Page 69 of Filthy Little Fix

Dante gives me a short nod, the only permission I need. Svetlana, for a moment, ceases to be the client and becomes an irritated spectator.

I turn to my terminal.

"AES-256 encryption is solid, the math is almost unbreakable by brute force, but the implementation here was lazy. They used a timestamp as a base for key generation with the MAC address of the source machine."

I pull up another window in the terminal, showing the lines of my script and running it. I retrace my steps.

"The script tested combinations of timestamp and possible MACs, forged the key, and deciphered the fragments—Moby Dick, so the hypothesis shifted to steganography. I ran a diff against the original book text, no alterations, no homoglyphs; I did a forensic analysis, checked the least significant bits, extended metadata, slack space of the files, and nothing. The data distribution graph is completely flat."

I turn to them again—tohim. There's a fascination he barely conceals. He understood enough. He understood that I dismantled the problem in minutes just as he ordered.

"The message is the absence of message," I say, without taking my eyes off him.

I see Svetlana straighten in my peripheral vision. She smooths her blazer, resuming an impassive mask and taking a deep breath.

"For what? To buy time?" She says.

"To buy time," I repeat.

She shakes her head. "Why?"

I lean back in the chair. Reasons.

"I have some hunches," I say, peeking at Dante again, waiting for him to show any sign of approval beyond a morbid fascination. "Considering this transmission indeed comes from the rat: if he's infiltrated, he has data from at leastsomeof your operations. I bet this interception would cripple your entire IT for a few days—and I imagine thatwasthe gamble. But this only makes sense if your team is also actively looking for the rat, because disrupting the process only means they stepped too close to the hideout. Are they?"

Svetlana's face hardens. She stops being an executive to truly look like Dante Volkov's sister.

"No," she says.

I smile. This is fun.

"So he knows I'm here, and probably has access to the progress of my work. Too bad he thought Moby Dick would take me more than an hour." I turn to Svetlana. "The rat is one of the next on your list."

The sound that comes out of her is more growl than word, as she pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes. She makes a pause—some time for the anger to go down to manageable levels. She wants to throw someone down the stairs, but needs my brain attached to a functioning body to keep their corporate game alive.

She takes off her glasses, and when she opens her eyes again, she's perfectly composed.

"It seems you were worth it, Leonel," she says. "But the question remains—you don't know who they are."

"Oh, but I will."

I spin the chair back to the keyboard. I retrieve Svetlana's list of targets.

"There are ten names left," I say. "They will be on that list. What's the time frame?"

Svetlana, now back in her crisis manager element, responds immediately. "As fast as possible."

I nod, already turning back to the keyboard. My mind traces the paths, the vulnerabilities of the next ten targets. If I had to guess, I'd say the rat's among the next five—close enough to provoke them into sending a useless message to trip us up.

I hover my fingers over the keyboard, cracking my knuckles before starting. The instant I press the first key, I feel a pressure.

A large, heavy hand settles on my shoulder, pinning me in place. The scent of Dante—tobacco, whiskey, and adrenaline—makes me shiver, and my head suddenly empties.

"I don't recall giving you permission to continue," he says in a low growl. The vibration of his voice travels down my spine. I sigh. I want his hand to move toother places.

"Dante, we need this fast," I hear Svetlana, but her voice is distant now. I only feel Dante.

"The question wasn't for you," he cuts her off, without even looking at her. Her anger bubbles. All his attention is on me. "I gave you an order, Leonel."