Page 1 of Corrupted Deception

Prologue

Charlotte Santoro

The monitors flickered with their sterile glow, illuminating the dim room where I sat, tethered to the screen.

“You’re almost there,” I said as my fingers danced with practiced ease across the keyboard, tracking his movements, anticipating his needs. I liked to think of myself as the conductor orchestrating his symphony of danger, the silent guardian in his shadow. Okay, probably not the silent part.

“I was thinking La Paz, Bolivia, this time,” I mused aloud. We hadn’t discussed where to go to celebrate another job well done. “I hear biking down Death Road is one hell of an adrenaline rush.”

He grumbled low in his throat. “Too dangerous,” he whispered. His voice was little more than a breath but it reached my earpiece just fine.

I laughed. “Says the man currently skulking around Miguel Silva’s warehouse of horrors. I don’t think you’re the authority on all things safe and boring. Besides, what could possibly go wrong on a forty-three-mile switchback?”

“I was thinking Fiji,” he countered.

Ugh. “We’ve done that already, and I’m not spending another week sitting on my ass.”

“Fine, we’ll go to La Paz, but there’s no way in hell you’re riding down a switchback with two-thousand-foot cliff drops.”

I smiled. “We’ll see about that.”

I sat up straighter. He’d just about reached the end of the corridor. One more to go, and we were home-free.

“Make a left in ten—”

“It’s a setup, Char. Get out of there.” A jolt of electricity coursed through my veins as his words reached my ears, sharp and urgent.

The air in the room shifted, thickened with the weight of urgency.

I was on my feet in an instant, fingers flying over the keyboard with a precision born from years of practice, erasing our presence, wiping away any trace of our existence here.

“Talk to me,” I managed to force out as file icons vanished, folders collapsed, and progress bars raced to completion, leaving behind a digital void of expunged data. “Tell me what you need.”

No answer. Nothing.

I set the countdown and raced out the door to my silver Audi R8, the rain pelting me from the outside as my heart pounded inside my chest.

Fifteen seconds.

Fourteen.

Thirteen.

The engine roared to life, tires squealing as I sped away from the building.

Ten seconds.

Nine.

His breathing came over the earpiece, an audible testament to the gravity of the situation.

“Did you get out?” he asked, his voice raw with urgency.

“I did. The place is sanitized. We’re good,” I replied, my relief evident. “Tell me what you need.”

Silence.

A void that stretched out, heavy and pregnant.

---