His dark eyes have turned black.
“I’m on it,” he says, and ends the call.
I push the plate away, a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Let me guess. You have to go out for a while.”
“Aye. I won’t be long. Make yourself comfortable while I’m gone.”
I smile sweetly at him. “Oh, sure, I’ll just be here rifling through your drawers for evidence I can provide to the authorities.”
If I thought that would make him think twice about leaving me alone—and possibly taking me with him, giving me a chance at escape—I was wrong.
“Have at it, lass. My office door’s open. You won’t be able to get into anything without a matching biometric fingerprint, so you’ll be wasting your time, but you’re certainly welcome to try.”
He turns and strides toward the direction of the elevator banks, but stops and turns back around to look at me. His voice comes low and rough. His dark eyes glitter with secrets.
“And the authorities already know exactly what I am.”
The man talks in riddles. There always seems to be layers under layers hidden beneath his words, a sly wink in his tone like he’s the only one in on the joke. It’s intriguing as much as it is irritating.
“I know who you are, too, gangster. Everyone in this town knows who you are.”
“I didn’t say who, lass. I said what.”
I’m getting exasperated with his word games. “What’s the difference?”
He murmurs, “Only everything that matters, little thief.”
Eyes burning, he holds my gaze for a moment longer before turning and heading out.
When the elevator doors slide shut and he’s gone, I shout after him, “What you are is annoying, devil man!”
It doesn’t make me feel better.
Because I was raised to have good manners, I rinse my dish and put it in the dishwasher, then wipe up the crumbs from the counter. Then I go on the hunt for the devil man’s office.
I find it at the opposite end of the corridor from the guest room I trashed. It’s large and masculine, with a big black oak desk and all the requisite macho man décor, bulky leather sofas and the like.
I sit in his ridiculously large captain’s chair and stare at his blank computer screen with pursed lips, thinking. My gaze drops to the keyboard, then to the surface of the desk.
I wish he were here to see my smile.
Shoving away from the desk, I trot out of the office and back down the corridor. When I find the master bedroom—decorated all in gray and black, what a surprise—I rummage through his bathroom drawers until I find what I was looking for.
I head back to his office with the talcum powder bottle in hand.
Seated in his captain’s chair once again, I lightly sprinkle the talc over the edge of the desk near the keyboard. I blow gently, then lean down and take a closer look.
“Hello, there,” I say to the outline of a fingerprint.
It’s easy enough to find the Scotch tape because it’s sitting right out on the blotter.
I press a piece of tape over the talc outline, then gingerly pull it up. Then I stick the tape onto a neon yellow Post-It note.
When that’s complete, I look around, realizing I haven’t seen a biometric fingerprint scanner anywhere. The door to Killian’s office was standing wide open when I came in, and there’s nothing on the desk to indicate secured access to the drawers or computer.
Wherever this blasted biometric thing is, it’s hidden.
I mutter, “Well, hell.”
I toggle the computer’s mouse, but nothing happens. I try a drawer, but it won’t open. I look underneath the desk and chair, but find nothing there.
Then I look at the keyboard.
I don’t know which finger this print I pulled off the desk is from, so I start from left to right. First, I press the Post-It to the A key. Nothing happens. I move to the S key, but nothing happens there, either. I go down the line, trying each key where you set your hands to begin typing, but get no results at all.
Until I try the space bar.
The keyboard lights up. So does the computer screen. So does my face.
Grinning, I say loudly, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have liftoff!”
Then a box appears in the middle of the computer screen informing me that access is denied and all systems are shutting down due to a security breach. The screen and keyboard go dark.
Five seconds later, my cell phone rings.
I pull it from my coat pocket and look at the screen. The ID is blocked.
This is interesting, because the only two people in the world who have the number to this burner phone are Fin and Max. And their numbers are already programmed in.
I have a bad feeling I know who it is.
“Hello?”
“Hullo, lass. Having fun?”
I look up at the ceiling, wondering where the camera is. “Actually, I am. I’m planning on starting a small kitchen fire next.”
“Watch out for the sprinklers. The fire suppression system dispenses about four hundred liters per minute, so I hope you can swim.”
His rich brogue is tinged with laughter. He’s not even a little bit worried, the jerk.
“How did you get this number?”
“I’m me.”
He says it with such casual, supreme self-confidence, I want to throw the phone across the room. Instead, I demand, “No, seriously, how did you get it? I picked this phone up at a kiosk at the airport a week ago. I paid for it in cash. I’ve only used it twice.”
“I know,” he says, his tone indulgent. “And you’ll get a new burner for the next job, and a new one for the job after that. I would’ve called you at your apartment, but you’re not there at the moment.”
Great. He has my unlisted home number, too. Stupid land line. I told Fin we shouldn’t have signed up for that.
“While we’re on the subject, how did you know it was us at the warehouse? Was there another security camera we didn’t know about?”
“You forgot to disable the cameras at the factory across the street.”
I close my eyes, cursing silently. What a stupid, obvious mistake. “And from there? How did you follow us? The cameras at the field where we unloaded the truck and at the drop zone were out. So were the street light cameras all around both places.”
“I hacked an air force satellite.”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. He knows how to hack a government satellite? What kind of gangster am I dealing with?
He knows I’m shocked. His chuckle is all kinds of pleased. “You still there, lass?”
“Man, I really can’t stand it when you’re smug.”
“Oh, don’t be sore. Admit it: you’re impressed.”
I am, but I will never, ever, not in a billion years admit it. “Was breaking into machines orbiting the earth something they taught you in mob school?”
“Ach, no. I learned to hack long before I was in the mafia.”
I say flatly, “Really.”
“It’s not like it’s difficult. There aren’t any cybersecurity standards for satellites, so anyone with a basic understanding of computer systems and programming languages can get past the pathetic firewalls government defense departments sets up. I can show you, if you like.”
My tone drips sarcasm. “That would be swell.”