Torched: Afterburn (Iron Serpents Motorcycle Club Book 2) (5 page)

I raised a brow and stared at him, intrigued but skeptical. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the job?”

“My client is a private weapons developer, local but operating covertly behind an electronics manufacturing front. They’re designing and building armed drones, the extremely portable kind. I’m talking the size of a raven’s wingspan and nearly silent in-flight, with a recoil-muzzled, fifty-round drum. High caliber. They’re also equipped with cameras and heat sensors. All you need is a laptop and joystick to operate one.”

Jesus, I didn’t even know where to start. “That’s got
bad
idea
written all over it,” I muttered. “Who the hell are they selling these to? Fuck, if they hit the streets here…”

“Which is exactly why I mentioned the possibility of innocent people being hurt,” he explained. “The drones aren’t intended to stay in the country, FTX is funded by international investors from war zones trying to protect their civilians against guerrilla armies and terrorist cells.”

“Until they fall into the hands of exactly those people,” I pointed out. “Anywhere.”

“Well, without the ground equipment and software, the drones themselves are useless. The developer is currently working on adding an encrypted fail-safe in case the drone and controlling device are both captured.”

I let out a deep breath, feeling conflicted over potentially enabling fucking fly-by shootings if I took the job. Whatever it was. “There’s no fail-safe against greed,” I reminded him, “but I assume you’re not here to ask my opinion. It sounds like they have an extremely capable tech team, what do you need me for?”

“About a month ago, a hacker attempted to worm his way into the company’s servers, specifically targeting their design files. Fortunately, he didn’t get far before alarms sounded. They have several layers of encryption to protect against such intrusions and all the servers were taken offline as a precaution.”

Great, I didn’t understand what the problem was. “It sounds like their security set-up is working exactly the way it’s supposed to. The hacker didn’t get in, right?”

“It didn’t appear that way until yesterday, when the CEO received an email containing copies of several FTX financial documents. The sender is threatening to release the records, as well as emails, investor names, call logs, and all sorts of other sensitive information ascertained from their very own network. As you can imagine, this sort of breach could be quite damaging.”

“So good, old-fashioned blackmail, not a ransomware attack?” I asked. “What are the demands?”

He shook his head. “It’s not ransomware, none of their computers have been locked. And there hasn’t been a demand yet. An hour ago, the hacker sent more documents, at the moment he’s just taunting them with what he has. He’s using a throwaway email account and both threats were sent using unsecured wifi hotspots with no surveillance cameras in range. The design schematics don’t seem to be part of the arsenal though, which suggests this is more about money or morals than the drones themselves.”

I frowned. “There’ll be a demand at some point, nobody hacks a company like that just to play mind games for fun and the press would already know about it if your guy was a whistleblower. What are their IT people saying?”

“Their people can’t seem to find any evidence of an intrusion. They tried to trace the first hack but allegedly came up against dozens of international VPN proxies and dead ends, which led the CEO to wonder whether it was an inside job and one of them is covering. He had his own analyst comb through every employee’s data logs, but again, hit a dead end. No strange correspondence, nothing to suggest the attack was launched from within, and no one opened any malicious attachments or files. But until the situation is resolved, all operations have been suspended and he has surveillance on the tech guys.”

“It doesn’t necessarily have to be an inside job,” I pointed out, “the first attack could’ve embedded malicious script and hidden it so deep in the system that they couldn’t find it. Then again, that attack could be completely unrelated. It’s definitely a tad strange that there’s absolutely
no
evidence of an actual leak though. How’s the physical security around their server room?” I asked.

“They have video surveillance and key card entry, nothing suspicious there from the outside looking in either. The entrance to the building is also outfitted with a body scanner, all wifi and storage devices have to be left at the door during an employee’s shift.”

Hmm, sounded like just the kind of mystery I enjoyed sinking my teeth into. Was it a good idea though? Could I even do it? I leaned against the wall and weighed the pros and cons. “I don’t know, Silas…”

“There’s fifty thousand dollars with your name on it, Styx, provided you can sniff out the snake.”

