Page 13 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

eight

Vanessa

" C ome on, Jenny. What were you trying to tell me?"

My fingers dance across the keyboard, the soft clicking a familiar rhythm that drowns out everything else. The sound bounces off the exposed brick walls of my loft, mixing with the quiet hum of multiple processors working overtime.

The clock on Obi-Wan—my main monitor—reads 3:42 AM.

Not that time matters when I'm this deep in the code.

Time becomes this weird, fluid thing when my brain latches onto a problem this complex.

Jenny's digital breadcrumbs scatter across my screens like broken promises, each fragment telling a piece of her story.

A story that got her killed.

Two days ago, I made a cup of coffee in R2-D2, shut off notifications from the outside world, and dove into the digital rabbit hole.

Now empty ramen cups litter my workspace alongside three coffee mugs that I keep forgetting to drink from. My eyes burn from staring at screens, but I'm riding that hyper focus wave that makes everything else disappear.

My loft apartment sits in darkness except for the blue glow from my monitors and the projection system I installed last year. Data streams across the walls in dancing light. Financial networks, agency connections, victim profiles creating a living web around me.

I wave my hand, and the projection shifts, displaying a new layer of information across the exposed brick like I'm conducting some digital orchestra.

"Okay, okay, what if..." I bounce in my chair, the movement helping my brain process. "Obi-Wan, execute pattern expansion protocol delta-nine on the current agency connections."

My voice sounds rough from disuse. When was the last time I spoke to an actual human? At the convention, two days ago. Everything since then has been code and data and the constant buzz of discovery.

The code processes the expanded data set, building connections beyond the three agencies I discovered earlier. Numbers and patterns flow across my screens and walls as the system traces similar financial structures through state business registrations, banking networks, shell company databases.

"Holy shit," I whisper, leaning forward so fast my chair spins slightly. The projection shifts, bright green threads connecting fifteen separate points across multiple states. Then eighteen. Twenty. Twenty-three.

"Not three agencies." My fingers fly across the keyboard, pulling up corporation filings, tax records, employment patterns. "Twenty-three agencies across fifteen states."

The scope hits me like ice water. This isn't some regional operation. This is a coordinated network spanning the entire western United States, with tendrils reaching into the Midwest.

I chew my lip, a habit that always gets worse when I'm processing something big. The taste of mint lip balm mixes with the lingering coffee bitterness in my mouth. Around me, my loft feels smaller suddenly, like the walls are pressing in as the magnitude of what I've found sinks in.

But there's something else. As I dig deeper into the network structure, geographic clustering patterns emerge. Most agencies are in major metropolitan areas—Los Angeles, Seattle, Denver, Phoenix. But one location makes my pulse spike.

Sacramento, California.

"Well, well," I murmur to myself, pulling up detailed records. "What do we have here?"

The agency sits in downtown Sacramento, styled as a high-end modeling company. Website, social media presence, legitimate business registration.

But the financial markers match perfectly with the larger network. Same shell company structures, same payment processing systems, same suspicious international wire transfers.

And it's twenty minutes from my apartment.

My leg bounces rapidly under the desk as I dive deeper.

This isn't just theoretical anymore. This is real, immediate, local.

I could drive there right now if I wanted to.

But what would I do when I got there? Take pictures from the parking lot?

I'm a hacker, not an investigator. I deal in data, not physical surveillance.

But Asher's team, they could have resources I don't. The ability to do something with intelligence. Not just collect it.

Which is something I can provide.

My secure messaging system pings from Han—my right monitor. The sound cuts through my hyperfocus like a knife. I blink hard, trying to shift gears as text appears on screen.

Unknown_Cipher: Hey kid, got your encrypted flag. Surprised you managed to find this channel.

Relief floods through me. After Maya mentioned he'd been going off-grid, I wasn't sure he'd respond.

Echo_Seven: SLATE?? Maya's been worried sick. Where the hell have you been?

Unknown_Cipher: Things got complicated. Had to go deeper underground. Someone's been poking around my networks.

