
About the Author
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2021 Misha Bell
www.mishabell.com
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All rights reserved.
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Except for use in a review, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
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Published by Mozaika Publications, an imprint of Mozaika LLC.
www.mozaikallc.com
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Cover by Najla Qamber Designs
www.najlaqamberdesigns.com
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Photography by Wander Aguiar
www.wanderbookclub.com
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ISBN: 978-1-63142-648-3
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-63142-649-0
Chapter One
“The Devil is about to turn my life’s work into porn.” I give my twin a pleading look. “You have to teach me how to pick locks.”
Gia blinks at me. “What in Houdini’s balls are you talking about?”
“Lock picking. Teach me.”
She shakes her head as if to clear it, then opens the door wider. “Come inside and explain.”
“Fine.” Respecting my sister’s germaphobia, I bypass hugs and kisses as I gingerly step into the brownstone she shares with her million roommates. She leads me to her room, and as we walk, I fight the temptation to fix the myriad messes all around.
“Sit.” She points at a chair in the corner, next to a mannequin.
Is she nuts? That chair is four-legged, the worst kind. I prefer office chairs, as they usually have five legs, or barstools, since they tend to have one or three. How would she like it if I asked her to lick a subway pole?
A mischievous grin quirks her dark-lipsticked mouth. “My bad. Not a prime number of legs. What was I thinking? Your brain could’ve melted.”
Hiding my eye roll, I walk past a deck of cards and other magician’s paraphernalia strewn all over the nearby surfaces, not stopping until I’m next to a legless beanbag chair. “You mind?”
Shrugging, Gia takes a deck of cards out of her pocket and hands it to me by the tips of her fingers. “Would you feel more at ease if I gave you this deck to organize?”
Plopping into the chair, I narrow my eyes at the deck. “Fifty-two?”
With a sigh, she tosses one of the cards on a nearby desk—as if it weren’t a mess already. “Fifty-one now.”
“Fifty-one isn’t a prime.”
She peers at the deck. “It’s not?”
“Three times seventeen is fifty-one. How did you pass fourth grade?”
“We probably had you pretend to be me to ace the math test.” She drops four more cards on the desk. “Is forty-seven better?”
“Thank you.” I take the cards carefully—God forbid I touch her hygienic majesty with my cooties. “What did you want me to explain before you teach me?”
“Start with the life’s work part.” She sits on the improperly legged abomination. “I didn’t realize you had one. Is it the virtual pet stuff you’re always showing me?”
“Kind of.” I begin sorting the cards in the obvious logical manner: number cards that are primes first, followed by the rest. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you before, but I’ve been working with the pediatric wing of the NYU Langone hospital. If they hear I’m involved with porn—”
“Back up. Working with them how?”
“I’ve been beta testing my VR pet project as a type of therapy for children in long-term care.” I look up from my sorting and into a face identical to the one I see in the mirror every day: oval-shaped with sharp cheekbones, a strong nose, and wide blue eyes. Of course, unlike my entertainer sibling, my hair is its natural strawberry blond hue, while she’s turned hers darker than a black hole. I also don’t wear that much makeup. Her smoky eyes would make a raccoon fall in lust, and her foundation is pale enough for a vampire geisha. “The idea is to reduce the kids’ pain and anxiety,” I continue as she nods approvingly.
“That’s not bad for your life’s work. So how does the devil’s porn fit in?”
I glance at the mess all around me. “Do you mind?”
Gia heaves a sigh. “If it gets you talking faster, be my guest.”
As I get up and begin tidying, I calm enough to articulate my thoughts. “I haven’t told you this either, but my company got into financial trouble a while back and Morpheus Group bought us.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Never heard of them.”
I pick up a top hat of the kind a magician’s rabbit might leap out of—not that Gia would ever risk touching something happy to eat its own feces. “I hadn’t either until they acquired us. I think it was formed right before the takeover.” I put the hat next to Gia’s headband, mentally designating the spot as headgear. “At first, they asked for specs from our VR headset and gloves and disappeared, leaving us to do our thing as though nothing had changed. But we’ve just learned that they’re planning to integrate the headset and gloves with a special suit they’ve created, one meant to make your whole body feel things inside VR.”
She looks intrigued. “Feel things as in… sex things?”
“That’s what the rumors around the office say.” I pick up what looks like a fake thumb and put it on a shelf next to her gloves, designating the spot as pertaining to appendages.
