Неизвестный - 6. Justice For All

v

Talia sipped her pinot noir and watched numerals scroll on her computer screen. A fire burned in the marble fireplace across from her antique carved walnut desk. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined her study walls, the uppermost shelves accessible by a brass ladder rail that ran around three walls. Behind the double glass doors, first editions mingled with contemporary works. Opposite her desk, a matching 1930s art deco sofa and chair bordered the edge of a Persian wool rug.

The understated elegance of the room and the rich, warm atmosphere afforded by the rare books and furniture filled her with pleasure.

Taking another mouthful of wine, she let the velvety liquid play over her tongue, then tapped a few keys. She always worked better when her senses were sated, and the wine was very smooth, its fruitiness underpinned with just a hint of earth and wood. She studied the screen intently. Reconnaissance was one of her favorite parts of

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hacking into a remote system. Sending out probes and enumerating the OS parameters, generating port maps, looking for the forgotten opening—the chink in the armor, the way in. Cracking was very much like seducing a woman—teasing out her desires and her weaknesses and playing to them, until she invited you beyond her defenses. Those early encounters were so exciting that Talia rarely stayed beyond the moment of capitulation. Bedding a woman was certainly pleasurable, but far less rewarding than that explosive moment when the object of her campaign surrendered.

She smiled, thinking about Kratos Zamora and his persistent probing, his subtle forays into seducing her. He was an attractive man, a powerful one, and she enjoyed dominating powerful men almost as much as powerful women. But she didn’t trust him not to take a sexual encounter as a sign of weakness, and in her line of work, it was important never to appear weak. The weak were ultimately culled, and she had no intention of making herself vulnerable.

She sent another probe, not expecting instant results. She knew within moments of scanning the system that she wasn’t going to find something as simple as an open port or a weak password, so she didn’t even bother to try cracking JT Sloan’s authentication process by brute force. If she tried, the system log would undoubtedly trigger the activity, and for now, she preferred to remain anonymous. No system was unassailable, and eventually she’d find an insecure program to exploit or a way to write one to gain superuser status. Until then, she had other avenues to explore.

Leaning back in her Victorian leather desk chair, she regarded the image on the computer screen adjacent to the one still scrolling data.

She’d found the photograph in the archives of a tabloid newspaper and the picture was slightly out of focus, but the poor quality did nothing to detract from JT Sloan’s incredible charisma. Talia appreciated the jet black hair, slightly hooded deep-set eyes, and etched-in-marble features, but what ignited the excitement in the pit of her stomach was the wild ferocity in Sloan’s gaze. She’d been caught by a photographer as she climbed out of an ambulance, her hand clasping that of a woman on a stretcher. Captioned “Center City businesswoman victim of hit-and-run,” the brief article gave few details, but Talia didn’t need to see any more. It might take her some time to find the weakness in Sloan

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Security’s computer network, but she’d already found the woman’s personal Achilles’ heel. She wondered how much the information would be worth to Kratos.

v

Mitch couldn’t tell if anyone in Ziggie’s was watching them, but he had to assume they’d attracted the attention of the men who controlled Irina and her girls. Possibly the Russian handlers, possibly Zamora’s men. The Zamoras would never have let outsiders set up competition in their territory unless they had a piece of the action, and Mitch had to trace that connection. But for now, he just needed to convince anyone checking them out that he and Irina were an item.

Irina wasn’t as small as Sandy, but her hips fit easily between his thighs. He rolled her tight round ass beneath his palms, molding her pelvis to his. She wore satiny slacks that fit her like skin and he could almost feel her sex gliding over his cock as if there were nothing between them. She pressed her breasts into his chest and her mouth against his ear.

“You promised to fuck me, new boy. But you lied.”

For a second, Mitch wasn’t certain Irina understood that he was a cop and had been acting last time. Then she reached between them, gripped his cock, and worked it around hard between his legs. Caught off guard, he groaned at the firestorm she started in his belly.

“I won’t forget,” she whispered.

“Sorry,” Mitch gasped.

She leaned back, relaxing her grip, and kissed him again. When she sucked his lower lip into her mouth, she bit down hard enough to make him wince. The pain quickly morphed into another jolt of pleasure and he struggled not to jerk back. Her kiss was brutal and arousing. Through half-closed lids, he saw the bartender watching them. He skimmed his fingers over the outer curve of Irina’s breast.

Her blouse vee’d deeply between her unfettered breasts and his thumb brushed her nipple. It was hard.

“Mmm,” Irina murmured, finally drawing away. Still firmly wedged between Mitch’s legs, she looked over Mitch’s shoulder with a seductive smile.

“Hello, Max.”

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“Not working tonight?” the bartender asked, leaning on his outstretched arms as he stared.

Irina caressed Mitch’s cheek. “A little of both.”

“Huh,” the bartender grunted. “Where’s Olik?”

“I don’t know,” Irina answered, “I thought he would be here.”

“Haven’t seen him for a couple of days.”

His tone was as flat and unreadable as his smooth, solid features.

