Page 20 of Meowy & Bright

“Just a few more seconds and you’ll be awash in catnip and treats for the rest of your days.” I tap my fingers on the desk as a sweat breaks out on my forehead.

My code is still running, still churning through every barrier this small island government has thrown in its way. My eyes glance from screen to screen, looking for the sign that I’ve busted through the last firewall, the last password, the last tiny vestige of security. The room grows hotter, I tap my fingers faster, and Charlie snores faintly.

“There!” I exclaim when my cursor finally starts blinking.

With rapid keystrokes, I enter in a chain of commands. The server’s fan whirs louder as it begins to download massive amounts of data. Breaking in was just the first step. Now I need to get what I came for.

I sit for hours, my fingers moving nonstop as I search and search through their system. Sifting through data, most of it useless, I keep looking for the important documents, the treasure trove I’ve been hired to lift. But I don’t see it. Not yet. Time ticks away, each second one that could end my expedition. If they discover the breach, they’ll go on lockdown, maybe even pull the plug on the internet altogether. Then I’m fucked.

A crick in my neck develops, but I ignore it. I dig through the lower cabinet officials’ emails, then move to the very top. My filters and searches are collecting a vast file for me to inspect, but I’m hoping I can find the one document my client is looking for by a simple, old-fashioned snoop job in Outlook.

I keep looking, examining the government’s servers, including the top secret ones they have ridiculous encryption on. I’m breaking a multitude of US and international laws, but that doesn’t bother me. What will bother me is what happens if I fail.

Swallowing hard, I dive back in, my eyes feeling dry as I continue skimming the data as my server sucks it all up like a vacuum.

Going deeper, I find yet another server, this one connected to the president’s personal home network as well as his government office. This could be it. I delve inside. Ugh. Nudes. It’s all fucking nudes from his many mistresses. I swipe through them, including the videos of the president in some sort of orgy, and keep looking through the folders.

Dejected, I sit back in my chair, my spine popping and my neck finally loosening. I keep flipping file after file, nude after nude. I’m about to give up when a folder catches my eye. Leaning forward again, I click it and rummage through its contents.

“Bingo!” I yell, and Charlie shoots up from his spot on the floor, his fur fluffed up for a fight and his back arched. “Sorry not sorry.” I snag the file, drag it to the encrypted thumb drive on my laptop, and snag the data. With a few more keystrokes, I make sure to copy the entire filthy server to mine. The client may have come for the file on my USB drive, but they’ll probably be pleased to receive all the dirt I’ve collected along with it.

I stand and stretch, relief pouring over me, and call to Charlie, who fled, “I said I was sorry.”

One deep, cleansing breath later, I reach down, engage my retreat code, and burn any evidence that I broke into the system. Covering my tracks is part of the game. I can’t have anyone come looking for me.

I’d kiss the USB drive but it’s probably best not to leave my DNA on it. So, instead, I gently set it inside the small safe beneath my desk, close the door, and turn the dial. With a quick text from a burner phone, I let my contact know that it’s ready for pickup. I could send it over a highly encrypted server, but to leave no real trace, an analog handover is the best.

“Tonight, 8pm, Christmas parade on Main. Stand in front of the barber shop.” The message is there only for a few seconds, then the phone shorts out and goes dead in ‘Mission Impossible’ fashion.

I toss it into the wastebasket and eye the safe one more time. It’s locked. My treasure safely inside. Once the server stops burning my tracks, I attach a bigger hard drive to it and transfer the data so that all my machines are clean. The only dirt is on that thumb drive and the hard drive that I then store inside the safe.

The room finally starts to cool, the server now running quietly, and my screens dark. I feel like a “mischief managed” is in order, but I don’t say it out loud. No need to get too dorky. A shadow outside catches my eye, and my heart sinks. Rushing to the window, I peer out but don’t see anything. Was it a person? Fuck. I pull up one of my monitors and quickly go over my security feed for the rear of my house. Nothing seems amiss except an image glitch at about the same time I thought I saw someone.

I reverse it and watch again. Same glitch. It’s minute, but I see it. Could have been anything, maybe even the change in voltage when my server powered down. But I don’t like it. Pushing the screen away, I close my blinds even tighter above the window unit, then get on my knees and shove the safe into the closet as deep as it can go. I stack some sweaters on top of it, then close the door.

If someone’s after me, there’s nothing I can do about it. I just have to make it to the parade and do the handoff. And it’s not like I’m going anywhere until then. Across the street to Ariadne’s house isn’t an issue. I can keep an eye on my place from there.

All the same, I close the door to the guest room and lock it, then point at Charlie. “Eyes open, buddy.”

He jumps onto the back of the sofa and meows at me as a horn honks outside. I look out my front window to see the Pet Place delivery truck sitting out front. Ariadne bounces down her front steps, her face alight as she claps her hands over the Christmas cat house the Pet Place worker unloads.

With one more glance down the hall at my secure data, I head out the front door and lock it behind me. Everything inside is safe, so there’s nothing wrong with spending a little time with Ariadne before I make the drop at the parade.

12

ARIADNE

“Grrr.” I drop the knitting needles onto the sofa next to me. Mrs. Claws just stares at me with her big cute eyes.

“I’m trying.” I pick up the yarn to show her. “I don’t know how to knit.” I throw the ball down next to my knitting needles. This is the fifth time in my life that I’ve tried to knit. I fail every time. I’m normally really good at crafts and decorating, but for some reason knitting was never a skill I could pick up. I intended to make Mrs. Claws some booties, a sweater and a little hat to keep her warm. She’d likely hate them, but it would be adorable to see them on her, even if it was only for three seconds.

I could just buy them. But then what would I do while I wait for Brendan? What is he doing over there anyway? I know he hasn't left his house. At least I didn't see him leave. I get up and head over to the window to peek out. I don’t see anything out of the ordinary, and there’s nothing going on, but a van pulls into my driveway.

“Your house is here!” I clap excitedly to Mrs. Claws. I rush over and shove the knitting needles and yarn down into my sofa to hide them. Maybe Mrs. Claws and I will both forget about the knitting thing altogether.

Hurrying to the door, I flick the lock then freeze. The realization hits me that I’ll have to talk to them. My stomach gets knots in it, but I look over at Mrs. Claws and know I can do this for her. Every cat deserves to have their own Christmas house, after all.

I take a deep breath and open the door to find a man standing there. He looks a few years older with shaggy blond hair and bright blue eyes. He’s maybe a few inches taller than me. He’s wearing a shirt that says Pet Place on it and jeans. The muscles in his arms are trying to escape the shirt that’s too small for him. I bet Brendan’s are bigger, but he wears shirts that actually fit him. My mind starts to drift to thoughts of what Brendan looks like naked. I snap myself back before I let them go any further, but I still shiver with anticipation. Are we going all the way to me running my hands all over his naked body? I certainly hope so. And soon. Maybe that’s what I’ll ask Santa for this year.

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