Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
She searches my face, looking for the lie, but there’s nothing there but stone.
“Are you sure?” she asks, voice shaking for the first time.
I nod, slow. “Yes. I promise.”
She closes her eyes, just for a second, and when she opens them again, I see the old steel. She exhales, lets the tension bleed out of her posture, then steps in, folds herself against my chest. I hold her like that, breathing the smell of cold and sweat and the faint, feminine perfume that still lingers in her hair.
In my head, I run the checklist again. For every step, there’s a counter-move. For every insult, there’s an answer. I know how to keep people alive, but I also know how to kill a problem so thoroughly it never comes back.
I hold her a little tighter. I let her think I’m the fortress.
But in the dark behind my eyes, I’m already making the next move.
And whoever’s behind this, they’re going to wish they’d picked a different target.
21
IT'S GOOD TO HAVE FRIENDS IN HIGH PLACES
KENT
By 8 p.m. the sun is gone. All that’s left in the house is a chemical blue stain at the edge of the window, a light leak that reminds me of the surgical lamps in an OR: cold, perfect, inhuman. I’m in the study with the blackout curtains drawn, desk lamp on, drowning the old leather and wood in amber. The air’s got that expensive-paper smell, plus the ghosts of the last Cohiba I burned through last week. It’s supposed to be a retreat, this room. Instead, right now, it feels like a cage.
I’m at the desk, elbows braced on the green blotter, toying with my glass snifter. Most days I’d be reading journal articles or catching up on my patient notes, but there’s no point. I keep looking at the phone, which hasn’t made a sound in an hour, as if it can sense my mood and is giving me time to get mean about it.
On the shelf by the window there’s a stack of old textbooks, every one of them tabbed and dog-eared—reminders of who I was before all this. Beside the books sits a brass photo frame. I flip it down. Don’t need the picture of Jeannine staring at me right now, not with what’s about to drop.
The phone buzzes. A single, clipped tremor, nothing more.
Caller ID: Nate Remington.
I stare at the name for a second. I know what the call is, but I let it buzz one more time, just to show who’s in charge.
When I answer, there’s a moment of total silence, then the faint hiss of servers running in the background. Nate Remington is what you’d get if you stripped out every ounce of softness from the modern Silicon Valley male and replaced it with carbon fiber and a total disregard for boundaries. Last I heard he was benching close to four plates for reps and dating a pair of twin influencers, which is the kind of stunt you can pull off if you’ve got a yacht, a net worth in the billions, and a face like an angry Greek god. But I don’t give a shit about any of that. Nate’s a bud from way back, and he’s here to help me out.
The line clicks, a millisecond lag, then: “Dude. You wanted results. I got them.”
His voice is glass—no fat, no warmth, just the pure velocity of a man who hasn’t had to slow down for anyone, ever.
“Let’s hear it,” I say. My own voice is a blade. Might as well cut to the chase after this fucking dumpster fire of a day.
A flicker of keystroke clicks behind him. “We ran those videos through every filter I’ve got. Traced the post’s metadata. Account is burner, but the IP jumps out. San Jose. Comcast. Two routers, both dirty, but the hop off is unique. Public library WiFi, but there’s a second log-in two minutes later, same device, different network. Residential.”
I close my eyes. The words are just noise until I get the address.
“Shit. You got a pinpoint address?” I say.
He snorts. “You know how this works, Kent. I don’t do half measures.” Another click, the faint sound of him spitting sunflower seeds into a Solo cup. “Three-four-three Poplar Lane, Apartment Three. You want a name or you want to guess?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
Nate waits, then says, “Thought so. You paying rent on that place? Because if not, the lease is signed by a ‘J. Ashton,’ but the credit check is linked to your AMEX.”
My hand tightens on the mug. Knuckles go white, the familiar itch in the shoulder where the tendon’s never healed right.
He keeps going, filling the silence like it’s a contest. “Device is a MacBook, old model. User logs in as ‘jean-baby.’ I’m assuming it’s a “she” at this point. Not a lot of security. I sent you the full dump, but here’s the interesting bit—she didn’t just upload the files. She edited them. The deepfake app is basic, off-the-shelf, but the source material came from a university IP, and it matches a raw vid uploaded from somewhere near you in the Minneapolis area.”