I lean back in my chair, relief flooding through me. He's alive. He's responding. But there's something different about his typing pattern—more cautious, shorter responses.

Echo_Seven: Show you what I found with Paradise Elite. It's bigger than we thought.

I share the expanded network data through our secure file transfer, watching as the system encrypts and packages the information. The process takes several minutes, given the size of what I've compiled.

Unknown_Cipher: Jesus Christ, Nessa. 23 agencies? This isn't some street-level operation.

Echo_Seven: Gets better. Look at the medical supply orders, logistics coordination. Military-level organization.

Unknown_Cipher: Yeah, I see it. These aren't amateurs running some local trafficking ring. Look at these shell companies—they've got political protection, law enforcement connections.

My leg bounces faster against the chair leg as I type my response.

Echo_Seven: Found something else. Local connection. Sacramento.

Unknown_Cipher: How local?

Echo_Seven: Drive-there-in-twenty-minutes local. Agency that matches all the same patterns.

There's a pause before his next message appears, longer than usual for Slate's typically rapid-fire responses.

Unknown_Cipher: What about that Asher Cross you mentioned before? Still tracking him?

Heat creeps up my neck at the mention of Asher's name. I've been telling myself this obsession is purely professional, but the way my pulse quickens suggests otherwise.

Echo_Seven: Think he's hunting the same network from different angle. His background has holes but his movements suggest he's not working WITH them.

Unknown_Cipher: That's a dangerous assumption to make. Guy with his skill set, resources behind his cover... if you're wrong, you're dead.

The words appear on screen with stark finality. I've been so focused on the intellectual puzzle of Asher Cross, the thrill of our digital chess match, that I haven't fully processed the physical danger.

Echo_Seven: But if I'm right, he has resources I don't. Ability to act on what I find digitally.

Unknown_Cipher: What makes you think he'll partner instead of just taking your intel and eliminating you as security risk?

I stare at the cursor blinking, considering how to explain the strange dance we've been doing. The way he's responded to my breadcrumbs, his countermoves that suggest respect rather than simple hunting.

Echo_Seven: He's been following my trail for days. Could have traced me back if he wanted to eliminate the threat. But he's been... responsive. Like he's solving the same puzzle from a different side.

Unknown_Cipher: Be careful with this guy. Whatever organization he works for, they're serious players. Kind that make problems disappear permanently.

Echo_Seven: What do you know?

Unknown_Cipher: Enough to know you're swimming with sharks. Been tracking similar financial patterns through different channels. Connections to former intelligence officers, people with government resources.

My fingers pause over the keyboard. Jenny had mentioned something similar in her last email about powerful connections.

Echo_Seven: Jenny mentioned that before she died.

Unknown_Cipher: She wasn't wrong. Multiple players in this game. Government, private contractors, criminal orgs. Same targets doesn't mean same side.

The projection on my wall shifts as new data processes, creating an even more complex web of connections that spans the continent. The scope makes me dizzy, like standing at the edge of a cliff and looking down.

Echo_Seven: Can't do this alone anymore.

Unknown_Cipher: Then don't. But choose allies carefully. Always have an exit strategy.

The connection indicator starts flashing yellow—unstable signal.

Unknown_Cipher: Got to go. Someone sniffing around my networks lately. Be smart kid. Trust your instincts, but verify everything.

Echo_Seven: Slate wait—

Unknown_Cipher: Connection terminated.

The screen goes back to standby, leaving me alone again with my glowing monitors and projected data. The silence feels oppressive after the comfort of human contact, even through encrypted text.

I stare at the Sacramento agency data glowing on my wall, at the local address that's close enough to matter. This changes everything. While the expanded network proves the scope of the operation, local intelligence gives us immediate action potential.

Something Asher's team would definitely want.

My fingers hover over the keyboard as doubt crawls up my spine like ice. This is the biggest calculated risk of my life. If I'm wrong about him, if this is some elaborate trap...

But the projected web of agencies glows around me, each node representing women who might be trapped, exploited, disappeared. And now there's one node that's local, immediate. I can't sit in my digital fortress forever while people suffer twenty minutes away.

