Page 69 of Toxic Salvation
I hope they don’t think of that last one. I’m pregnant. I get hungry every twenty minutes now. It’s a foolproof plan.
“Vesper!” Kovan booms through the wooden door. “Can we talk about this?”
I ignore him and yank open another desk drawer. Like the others, it’s empty—except for a single black pen and what looks like a receipt for dry cleaning. Who keeps dry cleaning receipts in their desk? Psychopaths, that’s who.
“Sure, we can talk!” I yell back while rifling through the next drawer. “Go ahead and talk. I’m listening!”
“I was hoping we could do this face to face.”
“Yeah, well, I was hoping you weren’t a criminal mastermind, but here we are.”
The thing is, they could have broken down the door ten minutes ago. Or even easier than that: Kovan has spare keys to everything in this building. Hell, he probably has spare keys to the Pentagon. So either he’s enjoying watching me tear his office apart, or there’s nothing in here worth protecting.
Which would mean all of this was pointless.
Sweat runs down my spine despite the air conditioning. My hands shake as I slam the last drawer shut and turn toward his desk. I’ve checked everywhere except?—
“Oh, c’mon. Surely it’s not that simple.”
His laptop sits closed on the desk, innocent as a lamb. Password-protected, no doubt, but worth a shot. It’s not like I’m overflowing with other options, anyway.
I flip it open and the login screen appears. One password field standing between me and the truth about Kovan Krayev.
“If I were a tall, brooding mob boss, what would my password be?” I ask out loud.
I type:BRATVA
Access denied. Two attempts remaining.
I try:LUKA
Access denied. One attempt remaining.
One attempt left before the system locks me out completely. My fingers hover over the keyboard. This is it. My last chance to prove that Kovan is either the villain I suspected or the man I fell in love with.
I close my eyes and type:VESPER
The desktop loads.
My own name. His password is myowngoddamnname.
I stare at the screen, momentarily stunned. Then I shake my head and focus. It doesn’t mean anything. Serial killers probably name their computers after their victims, too. I don’t read into it. I can’t.
A folder appears on the screen without me clicking anything. It’s labeled “KERES” in bold letters, like the computer read my mind and served up exactly what I came looking for.
I open it.
The first document is a termination notice to someone named Dr. Frederick McCarthy, dated three months ago.
Your contract with the Keres organization is hereby dissolved. All patient obligations are null and void.
The second is an email to someone named Massimo Eaton:The organ procurement program is permanently discontinued. Your deposit has been refunded in full.
The third is a spreadsheet titled “Asset Liquidation.” It lists properties, bank accounts, and shell companies, all of which appear to be in the process of being dissolved or transferred. Everything related to the organ trafficking operation is being systematically dismantled.
I scroll through dozens of similar documents. Contract terminations. Refunds. Facility closures. Client notifications.
All dated within the last six months. All signed by Kovan.