The conversation quickly put out the tension blazing in Mitch’s hard-on, and he was grateful for that. He didn’t need the distraction. He needed to get a handle on Irina’s game. He didn’t know the players, and he had to find out fast. The bartender seemed to be probing for information. Obviously, no one trusted anyone else, and neither Irina nor the bartender was giving anything away.

“Tell him to call me.” Irina stepped back from Mitch and gripped his hand. “Come on, new boy. You promised me a good time.”

“What’s your number,” the bartender called after her. “If he comes in.”

Irina looked back. “Olik knows.”

“So what if he forgot?”

“Then I’ll be here tomorrow night.”

Mitch dug a five out of his pocket and tossed it on the bar. His knuckles brushed along the length of his cock, and the feeling was both foreign and grounding. Irina was either a natural-born actress, or completely fearless. His stomach roiled, but he’d be damned if he’d let on how nervous he was. He slung his arm around Irina’s shoulders.

“My bike’s out back.”

As she led him down the narrow hall toward the rear exit, he heard the sounds of frantic sex in the shadowed alcoves along the way. He and Irina had come close to having sex back here one night. She’d done things to him that he didn’t mean to let happen and that had twisted his head around until Sandy straightened him out as only Sandy could. His thoughts cleared as he thought about her. Sandy kept him steady.

Irina pushed through the fire door and he followed her quickly out into the alley. He’d left his Ducati against the wall at the far end.

Otherwise, the area was deserted save for a few rats scurrying from the shaft of light that had cut through the shadows from the open door.

He glanced at Irina. “Are you—”

She slapped him across the face so hard his head rocked back

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and his lip tore open against the edge of a tooth. He tasted blood and braced himself for the next blow. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been beaten in an alley. The last time he’d been trying to prevent a john from roughing up Sandy. He’d won the fight then, but he wasn’t about to hit Irina.

“That’s for making me want you,” Irina snapped.

“Like I said,” Mitch replied evenly. “Sorry.”

“Let’s go,” Irina said. “This place stinks almost as bad as the jail.”

“Where are we going?”

“My place. I want clothes.”

Mitch rubbed his jaw and felt a bruise rising. He couldn’t think of a reason not to go back to Irina’s house. If the Russians were watching, they’d see them together, which was just what he wanted. He didn’t have a way to signal Frye and Watts about the plan, but in this kind of job, he was going to be on his own a lot. He was okay with that.

“Did anyone come with you?” he asked.

“No,” Irina said sharply. “Some men dropped me off and said you would be here.” She stopped by the side of his bike. The light from the street highlighted her face. Her expression was hard and cold. “They explained to me what would happen if I didn’t do as they say.”

“What did they tell you to do?”

“Anything I had to do to find out what they wanted to know.” She looked him up and down. “Including fucking you.”

“You’re not going to have to do that.”

Mitch straddled the bike and handed her a helmet. She put it on and climbed on behind him. Then she wrapped her arms around his waist and slid her fingers underneath the waistband of his jeans.

“Maybe I will anyhow.”

v

“Aw, for fuck’s sake.” Watts jerked upright in his seat as the Ducati roared around the corner and headed in the opposite direction toward North Philadelphia. “There he goes.”

Rebecca didn’t bother answering. She cranked the starter and made a quick U-turn to follow Mitch. Since this part of town was fairly

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deserted midweek in the middle of the night, she had to hang back without other traffic to use as cover.

“Keep an eye out for anyone else following him,” she said.

Watts divided his attention between the side mirror and squinting into the distance at the single red taillight. “You think Clark has a tail on them too?”

Rebecca grunted. “Don’t you?”

“Christ almighty, it’s a fucking daisy chain. With this many people trailing along after him, the boy’s cover’s gonna get blown.”

“Maybe Clark really is stretched thin,” Rebecca said. “Maybe the feds really don’t have the manpower for street-level surveillance.”

“Maybe. And maybe my dick’s got two heads too.”

“That is not an image I want stuck in my brain, Watts.” Rebecca cut over one block and turned left. Then she sped up, running parallel to the street Mitch and Irina had taken.

“Jesus, Loo! We’re going to lose him if he jumps onto 95.”

“Your concern for Mitch is starting to worry me, Watts. Something you want to tell me?”

“Yeah, I’ve suddenly developed the urge to suck salami. He’s still green, that’s all.”

Rebecca cut back toward Mitch’s street and as they crossed the intersection, she caught a glimpse of Mitch’s taillights two blocks north of them. She kept going another block, turned right, and paralleled him again. “I know he’s green, but he’s good. And I know where he’s going.”

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ChAPTER NINE

Sloan pulled into the garage, cut the engine, and sat astride her bike, wondering how she had come to be sitting alone in the dark while the woman she loved waited four floors above, feeling four thousand miles away. She’d moved from the clandestine streets of Southeast Asia to the pristine corridors of DC, and when forced from government service had convinced herself that work in the private sector was satisfying. At times, it was. And in addition to being very lucrative, private contracts had brought her Michael. But she never felt the thrill of hunting a white-collar criminal the way she did when she knew her work would rid the world of someone truly evil. She had felt that way since working with Frye and her team, but Michael had paid the price for her ego gratification.