I open the secure messaging program I'd created specifically for my digital dance with Asher. One final breadcrumb. This one leading directly to my door.

My heart pounds as I type, each keystroke feeling like a step off a cliff:

The game is over, Cross. Time for real talk. 1520 R Street, Loft 4C. 10 AM tomorrow. Come alone or don't come at all. I have something local you'll want to see. Something your team can actually act on.

-Echo

I attach the expanded agency network data showing the scope—twenty-three agencies across fifteen states—but keep the Sacramento location details separate.

That information stays mine until I know where he stands. It's my ace in the hole, the intel that makes this meeting worth their time.

My finger hovers over the send button. Once I press this, there's no going back. I'll be inviting a predator into my den, into the space where I feel safest and most powerful.

But sometimes you have to be vulnerable to gain trust. And if Asher Cross is hunting the same monsters I am, we might be stronger together than apart.

The local connection makes this urgent. Real. Not just data points on a screen, but actual victims who might be trapped in a building I could drive to right now.

I press send.

The message disappears into the digital void, seeking its target through encrypted channels. Around me, the projected data continues its silent dance across my walls, Jenny's photo a constant reminder of what's at stake.

I stand up, my body protesting after hours of sitting. My joints pop and my neck aches from hunching over keyboards. My loft—my sanctuary, my command center—will become a battlefield tomorrow.

But it's my territory. My rules. My advantage.

And I have information they need.

I walk to my kitchen, needing movement to process the magnitude of what I've just done. The hardwood floors are cold under my bare feet, and the contrast grounds me in physical sensation after hours lost in digital space.

As I reach for a glass of water, my secure email pings. The sound makes me freeze, water glass halfway to my lips.

A new message sits in one of my encrypted inboxes, from an address I don't recognize: [email protected]

The timestamp shows it arrived less than five minutes after I sent my message to Asher.

Echo,

Your expanded Paradise Elite analysis is impressive. The network scope and coordination patterns you've identified represent significant tactical intelligence. Centurion Protection Group specializes in cases exactly like this.

We should discuss mutual interests and operational capabilities.

-C.T.

My hands shake as I run a quick trace on the domain. Legitimate security contractor. High-level corporate clients. Government contracts. The timing isn't coincidental. This came right after I sent Asher the expanded network data.

His team. They're not just watching, they're already analyzing what I sent. They know the scope of what I've found.

But they don't know about Sacramento yet.

My chest tightens as the implications sink in. This isn't just about Asher anymore. I've caught the attention of an entire organization. People with resources and training I can't even imagine.

But I still hold the most valuable card—actionable local intelligence.

The water glass slips from my numb fingers, shattering on the kitchen floor. The sound echoes through my loft like a gunshot.

Tomorrow just got infinitely more complicated. But also more promising.

I stare at the broken glass, each shard reflecting the blue glow from my monitors like tiny digital screens. The symbolism isn't lost on me—I've just shattered my own safety, my own anonymity.

But maybe some things need to break before they can be rebuilt into something stronger.

I leave the mess for later and walk back to my projection display. The Sacramento agency's information glows prominently among the network nodes, close enough to feel real, immediate, urgent.

Twenty minutes away. Real victims. Real chance to stop this.

But only if I can trust Asher Cross with more than just data. Only if I can trust him with lives.

I save the Sacramento details to a separate encrypted file, password-protected and isolated from my other systems. Tomorrow's bargaining chip. Proof that I'm not just another hacker with theories. I'm someone with intelligence that can save lives.

I stumble toward my bedroom, collapsing onto my unmade bed, fully clothed. The sheets smell like coconut shampoo and the vanilla candle I burned three days ago. Familiar scents that usually comfort me, but tonight feel like reminders of innocence I'm about to lose.

Sleep comes fitfully, but even in dreams, I feel those dark, intense eyes watching, evaluating, deciding whether I'm an asset or a threat.

For the first time in years, I'm not running from danger.

I'm inviting it in.