Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

“I’m saying I have a phone number. I don’t know whose it is, I’ve never called it. But if I reach out to him that way now, as all his systems are under attack, he’ll not only know it’s me, he’ll know it’s a trap.”

  In a tight voice, I ask, “You don’t want him to know it’s you?”

  Miranda says, “No enterprise is more likely to succeed than one concealed from the enemy until it is ripe for execution.”

  Tabby looks at her in surprise. “I see someone other than me has read Machiavelli.”

  Miranda’s smile is pinched. “Yes. I’ve studied his writings extensively.”

  I don’t know what to make of the expression on Tabby’s face. She says, “‘It’s double pleasure to deceive the deceiver.’ That was always my favorite of his lines. You?”

  Miranda locks eyes with Tabby. “‘Nothing great was ever achieved without danger.’”

  Some unspoken understanding passes between them. Tabby murmurs, “Indeed.”

  Harry is irritated with the interruption. “If we’re done quoting a dead guy to each other, ladies, can we get back to the situation at hand?”

  Tabby turns her attention back to Harry. She leans forward in her chair. “Give me a chance to engage him, distract him, play with him a little. He won’t let it last long, but once he’s shut down his servers, we can analyze whatever data my program has scoured from his system.”

  “And if your program comes up with nothing useful?”

  Tabby leans back in her chair and lifts a shoulder. “Then we can make a phone call. But once we do that…once he knows I’m involved in this…” Her voice darkens. “The game will change.”

  “How?” I ask, my voice hard.

  Tabby looks at her hands when she answers. “We’ll no longer have any control whatsoever.”

  My throat is tight, crowded with every question I want to ask her about Søren, but won’t. Not here. Not now.

  Harry, however, has no problem getting straight to the point. “Why not? What will he do?”

  Tabby looks at me. She says softly, “He’ll end it.”

  Harry crosses his arms over his chest. “Miss West. Please. I don’t have the patience for puzzles. What will he do?”

  It’s Miranda who answers, her voice strained. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? He’ll release all the data he stole from me to the press and my competition—including my proprietary software—cut the power to the entire studio, and destroy my business. Every production will be shut down. Every office and soundstage will go dark, possibly permanently, depending on how much control he has over the Department of Water and Power’s computers.”

  “We’ve got agents working on that,” says Harry. “The DWP has been notified there’s been an intrusion into their network—they’re executing breach protocols as we speak.”

  “If they block one hole, he’ll find another,” says Tabby. “There’s always a way in. Also, there’s the possibility he has people inside the DWP assisting him.”

  Harry nods. “We’re working on that theory too.”

  “The bottom line,” says Miranda in a shaking voice, “is that everything I’ve worked for and created over the last twenty years will be gone. So please—let her go to work!”

  It’s so unusual for Miranda to show strong emotion that I’m momentarily distracted from Tabby. Next to me, Ryan watches everything with hawk-like focus, taking it all in. It’s one of the reasons I wanted him here. He can see whatever I might be missing because I’m too close.

  Because I’m too emotionally involved, and can’t trust myself.

  Harry says, “Chan, sit down at the desk. Miss West, you can tell him what to type.”

  Tabby sends Harry a grim smile. “Don’t trust me, O’Doul?”

  “Of course not. I don’t trust anybody, it’s bad for business. Now move.”

  Agent Chan makes a sorry face at Tabby. When she rises from the chair, he takes her place. Fingers poised over the keyboard, he says, “Ready.”

  Standing behind him, Tabby instructs, “Get rid of that shit on the screen. Take us down to the C prompt.”

  Chan starts typing. The pictures of war flashing on the monitor vanish, replaced by a normal Windows desktop. A few more keystrokes and the screen goes black. A green cursor flashes at the top left.

  Tabby says, “You know your stuff.”

  “That’s why I’m the only Special Agent in this group, Miss West.”

  As Tabby softly chuckles, Chan waits, eyes fixed on the screen.

  “All right, then. Here we go. Type ‘What is divisible by zero?’”

  Chan answers automatically, “No number is divisible by zero.”

