Page 31 of Sypher

“I installed it,” Ace replied. “Well, Harbor Security did. Mr. Scott contracted with our firm for the upgrades. Wanted all the bells and whistles.”

“Which means you can disable it.” Maxim grinned, leaning forward, not understanding the problem.

“No,” Mr. Law stated firmly. “We are bound by client confidentiality. When he signed our contract, it bound us to him. If we break into his system, Mr. Scott will hold us liable for millions.”

“But not me.” I smirked. “I’m under no contract, and since Ace used my design, I can hack into it and do whatever I want.”

My brother’s head whipped to mine and he glared at me.

Yeah, that’s right motherfucker. I can do anything I want.

Montana leaned forward and grinned wickedly.

“Kid, I’m starting to like you more and more.”

Chapter Twelve

Sypher

August 14, 2023, Pippen’s apartment, New York City

Since that night at the clubhouse, I kept myself busy creating a new algorithm that would override the one Ace used at the Trick Pony. It was slow going, but I was making progress. Dante left early for the club, leaving me with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company. Despite his invitation to accompany him to the clubhouse, I declined his offer without any hesitation or consideration. There was absolutely no amount of money that could convince me to deal with Montana’s incredibly surly demeanor today.

His bad mood was palpable.

I woke up this morning in a fantastic mood. The sun was streaming through the window, and I planned to keep that feeling all day. I should have fucking known it was too much to ask for because the moment I saw the alerts on my computer, my face fell and an icy dread washed over me.

My algorithm finally breached the Trick Pony’s master drive. A wave of icy horror washed over me while I scrolled through the sickening contents.

The Trick Pony was not simply a BDSM club. Rather, it was a horrendous sadistic pedophile farm that serviced the most extreme and depraved offenses known to mankind. The membership list included some of the most notorious individuals, making it a who’s who of the most controversial figures. Adding insult to injury and to make a difficult situationeven worse, Devlin Scott was not the actual owner of the Trick Pony establishment. He only ran the fucking place. The actual owner was someone calledPandoraand, if my gut was telling me the truth, the real owner was aptly named.

Not only were there thousands of files to examine, including a significant number of subfiles, but also videos and disturbing images which added to the complexity of the task. A quick scan of the files revealed my target, yet opening it triggered a pop-up screen that screamed‘Access Denied’and demanded a key code plus the master key.

“Shit!” I thundered, slamming my hands down on the table.

The only fucking way I was getting my hands on that goddamned file was if my ass was physically standing in the Trick Pony’s server room. The only feasible approaches involved either a risky and challenging infiltration of a highly secure building, utilizing advanced surveillance and security technologies, or the deliberate act of making myself vulnerable to capture. Neither of the choices presented were palatable, and in light of Dante’s unfortunate situation, the second option was completely out of the question.

So that meant option one it was.

The next step and the most difficult one, involved figuring out how to gain entry into a building my dishonest and pilfering brother had modified and fortified with an extensive network of technological security devices that were damn near impossible to penetrate. In addition to other requirements, obtaining the current architectural blueprints for the building would be nice to have before I walked in blind.

With a loud thud, my ass hit the chair.

I leaned back, groaning as I rubbed my tired hands down my face and over my rough stubble, because even I knew I couldn’t do this alone. As my gaze drifted aimlessly across the computer screen, my mind worked to formulate a discreet approach, aplan so carefully concealed that its execution would escape the notice of any observer, until an unexpected detail pulled my focus away.

I sat up. The chair creaked beneath me when I reached for my mouse, carefully hovering the cursor over the file before clicking. In the next second, the file opened without a problem. As I scanned the file, my eyes widened with each shocking revelation, the words blurring together in a rush of disbelief. My hands shook uncontrollably, my rapid breathing felt like gasping for air, my heart pounded like a drum against my ribs, a furious rhythm echoing the chaos in my brain as I tried desperately to make sense of what I was reading. A burning rage consumed me as I read, and upon reaching the end, I shot up, the chair felt like an extension of my fury, and I sent it flying across the room.

“MOTHERFUCKER!”

Falling to my knees, I clutched my head, a guttural scream tearing from my throat as the reality of my dad’s death slammed into me with the force of a runaway train. My world tilted on its axis, the air thick with the stench of grief. My father’s death, while protecting Layla and Dylan, was not a simple act of self-sacrifice but rather a complex event with far-reaching consequences. Devlin Scott ruthlessly killed my dad because he had knowledge of a secret that no one was supposed to have.

Information regarding Jackson.

I earned the underworld’s trust for a particular reason. I didn’t simply receive their trust. I possessed a specific talent that proved my reliability and trustworthiness. My success wasn’t due to technical proficiency, but because of a remarkable capacity for retaining information and avoiding ever repeating what I heard or learned. Just as my computers possessed immense storage capacity, so too did my mind. It was a supercomputer filled with countless facts and figures, but this wealth of knowledge proved useless without the appropriatecognitive processes, akin to the code necessary to unlock a computer’s data. But there was another element to the situation, a hidden truth I’d never shared, a carefully concealed secret so perilous that its exposure would catapult me to the position of the world’s most formidable and dangerous person.

My memory was sufficient.

I didn’t need my computer to store information. My memory was a vast storehouse, perfectly preserving every conversation I’d had, everything I’d ever read, and every individual I’d ever met, in meticulous detail.

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