Page 7 of The Deals We Make
Hell, I don’t even come north of Santa Cruz on the opposite coast if I can help it. I prefer the heat of sunshine on my skin for the majority of the year.
I glance at her sensible winter boots. “Bet your feet are nice and warm in those.”
“Hmm. Got ‘em on sale maybe a decade ago. One of my best no-remorse purchases.”
“I can see why.”
I watch the numbers count upwards. Three floors away. I need two things to happen: Her to get off the elevator at the floor she pressed the button for. And her to not ask me why I’m here.
Energy vibrates through me. I resist the urge to run my thumb across the pads of my fingers, something I do when I get excited.
See, I was interviewed byForbesjust last year about how I made such a success of myself at thirty-three years of age. How I built my security company into one of the most successful. I gave them an answer that matches the facade.
I’m a well-dressed, capable, results-driven businesswoman with a knack for understanding the psychology and technology that enables breaches. Doesn’t hurt that I’m considered good looking, looks I play down to be taken seriously, but play up for the magazines.
But what they don’t know, what they don’t see, is that I’m still a hacker, not just at heart, but in practice.
I love the thrill of blowing something wide open, of breaking into places I shouldn’t be. Of demonstrating why access is always possible. Of understanding system vulnerabilities. Of leveraging social engineering tactics to bend human nature to my will. It’show I stay sharp, witness emerging trends, and navigate my clients through the most serious of data breaches and future protections.
Like everything I’ve ever done, my professional organization is a legitimate front to my private illegal enterprise.
Because until society finally realizes that we need to redistribute wealth in this goddamn country, I’m going to take matters into my own hands.
No one would suspect one of the world’s leading cybersecurity experts.
Which is why the Wilders Bank of Manhattan, the private bank of the super-rich that called me in but didn’t like what I had to say, is about to find out why I’m right and they were wrong.
They haven’t paid last month’s invoice, even though the diagnostic work was completed and exceptional in its recommendations. But I’m not worried about the money. Truth is, I can cover it a hundred thousand times over.
If they don’t pay, I could even hack in and take it myself. And about four million more. We’ll wash it clean through our legal enterprises, then donate it to an accelerator lab that’s decided to break away from the Silicon Valley crowd by setting up in Memphis. Keeping skills local and rents livable but attracting brilliant minds to do good social shit.
It’s the perfect philanthropic endeavor Valentine Security can get behind.
Plus, there’s a phenomenal woman in charge of the whole thing, and we all know women only get access to less than five percent of all the social investment capital because douche bros love nothing more than giving money to other douche bros.
I guess the sweaty scent of testosterone is more reassuring than the power of a woman’s highly targeted brain.
Another reason why I hate men most days.
“I had to get a little heater for under my desk because the office is always so cold on a Monday morning,” the lady says, bringing me back to the reason I’m here.
“Layers are my solution,” I say, pointing to the champagne-colored cashmere sweater I’m wearing beneath my jacket.
“That color’s pretty on you.” The elevator starts to slow. “Do you know where you’re going?”
I smile. “Yeah, I’m good. I might come looking for you to steal those boots so I can make it home, though.”
She laughs at my joke. “I’ll give you a fair fight. You have a good day.”
“Thank you. You too.”
The elevator doors close, and my heart gives a little skip. I catch the blurry outline of myself in the slightly warped elevator doors.
You’ve got this, Cal.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I take it out and check it, surprised I got any reception in the elevator.
Anonymous:You think you can hide in New York. I’ll find you, bitch.