  “I didn’t say what number, did I? Now type.”

  After a quick glance at Harry, who nods, Chan begins to type. He presses Enter, and waits.

  And keeps waiting. The cursor flashes, but nothing comes back.

  A minute passes. Then two. Harry says, “He’s not answering.”

  Her gaze fixed on the screen, Tabby murmurs, “Wait for it.”

  Then a message blinks up: To whom am I speaking, please?

  Ryan snorts. “Pretty polite for a bad guy.”

  “Manners make the man,” says Tabby thoughtfully.

  Is her tone admiring? I want to reach through the computer and strangle whoever is on the other end.

  Tabby instructs Chan, “Now type ‘What is the meaning of life?’”

  The instant the question is entered, an answer flashes back: 42.

  On the next line: I didn’t realize the FBI had a sense of whimsy. How refreshing. With whom do I have the pleasure of communicating, please?

  “Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “Does he always talk like this?”

  “Not everyone has a dirty mouth,” says Tabby. When she slides me a smoldering look, my heartbeat goes arrhythmic.

  Our gazes hold. Still looking at me, she says to Chan, “Type, ‘If you can answer my first question, I’ll give you my name.’”

  After Chan complies, on the screen flashes an animated gif of a cartoon dog with its paws clasped, eyes closed, heart pumping wildly outside of its chest. Beneath the dog are the words Be still my heart! A challenge!

  Then a T-Rex bursts onto the screen and devours the dog in one giant bite. Blood spurts from its grinning jaws. The dinosaur runs off, trailing intestines.

  “What the fuck is wrong with this guy?” I bark, making Miranda jump.

  Tabby says softly, “Everything.” She’s still looking at me.

  When she looks away, it feels as if something tears inside my chest.

  She instructs Chan, “Type ‘Your paleontology is as weak as your hacks.”

  Harry says drily, “I don’t think poking the bear is the best strategy here, Miss West.”

  “We need the bear distracted, and so we poke it with as big a stick as we can. Type, Chan.”

  Special Agent Chan looks at Harry. “Sir?”

  After a moment of thought, Harry nods and waves his hand, resigned.

  Chan’s fingers fly over the keys. The response arrives at light speed.

  Explain yourself.

  Tabby’s smile is savage. “Canids didn’t exist concurrently with tyrannosaurus in the Late Cretaceous period, dumbass.”

  “Leave out the ‘dumbass,’” says Harry.

  Chan types.

  There follows an interval of screen silence. Then: You are reckless. I enjoy that in an enemy. Toying with overconfident fools makes for excellent sport.

  Tabby smiles. “You should know, having toyed with yourself so much. Tell me, how calloused are your palms?”

  Before Harry can protest, Chan has typed it out and hit Enter.

  If you are too much a coward to reveal your name, let me see your face, comes the immediate reply, so I may know what it looks like while still alive.

  “Ooh,” says Tabby with bitter cheer. “Is someone miffed?”

  I step forward. “That’s a threat on your life. Disconnect.”

  “Back off, jarhead,” ans
wers Tabby offhandedly. “The adults are handling this.”

  Harry shoots me a warning look. Ryan clears his throat. Chan looks up at me sheepishly. And I turn away with my hands clenched in my hair so I don’t do anything stupid, like throw Tabby over my shoulder, bolt from the room, and find the nearest bed to tie her down to so I can fuck some sense into us both.

  I hear Tabby’s voice from behind me. “Chan, type, ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’”

  As Chan starts tapping away, Harry says wearily, “You don’t really think that will work. No criminal mastermind who’s gone to the trouble to erase every trace of his existence would ever…”

  When Harry trails off into astonished silence, I turn around to find the computer monitor flooded with image after image. Windows pop up on top of each other, piling so fast the screen is a blur.

  Tabby says softly, “Everyone has an Achilles’ heel. Søren’s is his ego. He could never let a challenge go unanswered.” She folds her arms over her chest and turns away. Her posture changes, becomes smaller somehow, as if she’s drawing into herself. Protecting herself from what’s on the screen.

