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And my ass was on the line for it.
I didn’t remember even turning the car over, or most of the drive home. I didn’t even realize I never shut the trunk until I climbed out in my apartment parking lot.
I got into my apartment, tossed my purse down on the chair, and walked in a daze through my apartment, right into my bathroom.
And threw up.
Because women who lose nearly half a million dollars of product didn’t get a slap on the wrist and a stern ‘Bad girl.’
No.
Women who lost nearly half a million dollars of cartel cocaine got strung up, tortured, and murdered.
The question was when that was going to come to pass.
If I couldn’t find a way to fix this first…
CHAPTER TWO
Junior
I couldn’t fucking stand when a client made me go out of town for work. Like I wasn’t more well-equipped to do the work from the comfort of my own home, where I had all the shit I needed to get the job done.
Besides, from a legal standpoint, being face-to-face created a much bigger chance of getting caught.
Doing what I did, I liked as little contact with the clients as possible. Everyone chatted on an encrypted server that trashed the conversation as soon as it ended. Then I got paid via untraceable crypto.
I wasn’t surprised when I met up with him, that he was an old school Italian mobster who didn’t have a cell phone, let alone any idea how to get in touch with me beyond the inbox where my messages were routed on the dark web.
I would have turned him away right then and there—since I had nothing to fear retribution-wise, since no one had any idea who I actually was—if it weren’t for the money on the line.
I wasn’t hurting and I likely never would be. Good hackers were a dime a dozen. Ones like me? Second-generation hackers who’d been trained on this shit since fucking elementary school?We were almost nonexistent. Therefore, I was in high demand. I turned away more jobs than I could possibly take.
But every once in a while a job came along that was offering five times my usual fee, and I found it really hard to turn that shit down. That right there was a retirement plan.
Even if it was a pain in the ass.
Not only because I wasn’t around my things and my usual comfort items, but because it put me around this mobster who thought it was somehow helpful to breathe down my goddamn neck every moment of the day when I was trying to get the job done.
I’d never been so happy to finish a job, get my cash, and head the hell home.
First stop was back to my apartment, so I could stash the cash I didn’t like walking around with, then maybe shower before heading out to Deja Brew.
I missed the coffee.
And to an extent, the company.
Hacking was a solitary job. Sometimes it was nice to go sit somewhere and get some work done. While occasionally sharing a few words with the owner.
I parked my SUV on the street, grabbed my bag, and made my way up to the top floor of the building of warehouse apartments. The lower levels were a little more modernized with their sheetrocked walls and real ceilings. I preferred my place, with the cement walls and exposed ductwork.
I plugged in the code, then pushed open the door.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Barry. What the hell are you doing here?” I snapped when the door opened and there was a guy sitting on my couch. In a robe. Eating cereal out of one of my bowls. Looking way too fucking at home.
Barry was some guy I met working a job for a friend a while back. I hadn’t exactly meant to keep in contact with theshort, shaggy-haired gamer. It was more like when you’re nice to a stray dog once, and all a sudden, it’s following you fucking everywhere.
Barry was my stray dog.
