Page 56 of Hunt Me
“By texting someone who makes you smile like a lovesick teenager?” Dmitri’s not letting this go. Fucker.
I shift tactics, leaning back with calculated indifference. “It’s a contact. Someone who might have information on the Phantom.”
Erik snorts. “Right. Because all your informants make you look like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re two seconds away from jerking off under the table.”
I flip him off again. “Jealousy’s a bad look on you, brother.”
“Not jealous. Curious.” Dmitri flags down our server and orders another round. “You’ve been weird for weeks. Ever since that gala.”
My pulse kicks up, but I keep my expression neutral. “Define weird.”
“Distracted. Secretive. Showering before noon.” He grins. “Classic signs.”
“Of working a case.”
“Of getting pussy,” Erik corrects.
Nikolai’s studying me with that calculating look that means he’s filing everything away for later analysis. I need to shut this down before he starts investigating.
“Fine. You want the truth?” I set my glass down, meeting each of their gazes. “I’ve got a lead. A real one. But it’s delicate, and I’m not blowing it because you assholes can’t handle seeing me smile.”
Partial truth. The best kind of lie.
Dmitri opens his mouth, probably to press harder, but Nikolai raises a hand.
“How delicate?”
“Very. This person has access to the circles the Phantom operates in. But they’re skittish. I push too hard, they disappear.”
“So, you’re wooing an informant.” Erik sounds amused. “With late-night texts.”
“Whatever works.”
Nikolai considers this, then nods slowly. “Fine. But I want updates. Real ones.”
“When there’s something to report.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I resist the urge to check it. Iris is cramping my style with my brothers. How the hell did I let my obsession get this out of hand so quickly?
16
IRIS
Istare at the login screen for the NSA’s classified archive system, cursor blinking in the username field.
Three years. That’s how long I’ve avoided this breach.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly. The encrypted partition containing my parents’ accident investigation is protected by seven layers of military-grade security. I built half of those layers myself during my time with the agency.
They never expected me to come back.
My phone buzzes with another text from Alexi. I ignore it, focusing on the code scrolling across my secondary monitor. The backdoor I’m constructing needs to be perfect—untraceable. One wrong move and I’ll have federal agents at my door within hours.
“You’re really doing this.” Maya’s voice comes from behind me.