  Like a fairy-tale prince, Tabby had described him with the face of an angel. I’d thought it over the top at the time. A silly exaggeration. But now I see it was something far worse.

  Accurate.

  I don’t find men attractive. I’ve never considered another man beautiful in the physical sense, would never have thought it possible that I could. But now I’m forced to admit that the face splashed all over the monitor isn’t only beautiful. It’s perfect.

  Miranda’s soft gasp indicates she concurs.

  His features are fine and sculpted, like those of a Greek god. His hair is rich golden blonde. He’s got a pair of lips any woman would covet, full and berry red, offset by a cleft chin and strong, angular jaw.

  But it’s his eyes that are most arresting. Pale, icy blue, heavily fringed with dark lashes, his eyes have an arrogance and cruelty that the rest of his elegant features can’t soften.

  Taken from various angles, the pictures of his face are accompanied by dozens of pictures of the rest of him. Striding through an airport, crossing a busy intersection, waiting on a subway platform, always standing a head taller than anyone else. Always looking at the people around him like a king surveys his subjects. Always alone, regal, dressed in beautifully tailored suits.

  I can’t help but glance down at myself, clothed in a black T-shirt and cargo pants.

  Harry leans closer to the monitor, squinting at it. “These are all taken from surveillance cameras. Look at the angles. They’re all from above.”

  “If that’s true,” says Chan slowly, “he’s hacked into the entire infrastructure. Transportation grids, law enforcement grids, traffic cams…you name it.”

  “He’s already proven he’s in the power grid,” points out Miranda.

  “If he had that much access, he’d have caused a lot more problems than what we’re dealing with here,” I counter.

  Tabby asks quietly, “How do you know he hasn’t?” She glances at me over her shoulder. Her normally bright green eyes are troubled and dark.

  “What do you mean?”

  She looks at Harry. “How many terrorist acts go unclaimed?”

  “Almost all of them,” he replies, watching her closely. “Only fourteen percent of the more than forty-five thousand terrorist acts that have occurred since ’ninety-eight have credible claims of responsibility.”

  “What are you saying?” As my heart starts to beat faster, I move closer to her. “That Søren’s not only an extortionist, he’s a terrorist? You have proof of that? What do you know?”

  Her prolonged silence infuriates me. My patience, worn to a shred, finally snaps.

  I growl, “Tabby, whatever problem you have with me, you better spill your fucking guts before Harry decides you’re withholding evidence, because I will not stand here with my dick in my hand while you get hauled away to prison and interrogated by the FBI! Am I making myself clear?”

  Faint color rises to her cheeks.

  Ryan says, “Lady, start talking, because if he squares off against the feds, so do I, and that is one shit storm you definitely don’t wanna get in the middle of.”

  “I’m going to pretend both of you idiots didn’t just threaten me,” says Harry between gritted teeth. “But if it happens again, you’re all going to prison. Miss West, you’re walking a very fine line here. Talk.”

  She looks at the three of us, then at Chan, then at Miranda. Finally, she heaves a breath that sounds exhausted and flops into a nearby chair. She rests her elbows on her knees and puts her head in her hands. When she speaks, her voice is hollow.

  “I don’t have proof of anything. All I know is…Søren. I know Søren. Whatever his interest is in this studio, it isn’t money. He doesn’t care about money. He’s an anarchist, not a capitalist. What he cares about is chaos. Instigating it, creating it, and then sitting back with a bowl of popcorn and enjoying the show. He likes to set things in motion. He likes to destroy things.” She pauses, and when she speaks again, her voice is shaking. “He just wants to watch the world burn.”

  Her pain is so obvious, it seems like another person has suddenly appeared in the room, an invisible, heavy presence, indelibly dark. With a shock, I realize this is the thing she hides at her core. Beneath her smart mouth and rebel attitude and odd costumes, all the walls she’s built around herself, lies a lost soul, alone and in pain.

  My sweet Tabby is in so much pain.

  “Shut it down,” I instruct Chan, my voice thick.