“Hmm.” She scratches her chin. “Sex in VR. No germs. No touching. No complications. Can I get one of those suits?”
“You should get a real man,” I say, and instantly regret it—the last thing I want is to sound like Mom.
Gia arches her dark eyebrows and mimics the British accent I had to rid myself of after my study abroad. “As they would say in your beloved England, that’s the pot calling the kettle black.”
She’s right. I’m no expert when it comes to men or sex—my one and only real relationship was with a guy who later came out as gay.
My face must change because she says, “Sorry, Holly. Didn’t mean to venture there. Next thing you know, I’ll go full Octomom and tell you how much you should yearn fo
r ‘a sexual union.’”
I cringe. I hate the nickname she uses for our mom. Forgetting respect for one’s elders, it’s simply not accurate. Mom gave birth to the two of us, followed by our sextuplet sisters. An accurate moniker would be either Bimom (or is it Dumom?) or Sexamom—though, granted, none of those sound great either. Of course, if I’m honest, the main reason I don’t like the octo- prefix is that it’s a reminder of us being eight sisters, as opposed to some normal amount, like seven, five, or eleven.
“—you need some good old-fashioned lovin’,” Gia is saying in her best imitation of Mom’s contralto when I tune back in to her jabbering.
Grinning, I do my own impersonation of our embarrassing parental unit. “Orgasms alleviate stress, help with insomnia, ease pain, make you live longer, stimulate your brain, keep you looking younger… Oh, and can bring about world peace.”
Did she notice I put seven items on that list?
Gia shudders. “Don’t forget how helpful orgasms are when one is trying to get a pig preggers.”
Ugh, yeah. Even though I’m not as squeamish as Gia, I’ve also been traumatized by Mom’s humblebragging stories about her husbandry skills. One time, Mom said she brought Petunia—a piggie who was like a pet to us growing up—to orgasm during an artificial insemination session. Yeah. Not the image you want to pop into your head when you see bacon.
Realizing we’ve gotten way off topic, I pin my sister with an intent stare. “So can you teach me what I need or not?”
She drums her black-painted nails on her thigh. “You still haven’t explained the whole devil thing.”
Ah. That. I pick up a book on card cheating and stick it into a random empty spot on her bookshelf—if I try to sort her library by year of publication, she’ll get upset again and refuse to help me. “According to yet more rumors around the office,” I say, “the new owners are brother and sister. Apparently, their last name is Chortsky.”
“Apparently? They haven’t introduced themselves?”
I pick up a glossy magician’s cup and put it next to an empty coffee mug on the desk. “Nope. I’ve been working via email with a guy named Robert Jellyheim. Anyway, when I searched online for people named Chortsky, I found a Vlad Chortsky who owns a software company and an Alex Chortsky who owns a video game studio. No mention of a sister, no pictures of either men, no social media presence. The only useful thing I learned is that the word chort—the root of their family name—means the devil or demon in Russian.”
“Ah,” Gia says. “So ‘the Devil’ is just your nickname for whoever happens to be the elusive owner of Morpheus Group. How does that lead to lock picking? You want to take a crack at your chastity belt?”
My heartbeat speeds up at the thought of the lock picking, and I tidy faster to calm myself down. “There’s an office on my floor where the integrated VR suits got delivered yesterday.” I pick up three metal linking rings and put them on the coffee table next to her keychain. “It’s locked. I want to get into that office and see if the rumors are true.”
She frowns. “Why?”
“So I can do something about it… if I have to.”
Her frown deepens. “Do what?”
I take a flash drive out of my pocket. “The rumor mill claims the owners are meeting with some big-shot venture capital firm in a few days to demo the work they’ve done. They must need a new round of funding. My hope is that if a computer virus ruins this demo, it will stall the porn project and I’ll be able to finalize my arrangement with the hospital before the Devil finds another source of money.”
“So you’re going to be breaking and entering to commit corporate sabotage?”
I squeeze the USB stick in my palm. “Hardly. I work there.”
“But you’re planning on releasing a virus. Isn’t that a crime?”
I pocket the USB. “I borrowed some tools from Dad. If caught, I can claim I was testing our security.”
Our father is a penetration tester—which isn’t what it sounds like. He simulates cyberattacks on willing companies to identify their systems’ weaknesses and strengths.
