Page 17 of Avenging Jessie (Black Swan Division Thrillers #3)

Seventeen

Jessie

Jessie eased down the narrow stairwell, keeping her weight on the edges of each step to kill the sound. The concrete was cool under her gloved fingertips, the air growing chillier with every foot she descended.

At the bottom, the space opened into a long, low-ceilinged room. Rows of black server racks stretched into the distance like sentinels, their blinking green and amber lights casting an otherworldly pulse. The air thrummed with the low, constant vibration of hundreds of processors working in unison.

She slid along the wall, her back brushing chilled metal piping.

Somewhere ahead, the muffled clack of rapid keystrokes and quiet voices blended with the rhythmic hum of the cooling fans.

The noise wasn’t loud, but it was enough to mask her breathing and the whisper of her boots on the smooth floor.

Someone had ordered pepperoni pizza. The smell made her stomach growl.

It turned sour when she spotted her target.

Hastings’ silhouette was instantly recognizable even in the dim light.

Shoulders squared, gait confident, he moved between the server banks without hesitation.

Never a glance over his shoulder. He knew exactly where he was going, and Jessie followed at the outer edge of the shadows, each step syncing with his.

She kept her weapon low, her grip steady. This wasn’t just a server room—it was a vault. Whatever was happening down here wasn’t meant to see daylight.

By now, Spence had to know she’d ditched him and the plan. She pictured him back in the car, jaw tight, eyes cold—either cursing her under his breath or already suiting up to come in after her.

She couldn’t decide which would be worse.

If he stayed outside, he might contain the fallout. Keep them from getting burned. If he came in, they’d be two targets in a building full of unknowns.

But if she knew anything about Spencer Stirling, it was that he hated being left in the dark. And when it came to protecting the mission—and her—he wasn’t the type to sit this one out.

She closed the gap by a few paces, close enough now to hear individual words in the murmured conversation up ahead.

If he came in after her, it would be for one of two reasons—either to make sure she didn’t screw this up, or to haul her ass out when things went sideways.

She wasn’t sure which she hated more.

Because if it was the first, it meant he didn’t trust her.

And if it was the second… it meant he cared enough to take the risk.

Neither sat comfortably in her chest.

Hastings rounded the last row of server racks and stepped into an open area at the far end of the basement. Jessie ghosted up to the corner and angled herself just enough to see without exposing her position.

A cluster of mismatched desks sat under industrial lights, wires snaking across the concrete floor like trip hazards.

Five kids—no, young men and women barely in their twenties—were hunched over glowing monitors, each station a Frankenstein mashup of high-end rigs and assorted parts.

Empty soda cans, energy drink bottles, half-eaten pizza slices, and bags of chips littered the surfaces.

The air was thicker here, warmer, the constant whir of fans joined by the rapid-fire clatter of keyboards. Monitors flashed with scrolling code, maps, login screens, and security dashboards. One kid wore a gaming headset plastered with stickers; another had duct tape holding his chair arm in place.

Jessie’s gaze snapped to headset’s screen where a bold header in English read: FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION – INTERNAL ACCESS PORTAL.

“I’m in,” he yelled, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. “Full admin privileges.”

The others broke into cheers and fist bumps.

“What do you want me to do, boss?” the kid asked Hastings. “Scrape every agent profile or wipe the Feds’ whole database of terrorists?”

Jessie’s pulse kicked hard. Wiping the Bureau’s data could cripple hundreds of ongoing investigations. But scraping it? That would give them intel on every single agent—names, addresses, assignments.

Hastings barely glanced at the kid. “Do what you want with the Bureau.” He leaned on the back of another chair, eyes on a different monitor. “But the first one of you to breach Langley’s mainframe gets a ten-grand bonus.”

Jessie froze, every muscle locking tight.

Brewer wanted global chaos.

Hastings wanted the CIA.

She gripped her Glock tighter. She could step out right now, plant one in Hastings’s leg, and end this before his little hacker club burrowed into Langley.

Her breathing slowed, her training pressing down hard on the adrenaline urging her forward.