“You don’t have anyone else who can take this on?” I asked.

“No one on your level who’s local and I can trust.”

“I’ve been out of the game for a year,” I added. “I didn’t have internet access in Hazelton and haven’t really had a chance to catch up yet.”

“Again, I’m not worried about it, you’re a quick learner.”

I sighed at his relentlessness. “Let me think about it.”

He pulled a burner from his pocket and handed it to me. “Don’t take too long,” he urged.

I gave him a nod and watched as he sauntered off, silently admiring the confidence in his strut. Silas was just one of those people who never seemed the least bit fazed by any obstacle, I’d never heard him raise his voice under even the most stressful circumstances. And he wasn’t particularly handsome or fit—my guess was he was at least fifty—but that intoxicating aura of power made him strangely magnetizing.

Magnetizing enough to draw me back into the game against my better judgment? It was definitely a possibility.

: : : :

Late that night in the home office Torch had set up for me, I found myself so wrapped up in combing through emails and surveillance video that I didn’t even hear him come home until I felt his breath and soft beard on my neck.

“What are you doing?” he whispered in my ear before taking a nibble.

“Working on the liquor license mystery,” I replied, trying my best not to let those wonderfully warm lips distract me. “Fuck, babe… How am I supposed to get anything done with you doing that?”

I felt his mouth curl into a smile. “But you’re so goddamn sexy when you’re all focused and shit, what am I supposed to do with this hard-on?”

My eyes still glued to the monitor, I reached up and swatted his face away. “You need to wait your turn. Go away so I can finish.”

He chuckled and pulled away. “You’re even sexier when you get bossy. Fine, I’ll just watch then. Let me know when this hungry cock moves up in line.”

I glanced back over my shoulder and watched as he plopped down on the futon and stuck his hand down the waistband of his jeans. “You’re fucking incorrigible,” I chastised with a roll of the eyes.

He cocked his head and grinned. “That’s a mighty fancy way of saying you can’t wait to take another ride.”

“I think you’re experiencing selective hearing,” I groaned, turning back to the computer before he got me all hot and bothered. Just in time too, I caught a flash of something interesting in the video I’d been running through. Instantly back in work mode, I squinted at the screen and rewound.

There was my target, walking nervously by the bar hours before the brawl. I zeroed in on his hand. “Gotcha, asshole.”

“You get something?” Torch asked.

“Oh, I already had the ‘why’ figured out. I just found the ‘how’.”

Torch hopped to his feet and walked over, then leaned down and looked over my shoulder. “What are we looking at?”

“This is the feed that points at the front window from inside the bar.” I pointed at Alex walking into the frame, “And that’s our little friend. Watch his hand.”

“He’s running it along the glass?”

“Yeah,” I smirked. “With a glass cutter.”

“What?” He leaned closer to the screen. “You’re shittin’ me.”

I clicked over to the driver’s license picture I’d pulled from the DMV. “Nope. Meet Alex Mitchell-
Collins
, son of our recently appointed councilwoman, Jan Collins. Apparently this whole thing was planned. A long cut like that across the bottom made it hard to see and the whole pane was bound to shatter with a few pounds of pressure. He
wanted
to instigate a fight that spilled out into the street, and what better way to do it than by going through a window? There were too many bodies in the way to see anything down low during the fight, but I bet Alex kicked back at the glass since it’s pretty clear on the video that Jet pulled him away from it.”

“That motherfucker,” he seethed.

“It wasn’t his idea, Jan put him up to it. I traced the dispatch call to her cell phone. She must have been waiting outside or something.”

“What the fuck? Why?”

I pulled up the next picture, this time from social media. “Jan has another kid. Recognize her?”

