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“What do you propose we do, then?” Luka asks.
Mikhail studies my expression with such intensity I swear he can hear my thoughts. “We need to break into our own servers,” he says aloud. “With a clean computer, without ID. That way your firewall won’t identify us.”
I nod. “Exactly.”
Mikhail stands, addressing all the gathered programmers. “Get this woman a fresh computer. Anything she needs.”
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“You, Luka, and the rest of the team will take care of the technical aspects. I need to deal with the business side of things. Keep this thing from blowing up.”
We get to work. It’s a race against the clock.
* * *
My eyes hurt. There’s a terrible pressure that’s pounding on the inside of my skull. I’ve been staring at my screen for so long I’m convinced I’ve done permanent damage to my retinas.
I’ve spent the last several hours poring over different sections of code. The whole department is working just as hard, attempting to find and isolate the virus before it can mutate and spread to other parts of the server. It’s worse than trying to find a needle in a haystack, and infinitely more difficult, too.
What we’re looking for is hiding in plain sight. A line of code, a string of only a few different digits. It’s not tangible, nothing I can pick up with my hands. All I have to work with is my computer screen and my wits—even if I’m at the end of them.
“Where the fuck is it?” I grumble.
Beside me, Luka furiously taps away on his own laptop. Empty paper coffee cups and energy drink cans pile up around us, adding to the chaos of our late-night frenzy. The life of a computer programmer isn’t glamorous. It’s not like the movies where some cool Tom Cruise lookalike taps a few keys andboom—they’re in.
I’ve been keeping an eye on Mikhail out of the corner of my eye. Dimitri and Pyotr are with him in his office. Much like their meeting earlier today, their body language tells me things are less than pleasant on the other side of those glass walls. I try not to let them distract me. Dimitri is head of PR, so I’m sure they’re trying to come up with a game plan in case we can’t delete the virus in time.
As I keep sectioning off blocks of code, I can’t help but wonder if this has something to do with the Bratva. Mikhail told me to drop the issue, but the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach refuses to go away.
“So…” I start out slowly. “Antonov… That’s a Russian name, isn’t it?”
The fourth and youngest Antonov brother doesn’t even look up from his screen, fingers flying over his keyboard so quickly they’re almost a blur.
“Yep,” is his simple, short reply.
“Ever been? To Russia, I mean.”
“Nope.”
Tap tap tapgo his fingers. I don’t even think he’s breathing. I’m pretty sure the third Red Bull he chugged is responsible for his amazing—and frightening—level of concentration.
“What about Mikhail?”
“What about him?”
“Was he born there?” I try again, trying to keep my tone light and friendly. I hope it’s nottooobvious how badly I’m trying to fish for information. If Mikhail won’t give me answers, maybe I can get them from Luka while he’s thoroughly distracted. Surely, I can code and make idle chit chat at the same time, right?
“My brothers were, yeah,” Luka mumbles.
“In Moscow?”
“Yep.”
“Why’d your family move?”
Thisis the moment he looks up at me. It’s a quick dart of the eyes, a fleeting moment of interest, before it’s back to work as usual. Luka sits across from me, offering me the perfect angle to study his face. He looks so much like Mikhail, just without the impressive suits and more prominent dark circles beneath his eyes. He is nowhere near as intimidating as Mikhail, or even Dimitri and Pyotr, but the difference is slight.
The Antonov brothers are a powerhouse of a team and it shows.
