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Page 13 of Midnight’s Captive (Stroke of Midnight #2)

Ash entered Tremaine headquarters on autopilot. He acknowledged other employees he knew, but his mind was elsewhere.

He’d fucked up. Big time. Now he had to figure out how to fix it.

The first thing he needed was information, and there was only one place in the building where he could find what he needed.

Instead of taking the route that would lead to his room, he took a familiar, circuitous detour. After traversing several floors and dark corridors, Ash stood in front of an active but forgotten computer tucked away in the heart of the building.

He’d discovered it early on, after his escape attempt had ended with him confined to the building. Exploring every inch of Tremaine headquarters, he’d met countless people and, one day, he’d encountered a computer terminal no one used. Forgotten but not decommissioned, he’d never have looked twice at it if he’d still had his port. Over the years, he’d dug deeper and deeper into the Tremaine system.

Into Tremaine secrets.

Unease skittered down his back. The last time he’d retrieved information from this terminal... Well, nothing good had come of it. Though he had been able to help Dizzie when he used it to hack into a satellite.

Was this a good idea? He shifted on his feet and stared at the terminal.

Probably not. But he couldn’t think of anything else to do. Or of anyone else who could help him.

Shrugging off the indecision, he laced his fingers together and stretched his arms overhead. Releasing the stretch, he wiggled his fingers. He needed to be loose for this.

Loose and fast.

He never dared stay too long in the system. Too much time would be dangerous for him and his sister.

As ready as he could be, Ash laid his hands on the keyboard... and had no idea where to start. Normally he spent his time rummaging through hidden secrets of the Tremaine system. Or skimming money off the top of rich guys’ accounts and funneling it to untraceable credit chips. But he wasn’t interested in either of those things today.

The Jack. That’s who he really wanted—needed—to know more about. But where to start the search when he only had a title and not a proper name?

Ash cracked his fingers again, for luck, and then started his search with the property address. He could picture the search in his head, the way he’d maneuver through the packets of data as if he was ported in. It took so much longer for the commands to travel from his brain to his fingers. He hated that his hands couldn’t keep up with what he’d be able to do in a blink. Porting in was so much easier.

Ignoring the phantom ache at the back of his neck, he poured all his energy and focus into his hands.

The first commands were rote—accessing the system, cloaking his presence, and setting up a warning system in case someone noticed his activity.

His next commands bypassed the general internet and plunged him into the deep web beneath, where secrets were bought and sold and anything could be found for a price.

He laughed, because that part sounded familiar. Surely there would be a record of the Jack there. “All right, baby, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Fingers flying over the keyboard, he entered his parameters. The first results were crap. Gambling sites and decks of cards.

Not at all what he wanted. He wanted the story behind the intriguing brunette who owned the bar. The one whose touch had sent shivers straight to his heart. Whose husky voice made him long for hours of conversation. The woman who tied him in knots and hid secrets in her dark brown eyes.

Deeper down he found a years-old website, which was useless. Razor Jack’s didn’t need to advertise. If you knew about it, great. If you didn’t, well, you probably didn’t want to be there anyway.

“Okay, what next?” He tapped his fingers lightly on the keyboard and pondered his next move.

“Reviews, blogs, newsie sites.” He added those as search parameters, but doubted they’d provide anything useful.

Nope. Nope. And nope.

“You are very well hidden, my dear Jack.”

Had the previous Jack been this well-hidden? Ash had no idea. He’d never bothered to look—hadn’t needed to.

Most people were an open book, posting every damn aspect of their lives online. His respect for her and her business grew.

The Jack had intrigued him before. Now he was enthralled. He loved a challenge.

Where else to look?

Razor Jack’s was a bar. Bars got rowdy.

He’d love an old-fashioned police report. Unfortunately, most public safety and security was run by corporations. He’d hack those if he needed to, but everything he’d seen pointed to the Jack not turning to corporations for help. She’d solve problems herself. He just needed to figure out how.

Other public records were still an option. Births, deaths, marriages, and disappearances. There had to be some kind of record out there.

Tweaking his search over and over, Ash scrolled through pages and pages of results, poking into the occasional record. Nothing.

“Fuck.” If he hadn’t seen her himself, he’d believe she didn’t exist.

About to give up, something in the data scroll caught his eye.

A death certificate.

Not that unusual. Hundreds were probably issued each day in the region, and those were just the official deaths.

It wasn’t the name that was familiar. It was the address. Razor Jack’s address.

It could be coincidence—a bar fight gone wrong—but he had the feeling the Jack wouldn’t be that careless. Any bodies falling in the bar sure as hell wouldn’t be discovered there.

Ash delicately retrieved the file, careful not to leave any tracks that would lead back to him or to the Tremaine Corporation.

Once he’d segregated the file into the section of the system he used for storage, he took a deep breath and opened it.

The medic involved had been meticulous in his notetaking, but despite all the time Ash spent in the hospital with Hope, the medical jargon didn’t mean much. He understood enough to tell that it was a heart attack. The victim had been declared dead at that scene.

Ash closed the autopsy report and flipped to the profile of the deceased. He gasped and took and involuntary step back from the terminal.

The face of the old Jack—the Jack he’d known—stared at him from the screen.

Holy shit.

He skimmed the rest of the file.

He was survived by his wife. Huh. Ash couldn’t imagine anyone marrying the old Jack.

Why hadn’t the widow taken over the bar?

Curious, he flipped to the next page. It was filled with legalese that told him that the widow had inherited the bar. How had his Jack taken over?

He turned to the last page in the file.

“What the fuck?”

He blinked and read the brief profile of the widow again. Then stared at the attached picture.

Her name was Taryn. It suited her.

She was the old Jack’s widow. She had inherited the bar.

Taryn was the new Jack.

His Jack.

The old Jack had been a bastard, willing to do anything for a price. Ash wanted to puke when he thought about her— Taryn —married to the man. He’d seen the shadows in her eyes. What had she endured?

It took a few moments for the shock to wear off.

He returned to the beginning of the file, paying closer attention this time.

It was hard. Imagining her with the old Jack turned his stomach. He wanted to hit something.

She was a beautiful, vibrant woman. One who’d offered comfort when he’d shared the worst moment of his life. What had drawn her to the old man? Power?

It didn’t seem possible. He’d met power-hungry people before. Despite the Jack’s reputation, he didn’t get that sense from her.

Okay, Ash, keep it together. What does the file tell you?

The old Jack had died nearly five years ago.

He had a wife.

That was it.

Ash jumped back to the search page and called up the public records again.

His fingers flew over the keyboard, inputting every combination of the names from the death report. No results.

There was no marriage record. No will either.

“So how did you inherit the bar?”