Page 57 of Hunt Me
I don’t turn around. “I need to know.”
“You’ve needed to know for years. Why now?”
Because I’m sleeping with a man whose family might have murdered them. Because I need proof before this goes any further.
I don’t say that out loud.
“Because I’m ready.”
The backdoor completes. I route it through seventeen proxy servers across nine countries, each connection bouncing through systems I’ve already compromised over the years. The NSA will see the breach—eventually. But they won’t find me.
I hope.
My hand trembles as I hit enter.
The system accepts my credentials. Old login information I memorized before they purged my access. Except I’d made sure certain accounts never got purged, buried so deep in their infrastructure that no one knew they existed.
The accident file loads.
June 14th, 2019. Providence, Rhode Island. Vehicle malfunction resulting in fatal collision.
I’ve read the public report a hundred times. But this—this is the classified version.
I open the first document. Initial investigation notes. My breath catches as I scan the details.
Vehicle examination reveals inconsistencies with the reported mechanical failure. Brake lines show evidence of tampering. Further investigation required.
My pulse races. Evidence of tampering. Not mechanical failure.
I open the next file. The follow-up investigation.
Case reassigned to Special Agent Morrison. The original investigator transferred.
That’s wrong. Investigations don’t get reassigned unless?—
I dig deeper, pulling up Morrison’s background. Former CIA. Connections to?—
My screen flickers.
“Shit.” I watch as my connection starts to destabilize. Someone’s noticed the breach.
I download everything I can grab, letting my automated scrubbers cover my tracks while files transfer to encrypted storage. The NSA’s countermeasures are hunting me, but I’m faster.
For now.
The connection dies thirty seconds before they would’ve traced my location.
I lean back, heart hammering, staring at the downloaded files.
Twelve documents. Investigation notes. Witness statements. And one name that appears in three separate files, always in the margins, always redacted in the public version.
Not Ivanov.
Volkov.
I click through the downloaded files, hands trembling as pieces fall into place.
Project Nightshade appears in the third document. Then the fifth. Then again, in Morrison’s transfer orders.
