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The people around us shift their gazes between us, looking uncomfortable.
I take off my shades so I can properly glare at her. “Your jokes are as crap as your coding skills.”
A few bystander eyebrows shoot up.
She narrows her eyes at me. “What could you possibly know about coding, you hack?”
Red mist veils my vision. I’ve been waiting for this for so, so long. “More than you, that’s for sure. You don’t use consistent indentation, you leave zero comments, and you misspell the words in variable names half the time. And I don’t think you even know the meaning of ‘modularization.’ Do I need to keep going? Because I can.”
To my shock, several of her teammates nod approvingly. Someone even mutters something like, “Mad burn.”
Britney squeezes her coffee so hard it spills over. “At least I didn’t let the Impaler poke me with a dildo.”
My glare can melt lead at this point. “He wouldn’t poke you with a ten-foot pole, that’s for sure.”
She bristles, advancing on me. “How dare you?”
Fine. No more Ms. Nice Fanny. “I know it was you,” I grit through my teeth.
Blanching, she stops in her tracks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I rattle out her IP address. “Does that sound familiar? Because I called your ISP, and they confirmed that’s yours.”
I did no such thing, but the bluff clearly works. She whitens to ghost levels and takes a step back.
Time for the kill—unfortunately metaphorical. “If I see your face or IP address ever again, I’m going to give the info to the Impaler. Given how crazy he is about privacy, and how rich, he’ll probably make sure you rot in jail.”
She’s so green I’m tempted to give her Dramamine. “It was just a joke.”
I put my sunglasses back on. “Like I said, your jokes are as crap as your code.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Not waiting to see the dev team’s reaction, I hurry down the hallway and barge into Vlad’s office.
He’s not here.
Damn it.
Where is he?
I look for a calendar, but of course, this isn’t 1989 or whenever it was when everyone stopped using paper.
Bolstered by my outfit and the encounter with Britney, I circle around Vlad’s desk and wake up his computer.
It’s locked.
Of course. Standard company policy—which sucks, because if I could sneak a peek at his digital calendar, I’d figure out where he is.
If only I could guess his pin code…
I bite my lip, considering it.
Our pin codes are six digits, so there are a million different random combinations.
So guessing at random is out.
I have to try to think of what he might actually use.
