Page 11 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

seven

Asher

A fternoon light pours through the convention center's glass ceiling. Too much light, too many shadows. Perfect cover for anyone watching me. I keep my pace relaxed while my eyes track each face, each corner, each potential ambush point.

My tailored jacket conceals both my weapon and my true purpose. I adjust my tie, the movement natural enough to avoid suspicion. The Bluetooth earpiece nestled in my ear connects me to my team.

"Perimeter check," I murmur, appearing to adjust my collar while speaking to no one.

Jax's voice comes through, low and clear. "East entrance locked down tight. Still hunting our digital ghost, but damn—half these guys look like they code in their sleep. Should I check who's got the most energy drink stains or just follow the trail of Cheetos dust?"

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes at his commentary. Classic Nitro. Always trying to ease tense situations with humor.

"Current position gives me seventeen seconds to any exit," I respond, pausing at a display showcasing quantum encryption technology. The irony doesn't escape me.

Here we are hunting a hacker at a cybersecurity conference. Like looking for a needle that keeps moving through the haystack.

Cole's calm voice cuts through my thoughts. "Digital signature detected in the network, similar pattern to yesterday's breach. They're probing the conference system."

I quickly punch in a specific response pattern on my device. Three short, one long. Acknowledged, proceeding.

I navigate between clusters of tech executives, nodding at appropriate moments in their conversations while my eyes never stop moving.

"Our target knows we're here." I keep my voice low and barely move my lips, knowing my earpiece can pick up my voice through my skull. With the background noise of the event, no one should be able to hear what I'm saying. "This is deliberate. A challenge."

"Or a trap," Jax adds. "Either way, fun times ahead."

"Maintain position."

Something about this hacker, this "Echo," feels different. Most targets run when they sense us coming. This one is running toward us, leaving breadcrumbs, playing chess instead of hide and seek.

Refreshing.

The thought surprises me, and I immediately shut it down. Misplaced respect for an adversary is dangerous.

I drift toward a quantum encryption display, appearing interested while securing visual coverage of three entry points. To anyone watching, I'm just another tech enthusiast.

Cole's voice suddenly sharpens in my ear. "We've got an active intrusion into the security system. Someone's accessing the camera feeds. East quadrant. They're here, Frost."

The hair on my neck rises. Not fear. Anticipation. I turn toward the east section, maintaining my cover as an interested attendee while my gaze methodically sweeps each face.

"Moving to intercept," I murmur, charting the most efficient path through the crowd toward the panel area.

My body shifts into hunter mode. Shoulders relaxed, stride purposeful without drawing attention. I nod at a passing executive, maintaining my cover while mentally calculating distances, escape routes, and optimal positioning.

"I'm repositioning to the west exit." Jax's voice is in my ear. "If they run, I'll cut them off. Try not to scare them away with that charming personality of yours."

The panel setup appears standard; rows of chairs facing a raised stage with presentation screens. I take in my surroundings. Three primary exits, with approximately seventy seats arranged in a semi-circle, and fourteen people already seated.

The stage offers no cover, making it a poor defensive position. I opt for the third row, off-center, which provides clear sightlines and multiple exit paths.

Cole's voice speeds up with unusual urgency. "They're bouncing through systems now—accessing attendee lists, speaker schedules, security protocols. Damn, they're fast. Moving through firewalls like they're made of tissue paper."

"Location?"

"Can't pinpoint. Signal keeps fragmenting, but proximity analysis suggests they're within fifty meters of your position."

I settle into a chair, appearing casual while my eyes scan each face. A woman typing on her phone. Two men discussing encryption protocols. A security guard checking his earpiece.

"They know we're here. Target profile?"

"Based on movement patterns, someone with extensive knowledge of network architecture. Probably using a custom tool suite that..." Cole pauses. "Wait, the signature just circled back to your section again."

My muscles tense fractionally. I can feel the target's presence, not physically, but in the digital wake they're leaving. It's the equivalent of someone circling your position, studying you before striking.

"They're toying with us."

"Pattern suggests physical presence nearby," Cole confirms. "The intrusion points match conference WiFi nodes closest to the panel area."

