Page 1 of Forbidden Access

CHAPTER 1

This was a terrible idea.

Thorn had known it from the moment she’d been handed this assignment, but her instructions were clear: “Clayton is instrumental to the US government, a High Value Target who must be protected at all costs.”

As she parked her car down the road from the Lydian building, she let out an unladylike snort. The guy was a criminal. He’d started his career as a genius hacker, extorting money from people, and gone on to develop an illicit gambling platform and then a new cryptocurrency that fueled illegal activities on the dark web. People had died because of him. Okay, not directly, but the dark web was a cesspool of illicit dealings: weapons, human trafficking, pornography, terrorism.

Why the hell were they protecting this guy?

In reality, she knew why.

He was helping the FBI trace illegal transactions tied to terrorist groups, including those orchestrated by an arms dealer named Aleksandar Markov. Markov had been a person of interest to the U.S. authorities for years, but nobody could pin anything on him. Now, with Clayton’s revolutionary new upgrade, they might be able to tie Markov—and a bunch of other bad guys—into any number of crimes.

That meant Clayton had a big red bullseye on his head.

She scowled as she pulled her skirt down and tried to march in these ridiculous heels toward the front entrance of the building. She hoped to hell she wouldn’t have to make a quick getaway, because she wouldn’t get very far before falling flat on her face.

Better for everyone if Damian Clayton and his shady cryptocurrency vanished, but that wasn’t up to her.

Since joining Blackthorn Security as a private operator, she’d traded life as an undercover operative for lucrative private security contracts. Pat Burke, the resourceful ex-SEAL Commander and her new boss, had the inside track to government operations, ensuring his agency handled off-the-books missions for national security. Thorn preferred it to a mundane job on Civvie Street.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” she’d asked, back at the office. Crypto developers weren’t known for their altruism or government cooperation.

“He had an attack of conscience,” Pat had replied, offering no further explanation.

Thorn scoffed.

An attack of conscience, my ass.

People like Clayton didn’t change. They didn’t suddenly wake up and think, I don’t want to do this anymore. I think I’ll turn myself in, cut a deal and go on the straight and narrow. The authorities obviously had something on him, and were willing to overlook it, in exchange for his cooperation.

The Lydian building loomed ahead, a sleek three-story edifice of glass and chrome in Palo Alto. Silicon Valley was now her battleground. It was a far cry from the dusty streets of Baghdad where she had once navigated through market crowds, tailing insurgents without them ever noticing. Here, the enemy wore tailored suits instead of combat gear, and the weapons were lines of code rather than AK-47s.

Thorn walked up to Clayton’s building, clutching a manilla folder. Her strawberry blonde hair—a genetic gift from her Scottish grandmother and the one downside to undercover work because it was so noticeable—was pulled back into a stylish chignon.

Her plan—if you could call it that— was to walk right in the front door. She would stride into the secure Lydian building looking like a sexy businesswoman, someone who fit right in at the sleek office block and wouldn’t draw any suspicion.

Except, she needed an “in”.

Opportunity struck when she saw a frazzled businesswoman in the parking lot juggling binders, coffee, a purse, as well as pulling a suitcase behind her. The woman dropped a binder, cursed under her breath, and stopped walking.

Thorn rushed over, pushing the folder under her arm. “Let me help you with that.”

“Oh, thank you,” the woman replied, gratefully, as Thorn bent to pick up the binder. “I'm not having a good day.” The suitcase tipped over. The woman scoffed. “See what I mean?”

“Don’t worry, I totally get it.” Thorn handed her the binder, but as she did, she stealthily unclipped the laminated ID card attached to the woman’s blazer pocket. Oblivious to the sleight of hand, the woman thanked her before picking up her suitcase.

Thorn smiled and hurried on up the paved walkway toward the entrance. The path curved as it wound through a landscaped garden bursting with colorful flowers and lined with silent oaks gazing judgmentally down. She moved quickly, aware the woman could notice her missing ID at any moment.

A uniformed security guard stood just inside the entrance, behind the turnstile. Thorn assessed him.

Six-foot, two-fifty. Solid build, but a little soft.

Threat level: manageable.

She swiped the stolen ID through the scanner, flashing the guard a confident smile. “Morning, Reggie.” His name was on his badge.

“Morning, ma’am,” he responded, his eyes on her, not the monitor. The scanner beeped, and she stepped through the turnstile.

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