I pause in my step onto the street, realize the path of my mind, the grip of my hand around the gun and spin to the left, walking in a direction that has no destination, the only thought in my head one of flight. Flight from my own thoughts, from the horrific individual that lies inside my bones. I wasn’t supposed to kill anyone tonight. I didn’t want to kill anyone tonight.
My run from myself is redirected by the hand that closes around my elbow, a firm grip, the body tied to the hand too close for me to see, the hold pinning my elbow to his side as I am shoved forward.
I don’t scream, I don’t fight. It takes me a delayed moment to bring my mind out of my own self-loathing and realize what the hell is going on. I realize what is occurring around the time that the faceless stranger forces me left, into the dark space between two buildings, his grip tightening on my arm to a point of pain.
CHAPTER 57
EVERY JOB HAS its risks. A hacker’s life just contains more. It is part of the allure. High risks, high reward. Risks make Mike’s heart beat, his blood pump. It is what makes a mediocre life worth living. Plus, it gives him access to pussy. Women love the hacker angle. It makes a normal guy seem dangerous, connected. Makes them think he can, with a few strokes of deft fingers, accomplish anything he wants to. Unspeakable power harnessed by the sheer strength of self-control alone.
Mike closes the screen, watching Deanna’s recorded show disappear with one reluctant mouse click. Ripping off a chunk of paper towels, he cleans off his cock, and rolls the chair back, tossing the damp towels into the trash can below the desk. He frowns, the towels missing their mark, batted away from entrance by the overfull can, bottles, takeout containers, and a healthy collection of used paper towels towering precariously over the rim of the basket. A quick debate over emptying the can is ended by a knock on his home’s front door, the song echoing through the empty house. Loud and decisive, the knock authoritative enough to make his hand freeze and brain regroup. Rolling the chair forward, he clicks on the security system, and opens the cam that displays the front porch, the dim porch light displaying a man, his features unclear, his stance straight enough to scream COP via the high-def feed. Cops, in his world, equal Feds—the fear of hackers everywhere.
Mike’s hands go into a frenzy as the man’s fists pound again at the door. Firewalls get closed, feeds get killed, and he disconnects from the online file server. This pig can take every piece of his computer and it’ll be months before they realize half the stuff they don’t have. He locks down the computer and moves to the door, getting to the handle just as a third set of knocks begins.
The door swings casually beneath his hand, his features relaxed, a friendly grin hiding the acceleration of his heart. His mouth curves more naturally into amusement as the man’s eyes drop, surprised, to his face. There is a moment of hesitation in the stranger’s face and then he smiles. Smiles. An unexpected response, one that puts a seed of fear in his stomach that feels unnatural. Despite his life, his situation, fear is an unfamiliar emotion. Mike reaches for the door, filled with the sudden and unexplainable urge to slam it in the man’s face and flip the dead bolt.
“Can I help you?” His eyes pick up on the stranger’s details. His shoes, black and shiny, with little tassels on the front. Dark gray slacks. A black sweater that looks too expensive for a Fed. A briefcase in hand, which fits every stereotype he would have envisioned. Keeping his face bland, Mike’s examination continues. A wiry build and hard face, one that a smile does nothing to soften. Smaller and shorter than the security cam indicated, the man’s strong posture making him appear bigger. Midforties. With eyes that are pure bad news. A cop he wouldn’t trust to watch a dog.
“May I come in?”
“You got a warrant?” It is the wrong thing to say, a comment that screams I’ve got something to hide. But the man only smiles wider, and Mike feels the prickle of unease return.
“I’m not a cop. Why don’t you let me in? I think you’d rather we have this conversation in private.”
Not a cop. Right. Just a random stranger who feels the need to stop by at ten o’clock at night. Everyone knows you shouldn’t let a stranger in. Knows you should refuse entry, close the door with a polite but firm rebuke. But most people haven’t broken enough laws to earn them a lifetime behind bars. Mike has waited for this knock since he was thirteen, and hacked into the Ask Jeeves search database, causing every search query to return images of giant penises. He moves aside and lets the man enter, shoving at the door with his hand until it clicks fully closed.