Page 10 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

"Slate?" I straighten up. "Nobody's heard from him in weeks."

"Yeah, well, you know how he is." Maya sips her coffee. "Gets a new conspiracy theory and dives down the rabbit hole. Remember when he was convinced that tech CEO was actually three children in a trench coat?"

I laugh despite myself. "And spent two months trying to prove it with facial recognition software."

"Exactly. But he's still the best person I know for pattern recognition besides you." Maya taps her fingers on the table. "If anyone can verify what we're seeing here, it's him."

"You're right." I pull out my phone, scrolling through encrypted messaging apps. "He taught me half of what I know about financial tracking. And he owes me after I helped him with that hospital security system hack last spring."

"So you think he's just off the grid by choice?" Maya asks, her voice casual but her eyes sharp.

The question hangs between us. I hesitate, remembering the last message I got from him—something about stumbling onto a bigger pattern than he expected.

"I hope so," I say finally. "I'll try his emergency channels tonight. If he's just hiding out in some cabin with no internet like last time, he'll check in eventually."

"And if he doesn't?"

I meet Maya's eyes across the table, the unspoken possibility settling like a weight on my chest. "Then we have more to worry about than I thought."

I pace across my loft, feet silent against the hardwood floor. The space is dark except for the blue glow from my monitors, casting long shadows across the walls.

"Come on, come on," I mutter, chewing on my thumbnail as the encryption protocols run their course. The secure connection takes forever to establish, but Slate insists on using his own custom protocols. "Always assume someone's listening," he'd drilled into me when I first started.

The screen flickers, then stabilizes, revealing Slate's familiar face. His beard's longer than the last time I saw him, and there are new lines around his eyes, but his quick smile is the same.

"Nessa! About time you surfaced. I was starting to think you'd gone fully nocturnal."

I drop into my chair, pulling one knee up to my chest. "That's rich coming from the guy who disappeared for three months. Where are you, anyway?"

"Somewhere with decent coffee and questionable internet." He leans closer to his camera. "Maya said you've been digging into Paradise Elite. Show me what you've got."

I share my screen, walking him through the financial web I've uncovered. "They're moving women through three different agencies, each targeting specific demographics."

Slate's fingers tap rapidly on his keyboard as he accesses the data. "These aren't amateur traffickers, Nessa. See these medical supply orders? They have expertise, equipment. And look at these shell companies. They've got political protection too."

My leg bounces faster against the chair, a persistent rhythm I can't control. "Jenny was onto this before—" My voice catches, throat closing around her name.

Slate's eyes soften. "I heard about what happened to her. I'm sorry, kid."

I shake my head, a sour taste flooding my mouth. "Her research led to the same trafficking network. We can't let it happen to anyone else."

"What about digital security? Are you using the protocols I designed?"

"Plus a few improvements." I can't help the touch of pride in my voice. "Triple-layered VPN, air-gapped backup systems, and I've got a physical kill switch that wipes everything if triggered."

He nods approvingly, but his expression darkens as he examines more of my findings. "You need to be careful. The last person who got this close was—"

"Jenny. I know." I cut him off, nails digging into my palms.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken warnings and the soft hum of cooling fans.

"What about this Asher Cross you're tracking?" Slate finally asks, scrolling through the profile I've compiled.

"He's connected somehow. His background has inconsistencies that—"

Slate's expression grows serious as he leans closer to the camera. "This guy you're tracking—he's not just any operative. His cover story, the skill behind it... Be careful. Whoever he works for has serious resources."

Serious resources.

My brain jumps to that network I cracked while chasing Steele's digital footprints. The one with the insane security protocols that made me actually sweat. Military-grade encryption, compartmentalized access, the whole nine yards.

I'd barely gotten past their outer defenses before their countermeasures went full Terminator on me, but I caught glimpses of something big. Asset management. Operational parameters. The kind of corporate-speak that usually translates to 'we do things governments can't officially do.'

Slate's face disappears from my screen, leaving his final warning hanging in the air. I stare at the disconnection message, my fingers frozen above my keyboard.

A chill runs through me, even though the apartment feels warm. Outside, Sacramento's fog has rolled in completely, muting the usual city lights to ghostly halos.

I pull up Jenny's last email, sent just three days before her death. The timestamp mocks me: 2:17 AM—another night owl who couldn't stop digging.

Found something in the Paradise Elite security protocols, she'd written. They have connections to former intelligence officers. Need to verify before meeting.

She never made that meeting.

My throat tightens as I open a folder labeled "JM-Final." Inside are all the files I recovered from her cloud backup—some corrupted, others partially redacted. Pages of blacked-out text stare back at me, the work of someone with expertise in covering their tracks.

"Who were you about to expose, Jenny?" I whisper to the empty room.

The clock on my screen reads 2:36 AM. The cybersecurity conference starts at 9:00. I need to prepare.

I push away from my desk, stretching muscles stiff from hours hunched over keyboards. My apartment feels too quiet, too empty.

"Okay, conference prep first."

"You're talking to yourself again," I mutter, then laugh. "And now you're talking to yourself about talking to yourself. Great job, Nessa."

I move to my closet, pulling out clothing options that follow my cardinal rule: professional enough to belong, forgettable enough to disappear. I settle on dark gray slacks, a navy blouse with subtle tech company logo, and low heels I can run in if necessary.

Next, I gather my tech. Laptop with customized security. Portable hard drive with Jenny's files. Enhanced smartphone with specialized apps. Wireless earpiece disguised as a hearing aid. USB drives with tracking software.

I spread everything across my bed in sequence, verifying each item, the routine quieting the restless energy racing through my body.

"Obi-Wan, I need you to maintain the Paradise Elite trace while I'm gone," I announce to my main system. "You're the only one I trust not to get distracted by cat videos."

I've programmed automated responses to specific network activities, alerting me if any unusual data movements occur during the conference.

Back at my desk, I initiate tomorrow's security protocols, fingers dancing across keys.

"Luke, run system diagnostics before sleep mode," I instruct my laptop. "BB-8, activate proximity alerts for known Paradise Elite employees."

The familiar ritual of preparation steadies my hands. I've done this dozens of times before—infiltrated spaces, gathered intelligence, tracked digital footprints back to their sources. Yet something about tomorrow feels different.

I pull up Asher's profile one last time. Those eyes seem to look straight through me, assessing, calculating.

My heart pounds as I examine the sharp angles of his face, the fierce heat in his stare.

"Who are you really working for?" I whisper, my fingertip hovering over his face on the screen. Heat floods my chest, an unexpected current that sparks across my skin and steals my breath.

I laugh softly, the sound bouncing off my empty walls. "Congratulations, Vanessa. You've finally found the one thing your brain won't let go of. Not coding, not video games. Just a potentially dangerous operative with murder eyes and chiseled features."

I check the conference registration again, and there it is—confirmation of his attendance, listed under the credentials I created for his invitation. My stomach does a little flip. In less than seven hours, I'll see him again. Not behind a counter, not through a screen, but face to face.

I pull up the conference schedule, my eyes tracking to the cybersecurity panel where I'll make contact.

Three experts discussing threat detection and prevention—the perfect backdrop for our meeting.

I've memorized their backgrounds, their published papers, every detail that might come up in discussion.

Sleep is impossible now. The familiar hyper-focus takes over, my brain racing down multiple paths simultaneously.

I need to be ready. For Asher.