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Chapter Eight
Quinn
The restof the party went by in a blur. I was too preoccupied with who the fuck had access to Jo’s precious data and got their hands on the footage of us having sex. Several times. It’s not the fact we were captured on camera. We both knew what we were doing and where we were doing it. It’s not even the fact she kept the footage on her server instead of moving it somewhere private for our viewing pleasure.
It’s the fact someone hacked into Jo’s secured server and gained access to that footage and god only knows what other sensitive data. This data breach could be devastating to the Alliance if the hacker got their hands on confidential information.
“You told me your data was secure,” I growl, my teeth clenched. I swear to god I’ve already cracked several molars with how hard I’ve set my jaw. We’re back in Jo’s surveillance room—her command center, as she calls it—and she’s sitting in front of a wall of monitors, her gaze darting from screen to screen. I’m gripping the back of her chair so hard my short nails have already left several permanent impressions in the leather.
“It is,” she defends and switches her attention to yet another screen. “I’m walking backward through the digital footprints to see who broke in.”
It’s all Greek to me. I’m so jacked up, even if I did understand all this computer geek talk, it wouldn’t sink in. I need something to take the edge off. Since I’m sure Jo doesn’t have a punching bag in her home, I’m left to my other vice—whiskey. “Got anything to drink in this place?”
“Jameson is in the liquor cabinet upstairs in the library.”
“You have a library?”
She glances over her shoulder. “You don’t?”
I roll my eyes and leave her to her monitors while I search for the liquor cabinet. We’ve spent the majority of our time together either in her surveillance room, or in every room of my place, but I’ve never explored her brownstone. She needs time to review her screens without me distracting her, so I don’t hurry as I move from room to room, taking in everything.
Jo has good taste in her decorating. Nothing too flashy, nothing too cheap. Everything fits a brownstone, from the high back sofa in the main room to the roll top desk in the den. The artwork decorating the walls look hand-painted, no prints or reproductions. I study the large piece on the wall under the staircase leading to the third floor and shake my head. She may as well have a neon sign with X marking the spot. I easily swing the painting to reveal the safe behind it. I’ll have to talk to her about how to properly hide a safe.
I swing the picture back in place but linger in the shadows, savoring the home’s unique character. It’s quiet and still…
But then it’s not. A soft footfall, then another, alerts me that someone is descending from the third floor. There’s no way they heard me down here and are still risking the move, I’ve been standing quietly for far too long. So they must not realize I’m here. Still, the guy is playing it smart, careful. It’s another two full minutes before he finally exits the staircase and steps into my line of sight—a small man in a ski mask.
“Who the fuck are you?” I demand.
To my surprise, instead of taking off at a run, the guy lunges at me. Wrong move, asshole. I brace myself to catch him and block his swing, hitting him with my own undercut. He falls to the floor and rolls away before my foot comes down on his chest. My arms up, I ready myself for his next futile attempt at an attack.
He rushes toward me and runs right into my fist, knocking him for a daze. Not the smartest intruder, this one. He stumbles back, shaking his head to clear it.
“Come on, fucker. Let’s see what else you got.” I’m no fool when it comes to a schoolyard fistfight. I grew up bouncing between Ireland and the States. My accent earned me a lot of teasing in both countries, which turned into a lot of fights. Fights I rarely lost.
I don’t intend to lose this one, either.
When the guy pulls a knife, I quickly scan my surroundings for a shield. Jo’s house doesn’t have a whole lot for trinkets lying around, unlike most places. There’s a pair of candlesticks on the side table that’ll work, though. I reach for one as the man lunges. He narrowly misses my ribcage but still nicks my side. Fuck, that stings. I drive my knee into his midsection and push him out of my way, swiping the candlestick and whipping around in time to block his next assault.
I swing the lead stick and connect with his arm. He grunts as the knife goes flying. He hurries to grab it, placing his back to me. Another stupid mistake. I swing the stick hard, hitting him at the base of his skull. He goes down.
“Quinn!” Jo is pounding up the staircase from the first floor. I turn to tell her to get back and realize my own mistake. The guy takes advantage of my distraction and drives the knife into my shoulder all the way to the handle. Jo screams and lurches forward, paying no attention to my attacker in her haste to get to me.
“Jesus fuck!” I reach for the knife and yank it free before the shock sets in. Now he dies. “Come back here, you little shit.”
But he’s already neatly sidestepped Jo and bolted down the stairs, barreling out of the front door a second later. I don’t bother chasing him. No doubt Jo has every inch of this place tracked by her sophisticated system. “Please tell me you got him.”
“You’re hurt.” She ignores my question and checks my shoulder, pulling my shirt away from my skin and wiping away the worst of the blood. I’ve been stabbed before, several times, and know the difference between an annoying wound and something more serious. This isn’t serious. It was a small blade, barely more than a pocketknife, and missed anything vital. I’d be in a lot more pain if it were something to worry about.
“I’ll be fine.” I push her hands away. “Tell me you can track him.”
She nods quickly. “Of course. The cameras are set up to detect several facial angles. Even with that mask on, it calculates the angles of his face, his movement, heartrate, breathing pattern. Everything. Once I saw him on the screen, though, I didn’t wait around to calculate likely hits.”
“Good.” I grunt as I roll my shoulder. Son of a bitch, that’s going to be tender for a few days, and I—I don’t feel quite right. The room is tilting. “Compare that to the data you retrieved from tonight’s party.”
“I will as soon as we get you fixed up.”
“No, Jo. Now. This guy broke into your house before we arrived, or he got in without tripping an alarm. Either way, that’s bad, and either way, he’s going to do it again. I want to know who the fuck this mole is.” I clench my teeth when a wave of searing pain washes over me. Dammit, I don’t have time for this.
