Page 21 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
I examine the specialized encryption panel scheduled for tomorrow as Cole pulls up additional details. An ideal setting for someone who wants to make contact while surrounded by similar professionals.
Smart. Strategic. Almost elegant in its simplicity.
The thought catches me off guard. I don't typically appreciate an opponent's methodology. I analyze, counter, and neutralize. Nothing more.
Yet here I sit, a slight curl forming at the corner of my mouth—half frustration, half something dangerously close to anticipation. The feeling is foreign, a disruption to my carefully maintained equilibrium.
"Whoever Echo is," I say, eyes fixed on the invitation glowing on Cole's screen, my voice holding a note of something I haven't heard from myself in years, "they're not just playing chess. They're inviting us to the board."
six
Vanessa
"That can't be right."
I squint at the screen, my fingers tap-dancing across the keyboard as data streams past. My eyes burn, dry from staring too long without blinking, but I can't look away. Jenny's files on Paradise Elite light up my monitor with an eerie blue glow that fills my darkened loft.
"C'mon, Obi-Wan, show me something useful," I mutter to my main monitor, bouncing my leg unconsciously. My oversized MIT sweats bunch around my ankles as I shift position, crossing my legs underneath me on my chair. The pen cap between my teeth is practically mangled beyond recognition.
Quarterly reports. Financial statements. Client lists with coded identifiers. I've been through them a dozen times before, but something's been nagging at me.
Jenny saw something here. Something that got her killed.
My hair escapes from the messy bun piled on top of my head, falling into my eyes. I blow it away without breaking concentration.
"Wait a second..."
I freeze completely, every muscle suddenly tense. Paradise Elite has been moving identical sums of money through shell companies that don't exist except on paper. The pattern is subtle. A normal accountant might miss it, but it's there, clear as day to someone looking for it.
"Jenny, you beautiful genius. You found it."
My fingers fly across the keyboard, diving deeper. The pattern extends back years, predating Jenny's investigation. Millions of dollars moved through elaborate channels, eventually disappearing into financial black holes.
I grab my second monitor. "Leia, I need you to run correlation patterns on these shell companies." I swivel to my right. "Han, get me geographical distribution of these transfers."
The tracking system forms in my mind as I work, talking through the logic as I go. "If Obi-Wan handles the primary code, then Leia and Han can execute the backup programs while Luke breaks through the rear entry systems..."
I'm building a Star Wars-themed tracking system because, of course, I am. My brain works better with visualization, and this way I'll never forget which sequence does what. The complex tracking system builds itself across my monitors, every piece sending information into the primary display.
"BB-8, pull up those geographic markers," I command my phone, using its processing power to supplement my system. "Rey, dig deeper into those account numbers."
Time disappears. My loft could burn down around me, and I wouldn't notice. The pattern of transactions leads to other patterns: staffing requirements, travel records, medical supply orders, all hidden in plain sight but forming an unmistakable footprint of trafficking operations.
"You were looking in exactly the right place, Jenny." My voice catches in my throat. "I'm so sorry I didn't see it sooner."
The guilt wraps around my chest, squeezing tightly. Jenny started this investigation, and it got her killed. Now I'm picking up where she left off, but is it too late? How many more victims have there been since she died?
My phone buzzes, breaking my concentration. I blink, suddenly aware of the cramp in my lower back and the fact that the sun has completely set since I started working.
Maya's text glares accusingly at me.
You were supposed to meet me TWO HOURS AGO. Still alive or do I need to send a search party?
"Shit!" I check the time and groan. It's almost midnight. I was supposed to meet Maya at ten to go over plans for tomorrow's conference.
I stop halfway through the door, my eyes dragging back to monitor four where another program churns—the one tracking Asher Cross's movements. I hesitate, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
"Just a quick check," I murmur, clicking through his latest location data. It's the third "quick check" today. My heart pounds against my ribs as his file loads on the screen. Must be from those three shots of espresso I downed earlier.
