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CHAPTER THREE

Knight

I should sleep, but system cleanup waits for no hacker, and half-assed security protocols are how amateurs end up wearing orange jumpsuits … or dead. Neither option has ever appealed to me.

Bishop’s name lights up my phone. Again . The messages stack, each more insistent than the last.

Bishop: Need your input. Call me.

Bishop: Knight. Important.

Bishop: You know I can just show up if you keep ignoring me.

Of course he would. And if he drags Rook along, that’s a whole different problem. It’d probably turn into some kind of criminal family counseling session. Ex-assassin and professional identity thief staging an intervention? The irony is unbearable.

I fire back a response.

Knight: Busy. Tomorrow.

Whatever crisis he's managing can wait until tomorrow. Or never. Never works too.

He’ll be pissed. Not enough to break down my door … yet . But the next time I see him, I’ll get the annoyed older brother glare, followed by a long lecture about how ‘cutting people out’ isn’t a viable life strategy.

Like he’s an authority on that.

The process of shutting down after a job takes longer than most people realize. Hackers are like serial killers—the successful ones don’t get caught because they clean up after themselves. The sloppy ones? Well, they end up with their faces plastered across wanted posters, usually with truly terrible photographs.

At least I’d make sure they used my good side if I ever got caught. Although, I bet I’d have to hack their database just to update the picture.

My security feeds paint a perfect picture of isolation. Three floors of carefully maintained privacy. Motion sensors, biometric locks, enough security layers to make the NSA jealous.

No one gets in. No one gets out.

Not unless I allow it.

The cameras cycle through their usual patterns—parking garage, elevator, perimeter. Everything is normal. The city sleeps while I erase any trace that I was ever in systems I shouldn’t have access to.

I could probably hack half the city from here. Not that I would. It’d be too much like stealing from neighbors, and I have standards.

Low ones, admittedly, but they exist.

Besides, rich people are boring. Their secrets are always the same. Affairs, fraud, the occasional light treason. Nothing creative.

The shutdown sequence is my favorite part. Watching the systems go dark, evidence dissolving into nothing. Some people have bedtime routines. I have this—methodical, precise, the kind of digital cleansing that would make most virus protection curl up and cry.

Lines of code scroll across my center monitor as I wipe the last traces. Three days of work disappearing into the digital void.

The kind of focused elimination of evidence that would make crime scene cleaners jealous. Although, I doubt they have to deal with proxy servers and encryption keys. Just blood spatter and the occasional dismembered limb. I bet they have way more paperwork in their line of work, as well.

By the time I’m done, the last of the coffee high has worn off, leaving behind the kind of exhaustion that makes hallucinations seem reasonable. Ghost images of code still dance in my peripheral vision. And I’m reaching a point where maybe sleep wouldn’t be the worst idea.

Even hackers need to reboot occasionally.

I initiate the auxiliary systems shutdown sequence. The monitoring programs can run on their own—they always do. Each protocol has its own shutdown sequence, its own set of checks and balances.

The main screens go dark one by one. Some people count sheep to fall asleep. I count termination protocols. The familiar rhythm of systems powering down usually helps quiet my mind.

Usually.

My fingers move across the keyboard in practiced patterns, closing out command windows and erasing browser histories. Not that anyone could trace them anyway—everything routes through enough proxy servers to make most intelligence agencies give up in frustration. But habits keep you alive in this business. Ask anyone in prison how they got caught. Ninety percent of the time it comes down to getting lazy. Getting comfortable. Skipping steps.

I do not skip steps.

The soft whir of cooling fans fills my office as systems power down. Most people think hacking is all about the intrusion, the theft, the victory of breaking through defenses. They forget about this part. The process of vanishing completely. Leaving no trace that you were ever there.

Digital invisibility is not about fancy code or brute force attacks. It’s about patience. Thoroughness. The willingness to spend hours erasing your own existence.

The last monitor dims to black, leaving only the subtle glow of status lights. In the darkness, my apartment feels more like a cave than ever. The kind of isolation most people would find oppressive. Most people have not had to patch bullet holes in their walls.

My phone buzzes.

Not Bishop. Not Rook. The notification flashes across my screen.

Elevator request received.

Processing access code ...

Access granted.

Cab in motion.

Every nerve in my body snaps to attention. I didn’t authorize that. The access logs show no anomalies. No hacks. No brute force entry. Just a standard authorization.

The elevator arrives. Doors slide open. Pause. Close.

The log records each action. But there are no alerts. No warning flags. Nothing to indicate this isn’t routine.

Except it isn’t routine. It isn’t normal. It’s fucking impossible.

Someone is here.

The Glock slides free of its holster, familiar weight against my palm. This isn’t the first time someone has tried to breach my space. It’s not even the first time this year.

But something about this feels different. Wrong in a way that sets every instinct screaming. Whoever managed this breach didn’t just get lucky. They had valid codes. Codes that don’t exist outside of my mind.

The reinforced door opens without a sound, and I ease into the darkness of the main room.

Whoever is out there just made their first mistake.

It’ll be their last.

This is my territory. Every shadow, every corner, every line of sight carefully calculated. I designed this place like a chess board.

Anyone who makes it this far becomes just another piece in play.

My night vision is better than most—a side effect of living like a cave-dwelling troll, according to Rook. The shadows of my apartment stretch out before me, familiar territory turned hunting ground.

The intruder is heading toward my office, but something is off about their movement. They aren’t sneaking, or trying to stay hidden. They’re moving like they have every right to be here. Like someone trying not to wake a sleeping house, rather than avoiding detection.

That’s new.

And infinitely more concerning.

The figure steps into the faint moonlight spilling through the gaps of the blinds covering the floor-to ceiling windows. Female. Dark hair. Something in her hands. A laptop, maybe. Or a weapon.

It doesn’t matter.

She’s in my space.

The Glock is already up.

I press the barrel to the back of her head.

“Don’t move.”

A smart intruder freezes. The stupid ones? They make me pull the trigger.