Page 85 of Reckless: Corruption

“Sterling’s systems are good,” I murmur, fingers flying across my screen. Pride surges as firewalls collapse beneath my assault. “But I’m better. There’s no DDoS protection in the world that can keep me out.”

“Always have been,” Finn’s voice carries a hint of pride. “Try access point delta-nine. It’s how we got into their HR records.”

I follow his suggestion, a small smile playing at my lips as barriers begin to crumble. This is what we do best—Finn and I, the beta brain trust, dismantling systems designed to keep us out. Even with him back at the mansion, our minds work in tandem, anticipating each other’s next move with preternatural synchronicity.

“I’m in,” I announce after several tense minutes. “Initiating data transfer. These encryption protocols would make the NSA jealous, by the way.”

As information flows into our secure drives, I scan file directories, looking for anything related to the virus. Most of the data is encrypted, protected behind layers of security that would take hours to crack. Each folder name sends a chill through me—clinical, sterile designations for what I know are experiments on living beings.

“Finn, I need a keyword search,” I request, still scanning. “Trybeta purification protocolandgenetic enhancement initiative.”

“On it,” he responds, the sound of rapid typing carrying through our comms. “Found something. Directory path sending to your tablet now.”

The path leads me to a folder simply labeledProject Renaissance.Inside, hundreds of files await—research notes, experimental data, subject records. My stomach turns as I scan file names that reduce beta lives to clinical observation and cold statistics. Names become numbers, suffering becomes data points. This is what Sterling thinks of us—not people, just variables in his grand experiment.

“Got it,” I whisper, initiating download of the entire directory. My hands tremble slightly, rage and revulsion warring beneath professional calm. “This is it—Sterling’s original virus formula, patient zero data, everything.”

“Time check,” Ryker prompts.

“Four minutes until download completion,” I respond, eyes fixed on the progress bar crawling across my screen with maddening slowness. “This connection is like dial-up on steroids. Fast but not fast enough.”

“Movement at the main entrance,” Theo warns, voice tight with concern. “Security team, four members. Full tactical gear.”

Jinx materializes from his patrol, eyes gleaming with predatory interest. “Not the regular security rotation?”

“Negative.” Theo’s typing sounds hurried now. “Different uniforms, military precision. I think... damn it, they’ve cut the exterior feeds.”

“Trap,” Ryker concludes, his expression hardening into tactical assessment. “How long until they reach our position?”

“Two minutes, maybe less,” Theo estimates. “Taking alternate routes through the facility.”

I glance at my tablet—download at sixty-eight percent. “We need more time.”

“Then we make time.” Ryker’s decision is immediate. “Jinx, with me. We’ll create a diversion, draw them away from this section. Cayenne, secure that data and proceed to extraction once complete.”

“No.” The word escapes before I can analyze it, visceral rejection spiking through me. “We stay together. That was the plan.”

“Plans change,” Ryker’s tone leaves no room for argument, but his eyes soften fractionally. “The data is priority. You’re priority.”

Before I can protest further, he and Jinx are moving, melting into the corridor with deadly purpose. The click of the door closing behind them feels like a physical blow, separation anxiety hitting harder than I expected. My chest tightens, breath coming shorter, a primal part of me screaming wrong-wrong-wrong at being separated from pack in danger.

“They’ll be fine,” Finn assures me, reading my silence correctly. “Focus on the download. The pack needs that data.”

The words pack needs anchor me, reminding me that my alphas aren’t just risking themselves—they’re protecting something larger, something we all belong to. I force my attention back to the tablet, where the progress bar crawls with maddening slowness. Seventy-five percent. Eighty. Eighty-three. Each percentage point feels like an eternity, my senses hyperaware of every sound beyond the server room door.

The distant sound of an alarm cuts through my concentration, followed by the unmistakable pop of controlled explosions. Jinx’s diversion, no doubt. My imagination paints vivid pictures—Jinx reveling in controlled chaos, Ryker’s precision violence, both of them in danger while I stare at a fucking progress bar.

“What’s happening?” I demand, fingers hovering uselessly over my tablet as the download continues its glacial progress.

“Jinx deployed two flash-bangs in the west corridor,” Theo reports, his voice calm despite the situation. “Security team is diverging to investigate. Ryker has positioned near the emergency exit, ready to draw pursuit if necessary.”

“Their tactics are working,” Finn adds, his analytical mind tracking multiple data points at once. “The security team’s formation is breaking, exactly as Ryker predicted. Classic flanking maneuver.”

His certainty helps steady me. This is what pack means—trust in each other’s skills, in roles that complement rather than compete. Ninety percent. Ninety-five.

A crash echoes from somewhere in the facility, followed by shouts and what might be gunfire. My pulse spikes, adrenaline flooding my system with nowhere to go, no way to help.

“Finn?” My voice rises despite my effort to stay calm.

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