Page 52 of Rescuing Rebel

But suddenly, the monitor in front of Stitch comes to life, data streaming across its display. “No need. I’m already in.” The look she gives me is cocky as shit. “Your system was easy to hack. Someone installed a back door, but they weren’t very creative. Juvenile at best. Looks like you’ve got someone working from the inside to sell Haven’s secrets. I’ve got my work cut out for me to fix this shit.” She cracks her knuckles and turns her back to Kaufman.

“What does that mean?” Instead of asking Stitch, his question is aimed at me.

But I’m not the one who answers. Stitch keeps her back to Kaufman and gives a flippant answer. “I’ve got to install basic security protocols. Your system is woefully outdated and inept. It’s going to require a whole system upgrade.”

Kaufman’s eyes narrow. “I don’t know if I like a…”

“A what?” Stitch spins around and bats her eyelashes. “A computer expert? Is it my age that concerns you, or the fact I’m female? Because your system is shit, ripe for anyone with the right skills to waltz right in under your nose.”

Kaufman’s IT guys scramble to trace the hack.

“Your people are running into dead ends because they’re working with limited data,” I say. “To connect the dots, my team needs unrestricted access. The full picture, as it were.”

Kaufman’s jaw ticks, eyes calculating. “And what guarantees do I have you won’t abuse this access for your own purposes?”

I meet his gaze levelly. “Our reputation is built on discretion. Short story, you have no assurances. Longer answer: You decide whether finding the source is worth the risk of giving my people the access they need to do the job you’re hiring us to do.” I pause for effect.

A charged silence follows. Kaufman’s need to control wars with his distrust of outsiders. Finally, he gives a curt nod. “Very well. But know that we will be monitoring closely. Any suspicious actions will be dealt with accordingly.”

I dip my head in acquiescence. We’ve cleared the first hurdle, but the mission is just beginning.

“We need space to work,” I tell the armed men gruffly. “We’ll call if we require assistance.”

With wary glances, the men retreat and close the door, leaving us alone. My team sets up a disruption field. Another one of Mitzy’s technological wonders, it provides us the freedom to speak openly.

After we’re all set, I rock back on my heels and contemplate my next move. “I’m going to make a quick circuit of the halls. See what I can find.”

“Want company?” Walt turns to look at me.

“No. I just want to get a quick lay of the land and see what we’re up against. Also, I want to see how closely Kaufman’s men are watching us. Best you stay here.”

We’re not ready to map out the interior of Haven, but restlessness simmers within me. I’ve got nervous energy to shed, and a quick exploration of Haven is perfect for getting rid of my nerves.

Alone at last, I slip into the hallway. The sound of my shoes on the polished floor feels thunderous in the empty passageways. There’s literally no one wandering about.

I pass closed doors with muted voices and ringing phones behind them. There are signs of life, but I’m otherwise alone.

I wander down a dimly lit hall, senses on high alert. The overhead lights flicker and hum. What secrets hide behind these ominous steel doors? I creep forward, listening intently for any clues.

Hushed voices murmur behind one door. I pause, pulse racing. A woman’s low laugh, then a man’s anxious tone. My blood turns to ice—I know that voice.

Hand trembling, I crack open the door. There, across the shadowy room, stands the woman who has haunted my dreams for months.

Rebel.

NINETEEN

Ethan

Blood roarsas it rushes past my ears; the sound of it nearly deafens me as I watch the unfathomable. The unthinkable.

Rebel works the room. She’s draped in a slinky red silk dress that hugs every curve. Blood-red lips smile coldly, matching red lacquered nails. My gut twists. This polished predator is far from the woman I rescued from a cage.

The scent of cigar smoke and alcohol rolls out into the hall, a thick, disgusting miasma clotting the air.

She stalks between the captives in stiletto heels, clicking a staccato rhythm on the grimy concrete floor. The women gathered in a straight line before her shrink under her assessing gaze, arms crossed over their bruised and broken bodies. Rebel tilts their chins with one manicured finger, clucking her tongue at swollen lips and blackened eyes.

“Poor, darling, those animals roughed you up a bit, didn’t they?” Her voice drips false sympathy as the girl flinches. Rebeltsksand moves on, heels clicking.

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