I continue my assessment of each attendee, calculating threat levels based on posture, hand position, eye movement patterns. Nobody fits the profile I'd expect. No obvious signs of the focused intensity that accompanies active hacking.

I adjust my position in the uncomfortable conference chair. The cybersecurity panel drones on, speakers discussing theoretical vulnerabilities while I maintain my cover as an interested attendee.

I keep my expression neutral, nodding at appropriate intervals, when Cole's voice cuts through my earpiece, carrying an edge of shock I rarely hear from him.

"They just dropped off the network... but they left another data packet. It's..." he pauses, "more Paradise Elite financial records with timestamps from two years ago. Matches exactly when Jenny was investigating them."

My heart beats faster. This is no random hacker. This is someone who knows about Jenny's work, and possibly what happened to Roman.

I pull my secure phone from my jacket pocket, the screen unlocking with facial recognition. The data packet appears; financial records layered with transaction codes, shell companies, and numbered accounts. I scan for patterns, weaknesses, connections.

"What am I looking at, Blade?"

"Financial records from Paradise Elite, specifically their European division. Transfers matching ones Hellcat told us Jenny flagged before her death."

I flick through multiple screens, processing the data. These aren't random files. They're methodically selected, telling a specific story about money movement.

"These records align with Jenny's missing files," Cole continues. "Dates, amounts, even the routing patterns are identical to what she documented."

Jax's voice cuts in, tension evident despite his casual tone. "Seems like someone wants us looking at Paradise Elite."

"Or someone's continuing Jenny's investigation."

I pocket my phone, considering the implications. If these files are authentic, they represent the missing pieces of Jenny's investigation. The ones that vanished after her death.

I rise from my seat in the audience with deliberate calm. The urgency pulses through me, but I keep my face impassive as I navigate between the rows of chairs. Several attendees glance up, but I'm already past them, moving toward the exhibition floor beyond.

The late afternoon sun cuts through the massive glass ceiling and vendors' displays cast elongated shadows across the polished floor. The crowd has thinned considerably as people filter between sessions, their movements more predictable now, making surveillance more efficient.

I position myself near a refreshment table. To anyone watching, I'm simply a conference attendee contemplating the selection of drinks and snacks.

"Our hacker knew exactly what to look for in Jenny's files. This isn't random intelligence gathering. They have a purpose."

"Or they're setting us up," Jax interjects.

Movement near the far display catches my eye. Something in the pattern breaks from the crowd's normal flow. I track it automatically, the way I'd follow a target through a scope.

My breath catches.

A petite woman with dark hair moves between two tech displays. Pink streaks flash when she turns her head.

The barista?

She turns slightly. Her profile becomes visible, and recognition hits like a physical force.

Vanessa. Here. At the cybersecurity conference.

My mind calculates probability. Sacramento isn't large enough for multiple cybersecurity events. She dropped out of MIT—background check confirmed it. Temple Coffee attracts tech workers. Makes sense she'd look for better career options.

Logical. Plausible.

So why does something feel wrong?

I maintain my position against the sudden tension in my muscles. The coincidence sits wrong in my chest. Too neat. Too convenient.

She laughs at something a male attendee says to her; the sound carrying across the space with unexpected clarity. The man stands close, too close, leaning in with a familiarity that suggests either previous acquaintance or practiced social engineering.

Cole's voice breaks through my analysis. "The digital signature just reappeared. It's moving through the executive suite systems now."

My gaze narrows on the man's hands. Slim fingers, manicured nails. Position suggests comfort with technology. His body angled to shield whatever he might be accessing on his device.

"Potential target identified," I murmur. "Male, approximately six-foot, black suit, blue tie, tech conference badge. Currently engaged with civilian from previous encounter."

His hand lingers on her arm longer than social convention dictates. Something primitive flashes through me—a sudden urge to remove his fingers from her skin. Breaking them one by one if necessary.

The unexpected reaction rattles me. Focus.

"Got the images from the cameras. Running facial recognition now," Cole responds, rapid typing carrying through the comm.

The man leans in, whispering something that makes her smile. Vanessa tilts her head as she listens, his hand moving from her arm to her lower back. My jaw tightens involuntarily.