  Tabby raises her head. Our eyes lock. Her lashes are wet. It sends a flood of emotion coursing through me, fury and possessiveness and a need to protect her, stronger than everything else.

  “Shut it down right now,” I repeat, turning to Harry. “Get that asshole off the screen.”

  While looking at me, Harry says to Tabby, “Has it been long enough for your pro—”

  “I don’t care about the program,” I snap, squaring off to face him. “Shut the fucking thing down!”

  “You’re being paid to care about the program,” says Miranda stiffly, sending me an arctic stare.

  Special Agent Chan says, “Too late. He’s out. He must’ve spotted the trace.”

  When we all look at the screen, the monitor has gone dark. All the pictures of Søren have vanished. Only a blinking green cursor remains.

  With quiet resignation, Tabby says, “It will take hours for the traceback to compile a report. Then more hours to comb through it to see if there’s anything useful. In the meantime, to appease him a little, we should give him some money. Make it look like we’re trying to comply with his demands.”

  Miranda points out, “You said he doesn’t care about money.”

  “He doesn’t. But it’s our only play if we want to stay in the game. It’ll buy us time to try to figure out what he’s really after, and maybe unruffle a few feathers so he doesn’t blow the whole thing to shit.” Her voice drops. “Obedience is always rewarded.”

  That last part sends a rash of chills down my spine. I share a look with Ryan. I know our thoughts are aligned: This freak Søren Killgaard needs to be put down.

  Tabby glances at Miranda. “His demand is now at twenty million, correct?”

  Miranda nods. “But my assets are primarily real estate, stocks, equity in the studio. I don’t have that kind of cash just lying around.”

  Tabby stands, pulls her shoulders back, takes a breath. She lets it out in a noisy rush.

  “I do.”

  18

  Tabby

  The first thing out of O’Doul’s mouth is a flat, “No.”

  His tone suggests there’s no room for argument. Naturally, I do anyway.

  “Miranda can pay me back—”

  “No. As soon as he has the money, he’ll make good on all his threats. We never negotiate—”

  “This isn’t negotiating,” I interrupt wearily. I’m so t
ired, my eyes are crossed. “This is stalling. It’s strategic—”

  “Tabitha.”

  Connor says my name so gently, it startles me. I look at him, standing next to the blond, tattooed bulk of Ryan T. McLean, who, though large and intimidating in his own right, is dwarfed by his boss. Between the two of them, there’s so much free-floating testosterone in the room that a girl could get pregnant through osmosis.

  But the look in Connor’s eyes…oh God. My poor heart can’t take much more of this.

  He murmurs, “Please. Listen to Harry.”

  When I open my mouth, Connor holds up a hand. Even more gently than before, he says, “Please.”

  You son of a bitch. Please? After you practically accuse me of setting this whole thing up, you have the nerve to say please? Nicely?

  But I don’t say anything out loud, because his eyes are wrecking me. His voice is wrecking me. The memory of his face is wrecking me, how he looked when his body was moving inside mine, his expression of adoration, of reverence, as if what he felt wasn’t just physical pleasure, but something a little more…

  Sacred.

  Connor didn’t just fuck me. He made love to me. And no matter how much I might want to deny it, what happened between us was far more profound than a casual screw.

  One night, he’d promised.

  I don’t know which one of us is the bigger fool.

  “So what are we supposed to do now?” Miranda starts up her pacing again, back and forth over a few feet of carpet, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Just wait and see what happens?”

  “Go home,” answers Harry. “Get some sleep. There’s nothing more you can do here. If anything happens, we’ll call you.” He glances at me, and then at Connor. “The same goes for you—”

  “I already slept,” I say dully, dragging a hand through my hair.

  Harry looks at me, his lips in a wry twist. “Forty-five minutes curled up in an armchair doesn’t count as sleep, Miss West.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine,” says Connor, still with that soft voice. He must see my anger at his contradiction, because he adds, “I know you need to be clear-headed, and I also know you need sleep to be clearheaded. Let your program do its work. Harry’s right. There’s nothing more we can do for now.”