Page 97 of Taken Off Camera
“Yeah, it’s just…”
“When I first came here, I thought I could train to be a hitman,” he murmurs, a wry smile tugging at his sculpted lips.
My head jerks back. “Seriously?”
“I had a lot of anger for the people who sold me,” he admits. “I wanted to make them pay. But when it came down to it…I didn’t like being the one to dirty my hands.”
“But you stayed,” I say.
“Because there are other ways to fight back.” He wiggles his fingers. “Moving pieces on the board, setting traps for the bastards who think they can own people, is cleaner. It’s still justice, but without the blood.”
I study his beautiful features, seeing a hardness there that didn’t come from growing up as a pampered Omega in an affluent household. “Did you really work at a convenience store?”
“I did. In Brickwell, not too far from here,” he confirms. “I met my mate, Dominic, when heinfiltrated the slave auction. He almost blew his cover when he bid on me so I wouldn’t go to a stranger. I owe the Rockfords my life, but even if I didn’t, I’d love this job.”
I sell myself to strangers all the time, but I have control over when and how I perform. It’s not the same as what Milo went through, and I struggle to wrap my mind around the horrors he must have faced to get to where he is now.
“Once we have Travis’s location,” Milo says, directing my focus back to the laptop, “the extraction team can move in.”
Extraction team. My gut clenches, and my fingers pause over the keyboard again. The code blurs before my eyes as I imagine what happens after my digital trap springs closed. Men in black SUVs. Travis, confused and terrified, bundled into a vehicle.
Do the Rockfords have an underground facility where they deal with creeps like Travis? Or maybe a warehouse in the slums?
Sebastian’s hand cups the back of my neck. “Micah?”
“I’m fine.” I force my hands back into motion, committing myself further with each line of code, and binding myself to the Rockfords in my complicity.
“We’re going to need a fake authenticationportal,” I say, pushing past the tightness in my throat. “Something that appears legitimate but harvests his credentials.”
“Already built.” Sebastian leans past me to open another window. “You’ll need to integrate it with your proxy chain.”
The code flows from my fingertips, each function a link in the chain that will bind Travis. My technical mind appreciates the elegant trap we’re constructing, even as my conscience whispers warnings. This isn’t Saint going too far while I look away. This is me choosing to build the weapon.
Sebastian watches over my shoulder, his presence both reassuring and unsettling. Does he see my internal conflict? Does he care? Or is he simply pleased that I’m adapting to his family’s methods so readily?
“Almost done,” I murmur, integrating the final verification loops. “This will force his connection through our controlled pathways, no matter what device he uses.”
A drop of sweat trickles down my temple despite the room’s cool temperature. My heart thumps hard, each beat echoing the question I can’t bring myself to ask aloud.
What happens to Travis after we find him?
“Perfect.” Milo takes back the laptop to connect it to the main system, and my code integrates with their larger operation, my contribution now inseparable from whatever comes next.
Sebastian’s hand squeezes my shoulder, pride evident in his touch. “Well done.”
The digital trap glows on the primary monitor, ready and waiting. On screen, it resembles a harmless login portal asking for username and password. Behind that innocent façade lies a complex web I helped to create.
For years, I let myself pretend Saint’s hands were the dirty ones. But no more.
Now, I’ve become the hunter, not the hunted.
And the realization terrifies me almost as much as it empowers me.
26
Waiting has never been my strong suit.
Two days after our trap launched, I find myself alone in the war room with Sebastian while Milo and Jade take a break. I’ve spent the past hour watching digital breadcrumbs appear and vanish across the city grid, each ping a potential sighting of Travis. The leather chair creaks as I shift my weight, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on the armrest.