Gia studies me with a worried expression. “You’re a sucky liar.”
“I plan to disable the cameras in the office. No one will ever know what happened.”
She jumps to her feet. “I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t encourage this madness.”
“If you don’t help, I’m going in with a crowbar.”
She gives me a once-over. “That’s a bluff. You hate violence.”
I put on a determined expression. “I can hurt a bloody door if I have to.”
She chews on her lip, then sighs. “This will cost you.”
Yes! If she’s bargaining, this is going to happen.
“What do you want?” I ask, belatedly reining in my oh-so-easy-to-exploit enthusiasm.
She sits back down. “You will stop going Marie Kondo on my stuff.”
“Done.” I reluctantly drop her phallic-shaped magic wand back onto the mess of objects on the desk. It’s not like I know how to categorize it anyway—apart from putting it next to some dildo.
“And you’ll owe me two favors in the future, no questions asked.”
I almost reach for the wand again but stop myself in time. “Do you also want the keys to my place? Or maybe a blank check?”
She shrugs. “If our roles were reversed, you’d ask for even more.”
That’s so not true, but arguing would be fruitless. “How about you tell me what the favors are, so I can see if it’s worth it?”
“No deal. How about we split the difference? One favor I will ask for now, one at a later date.”
Damn, she’s good at poker faces. “What’s the ‘now’ favor?”
“Have you already had your lunch with our parents?”
I grit my teeth. “Yes.” It’s clear what she wants. Our folks are in town, and naturally, they won’t leave until they give a painful lecture to both of their eldest daughters on the dangers of spinsterhood.
“You will dress as me and take my place at the lunch,” Gia says, confirming my suspicions. “And you will not pass on any sex tips you’re likely to acquire.”
Bollocks. I was hoping she’d use me in a magic trick—having a twin is pretty helpful when you want to display teleportation powers and the like.
“When is the lunch?” I ask.
Looking too gleeful for my liking, she gives me the details.
The time is smack in the middle of my mid-day flossing, but as much as I hate breaks in my schedule, I don’t object. Gia won’t be sympathetic.
“What’s the other favor?” I ask, dreading it already.
She smirks. “Nice try. I’ll tell you that when I know myself.”
“Fine. You’ve got yourself a deal—assuming you actually can teach me how to pick a lock.”
She stands up. “Can the sextuplets drive even Gandhi to violence?”
Oh yes, they can. Abhorrence of violence is why I limit my exposure to the litter of evil. I love them dearly, of course, but combined, they’re too much for my psyche. I part envy, part pity Gia for cavorting with them outside of family holidays. I’m nowhere near that brave.
Getting up, she rummages in a drawer and takes out a pair of gloves, a leather case, and a collection of locks.
“Put these on.” She hands me the gloves.
I put them on with an eye roll. “There. Now I won’t leave germs on your precious equipment.”
She thrusts the leather case into my hands. “I’m giving you gloves so you learn how to pick a lock while wearing them. Or do you want to leave your prints all over the crime scene?”
I unzip the case and stare at the tools inside.
If I can pass the dreaded Advanced Artificial Intelligence course at Cambridge, I can do this.
Hopefully.
“First, let me tell you how a pin tumbler lock works,” Gia says, gesturing at a lock made of glass where the pins and other bits are exposed.
She proceeds
to open the lock both with a key and with her tools, making it look easy.
“Now this is a tension wrench.” She hands me a metal thingy and tells me what to do with it. Then she gives me a pick and explains how to use that.
“Sounds reasonable,” I say when the lecture is blissfully over. “Let me try.”
Her grin is evil. “Go ahead.”
I’m famous for my meticulousness when it comes to following directions of any kind, so, like a robot, I execute Gia’s instructions to the letter. Yet my attempt fails, much to my twin’s delight.
Grr. Picking a lock seems to be more of an art than a science.
Two hours and dozens of snide comments from Gia later, I improve, though I’m not yet confident enough to proceed with the heist.
Finally, Gia says, “I think you’ve got it. At least there’s not much more I can teach you. Go home and play with the locks on your own.”
“Okay.” I hide the tools of my newly acquired trade. “I’ll call if I have any questions.”
To my surprise, she actually puts away the locks we were using instead of tossing them onto the still-cluttered desk. “Think about canceling the whole thing, will you? Don’t be tempted by the minimalism of prison life.”