“Is that—”

“Sadie… freshman club crawler and part-time cocktail waitress at the Nest. She didn’t have anything to do with it as far as I can tell, they’ve been estranged for months and Sadie wasn’t working last night. I checked phone records and voicemails but Jan’s the only one making calls, Sadie hasn’t picked up or responded. Apparently, her nutjob mom concocted the scheme because she’s pissed we’re ruining her precious offspring and turning her into a slut. Jan’s words, not mine.”

“That’s bullshit. Sadie’s twenty-one, right? Nobody’s forcing her.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s the problem. Jan’s been doing a lot of research on political strategy, I think she wants to go for mayor and probably sees Sadie as a liability for her image.”

“How would ruining our business help with that?” he asked. “We have a lot of supporters who vote.”

“No idea,” I replied with a shrug. “I can read her emails and see her internet habits, but there’s no getting in her brain. Maybe she thought Sadie would instantly lose her job and come crawling home, maybe she’s just being irrational and taking it out on the MC, or maybe this was just a first shot to make the club look bad and turn those supporters against it. The election isn’t for a couple more years, she might have a long-term plan.”

He scrubbed his beard and took a step back. “What about Gellar? Why would he go along with it?”

I stood up from the chair and handed him a stack of emails. “Mike Gellar’s just another pawn, Jan’s been fucking him and used the threat of a sexual harassment case to force his hand.”

“Fantastic,” Torch muttered incredulously as he thumbed through the evidence. “What a fucking cunt, this shit’s about to get ugly.”

“Let’s not be hasty, I think I can handle it under the radar.”

He looked skeptical. “How are you gonna handle it?”

“We’ll have a little chat, nothing extreme. I know it’s a foreign concept, but you don’t always have to break bones to make a point. ”

“But it’s a lot more fun than playing politics,” he protested.

“Tell you what,” I murmured, melting into his chest and reaching around to run my fingers up his back. “Let me try it my way first. If it doesn’t work, have at her.”

“All these fucking compromises,” he grumbled.

I gripped the back of his head with the other hand and lifted my heels to gain a few inches. “Yeah, but aren’t they
always
worth it?”

“Goddamn it,” he groaned, “now you’re the one trying to distract me so I stand down.”

I leaned back and smiled. “Is it working?”

He grabbed me by the waist and pulled my hips tightly to his, the hardness in his jeans answering my question. “Not down here. He’s pretty happy standing up.”

“And I’ll be happy to give him some attention if his owner concedes on the issue at hand,” I offered.

Pursing his lips, he fisted my hair and tugged it back, forcing me to stare into those gorgeous eyes. It was a good view, they burned with frustration and primal desire, which was the best way to tame this particular manly species. “You have twenty-four hours, Mrs. Larter, and I’m hereby calling an end to the workday.”

: 5 :

| LIVIA |

I sat on my bike across the street from Linwood’s municipal building waiting for Jan Collins to make an appearance. It was late in the morning, but members of Linwood’s city council rarely kept regular hours at the office. Representing a four-digit population was apparently an easy gig judging by how little they all had on their email calendars.

Not only had I figured out Jan’s cockeyed plan to shut the bar down, I’d also discovered things about the bitch that didn’t really line up with who she was making herself out to be. And since nothing pissed me off more than a hypocrite with a superiority complex, dealing with me was about to become a rather unpleasant part of her day. I was cranky. Really fucking cranky. But I was also feeling pretty cocky. I knew I had her by the lady balls.

Ten minutes and a cigarette later, I spotted my prey walking down the front steps. She was forty-five, but with that flaming red hair, statuesque build, and the complexion of a teenager, she could easily have passed for early thirties. The woman was gorgeous, I’d give her that, and it was easy to see why she’d spent most of her adult life as a trophy wife. From what I’d gathered, she’d been married to Linwood’s long-time Director of Public Works until his death a few years back. Between his retirement and life insurance payouts, Jan had made out like a bandit, but her shopping habits drained those funds within months. In order to keep her enormous house on the outskirts of town, she bit the bullet and went into real estate. She then won her elected seat by running on a platform of being one of the people; a grieving widow and working mom who subscribed to family values over everything else.