Page 90 of Fractured Allegiance
She's right. I know she's right.
"Then I won't touch his system," I say. "I'll monitor from outside. Install a network tap between your router and the building's main line. It reads traffic passively—doesn't send any signals back into Drazen's infrastructure. If anyone accesses the feeds, I'll see the data flow. No trace left behind."
She considers that. Studies my face like she's looking for the lie.
"You can do that?"
"Yes. It's how intelligence agencies monitor communications. The device sits on the network, copies packets as they pass through. Drazen's system won't see it because it's not interacting with his cameras directly—it's watching the data highway his cameras use."
"And Drazen won't know."
"Not unless he's running forensic-level traffic analysis. Which is possible, but unlikely. He's watching you, not the network architecture."
She's quiet for a moment. Then: "How long will it take?"
"Ten minutes. I just need access to your utility closet where the router is."
She nods once. "Okay."
I reach into my jacket and pull out a small black pouch from the inner pocket—the kind that's compact enough to stay flat against my ribs but holds the essentials I might need at any moment. Multitool. Flashlight. USB cables. And today, the network tap I've been carrying since I first realized I'd need eyes on her place.
The tap itself is no bigger than a USB drive. The wireless transmitter is about the size of a lighter. Both fit in the palm of my hand.
I've had them on me for days, waiting for the right moment. Undercover work means being prepared for opportunities you can't predict. You don't get to go back to your car or run home for equipment. You carry what you might need and hope it's enough.
She leads me to the utility closet. It's cramped—barely enough room for both of us—but the router's right there, mounted on the wall with ethernet cables running in and out.
I crouch down, pull out the multitool, and carefully splice the tap into the outbound ethernet line. It takes less than five minutes. The device is small enough to tuck behind the router's casing where it won't be seen unless someone dismantles the setup.
The wireless transmitter goes on the shelf above, tucked behind a stack of old modem boxes. It'll send encrypted copies of the network data to a remote server I control. Battery backup built-in, good for seventy-two hours if the power goes out.
I stand, brush off my hands, and pull out my phone.
Open the monitoring app.
The feed loads—live footage from Drazen's cameras in her apartment. Kitchen. Living room. Bedroom.
I close it immediately and pocket the phone.
"It's active," I tell her. "If anyone accesses those feeds, I'll get an alert."
She nods, but there's something in her expression—like she knows I'm not telling her everything.
She's right.
What I didn't say: monitoring the network traffic means I can see everything those cameras see. Not just when a third party accesses them. When Drazen watches. When anyone watches.
And what they're watching.
It's not about the third party anymore.
It's about making sure I know the second anything threatens her.
Even if that threat is the man who installed the cameras in the first place.
Eventually, she asks, “You do this often? Barge into apartments, fix systems you didn’t install, tell half-truths like they’re gifts?”
I look up.