Five hackers. One Hastings. None of them looked dangerous in a physical sense—soft bodies, caffeine jitters, posture wrecked by too many hours at a desk—but there was nothing harmless about the firepower at their fingertips.

A single keystroke could open back doors, wipe files, and expose every federal agent to the world.

And even if she stopped this party, she’d bet good money that all of the hackers’ codes and programs were stored on the cloud somewhere. If even one of them escaped—and the odds were high that several would—they could still carry out Hastings’ plan.

She’d faced worse odds. Hell, she’d survived worse odds. But that had been before everything Brewer had done to her, before her trust in herself had been chipped down to splinters.

And then there was Spence.

He had to be somewhere in the building. Watching? Tracking her? She could almost hear him in her head—don’t rush in blind, J, make it a win, not a suicide run.

She clenched her jaw.

This was Hastings, the man who’d taught her tradecraft before turning on everything they’d stood for. Every instinct screamed to take the shot, to finish it now. But instincts were exactly what Brewer and Hastings counted on.

Her gaze drifted back to the glowing screens, lines of code flickering faster than her eyes could follow. Langley was the big prize. If they got in, the fallout wouldn’t just be career-ending for every agent in the field—it would be life-ending for some.

She couldn’t risk being taken down here, in this basement, before warning Spence and the others. He’d have a plan for neutralizing the threat without handing them her corpse as a consolation prize. And as much as it burned her to admit it, his approach was often the best one.

She eased back into the shadows, muscles tight, forcing herself to retreat instead of engage.

For now.

Jessie shifted her weight, careful not to scuff her boot against the concrete. She took one step back. Then another.

From somewhere behind the row of server racks, Hastings’s voice carried to her. “Where’s the guard that should be outside the door?”

“Said it was break time,” one of the women said. “Guess he’s taking a long one.”

Hastings grunted, but it had the edge of suspicion to it.

The guard she’d incapacitated. Shit.

She turned toward a bank of giant servers to slip through them and see if she would find another exit. Hastings would be too antsy about the one they’d both entered through, and keeping an eye on it. She needed a new way out.

A shadow detached itself from the gloom at the end.

Tall. Broad. Familiar.

Spence.

God, he was going to kill her, but she was both relieved and annoyed that he was here. In the basement. Watching her.

Their eyes locked across the dim glow of the spill-light. He gave the slightest shake of his head—don’t blow it—and then he was gone again, melting back into the darkness as silently as he’d appeared.

Jessie’s pulse kicked up. Where was he going? She moved to follow, like a shadow between the racks of humming servers. She quickened her pace, rounded the end…

And froze at the cold press of steel against her temple.

“Evening, Agent Mendoza,” Hastings murmured, voice oily with satisfaction. “What an interesting surprise.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The gun was as real as the hand on her arm steering her forward.

“I take it you’re the reason my guard has disappeared. One of my tricks, I bet. You always were a good student.” He disarmed her and pushed her ahead of him. “Let’s not make a scene. Walk.”

He guided her past the servers into the hackers’ den.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Hastings announced, “we have company.” He shoved her into a chair, the metal legs screeching against the concrete.

“Meet the legendary Jessie Mendoza—traitor, survivor, and, if the rumors are true, the only one Harris Brewer has failed to break completely.”

The kids smirked, barely looking up from their keyboards. Hastings leaned against the table beside her, both guns in hand, casual as a cat with a cornered mouse.

“That’s the trouble with legends,” he said. “Eventually, you run out of luck.”

“Now that’s ironic, mate,” a familiar voice said from off to her side. “I was just about to say the same thing about you.”

Hastings stood and stiffened, his eyes cutting toward the dark aisle of server racks. Around the table, computer alarms began going off, the hackers turning frantic eyes on their screens as they began pounding at the keyboards. “What the…?” one said. Another, “I’m locked out!”

Spence stepped into the light, holding up a slim flash drive, expression carved from stone.

“I’ve just shut down your fire sale operation and given each and every one of your minions here a virus that will corrupt their codes and programs.” He winked at Jessie.

“Guess that bonus you were going to give one of them will have to go toward your attorney fees.”