Page 24 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken warnings and the soft hum of cooling fans.
"What about this Asher Cross you're tracking?" Slate finally asks, scrolling through the profile I've compiled.
"He's connected somehow. His background has inconsistencies that—"
Slate's expression grows serious as he leans closer to the camera. "This guy you're tracking—he's not just any operative. His cover story, the skill behind it... Be careful. Whoever he works for has serious resources."
Serious resources.
My brain jumps to that network I cracked while chasing Steele's digital footprints. The one with the insane security protocols that made me actually sweat. Military-grade encryption, compartmentalized access, the whole nine yards.
I'd barely gotten past their outer defenses before their countermeasures went full Terminator on me, but I caught glimpses of something big. Asset management. Operational parameters. The kind of corporate-speak that usually translates to 'we do things governments can't officially do.'
Slate's face disappears from my screen, leaving his final warning hanging in the air. I stare at the disconnection message, my fingers frozen above my keyboard.
A chill runs through me, even though the apartment feels warm. Outside, Sacramento's fog has rolled in completely, muting the usual city lights to ghostly halos.
I pull up Jenny's last email, sent just three days before her death. The timestamp mocks me: 2:17 AM—another night owl who couldn't stop digging.
Found something in the Paradise Elite security protocols,she'd written.They have connections to former intelligence officers. Need to verify before meeting.
She never made that meeting.
My throat tightens as I open a folder labeled "JM-Final." Inside are all the files I recovered from her cloud backup—some corrupted, others partially redacted. Pages of blacked-out text stare back at me, the work of someone with expertise in covering their tracks.
"Who were you about to expose, Jenny?" I whisper to the empty room.
The clock on my screen reads 2:36 AM. The cybersecurity conference starts at 9:00. I need to prepare.
I push away from my desk, stretching muscles stiff from hours hunched over keyboards. My apartment feels too quiet, too empty.
"Okay, conference prep first."
"You're talking to yourself again," I mutter, then laugh. "And now you're talking to yourself about talking to yourself. Great job, Nessa."
I move to my closet, pulling out clothing options that follow my cardinal rule: professional enough to belong, forgettable enough to disappear. I settle on dark gray slacks, a navy blousewith subtle tech company logo, and low heels I can run in if necessary.
Next, I gather my tech. Laptop with customized security. Portable hard drive with Jenny's files. Enhanced smartphone with specialized apps. Wireless earpiece disguised as a hearing aid. USB drives with tracking software.
I spread everything across my bed in sequence, verifying each item, the routine quieting the restless energy racing through my body.
"Obi-Wan, I need you to maintain the Paradise Elite trace while I'm gone," I announce to my main system. "You're the only one I trust not to get distracted by cat videos."
I've programmed automated responses to specific network activities, alerting me if any unusual data movements occur during the conference.
Back at my desk, I initiate tomorrow's security protocols, fingers dancing across keys.
"Luke, run system diagnostics before sleep mode," I instruct my laptop. "BB-8, activate proximity alerts for known Paradise Elite employees."
The familiar ritual of preparation steadies my hands. I've done this dozens of times before—infiltrated spaces, gathered intelligence, tracked digital footprints back to their sources. Yet something about tomorrow feels different.
I pull up Asher's profile one last time. Those eyes seem to look straight through me, assessing, calculating.
My heart pounds as I examine the sharp angles of his face, the fierce heat in his stare.
"Who are you really working for?" I whisper, my fingertip hovering over his face on the screen. Heat floods my chest, an unexpected current that sparks across my skin and steals my breath.
I laugh softly, the sound bouncing off my empty walls. "Congratulations, Vanessa. You've finally found the one thing your brain won't let go of. Not coding, not video games. Just a potentially dangerous operative with murder eyes and chiseled features."
