Page 9 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

six

Vanessa

" T hat can't be right."

I squint at the screen, my fingers tap-dancing across the keyboard as data streams past. My eyes burn, dry from staring too long without blinking, but I can't look away. Jenny's files on Paradise Elite light up my monitor with an eerie blue glow that fills my darkened loft.

"C'mon, Obi-Wan, show me something useful," I mutter to my main monitor, bouncing my leg unconsciously. My oversized MIT sweats bunch around my ankles as I shift position, crossing my legs underneath me on my chair. The pen cap between my teeth is practically mangled beyond recognition.

Quarterly reports. Financial statements. Client lists with coded identifiers. I've been through them a dozen times before, but something's been nagging at me.

Jenny saw something here. Something that got her killed.

My hair escapes from the messy bun piled on top of my head, falling into my eyes. I blow it away without breaking concentration.

"Wait a second..."

I freeze completely, every muscle suddenly tense. Paradise Elite has been moving identical sums of money through shell companies that don't exist except on paper. The pattern is subtle. A normal accountant might miss it, but it's there, clear as day to someone looking for it.

"Jenny, you beautiful genius. You found it."

My fingers fly across the keyboard, diving deeper. The pattern extends back years, predating Jenny's investigation. Millions of dollars moved through elaborate channels, eventually disappearing into financial black holes.

I grab my second monitor. "Leia, I need you to run correlation patterns on these shell companies." I swivel to my right. "Han, get me geographical distribution of these transfers."

The tracking system forms in my mind as I work, talking through the logic as I go. "If Obi-Wan handles the primary code, then Leia and Han can execute the backup programs while Luke breaks through the rear entry systems..."

I'm building a Star Wars-themed tracking system because, of course, I am. My brain works better with visualization, and this way I'll never forget which sequence does what. The complex tracking system builds itself across my monitors, every piece sending information into the primary display.

"BB-8, pull up those geographic markers," I command my phone, using its processing power to supplement my system. "Rey, dig deeper into those account numbers."

Time disappears. My loft could burn down around me, and I wouldn't notice. The pattern of transactions leads to other patterns: staffing requirements, travel records, medical supply orders, all hidden in plain sight but forming an unmistakable footprint of trafficking operations.

"You were looking in exactly the right place, Jenny." My voice catches in my throat. "I'm so sorry I didn't see it sooner."

The guilt wraps around my chest, squeezing tightly. Jenny started this investigation, and it got her killed. Now I'm picking up where she left off, but is it too late? How many more victims have there been since she died?

My phone buzzes, breaking my concentration. I blink, suddenly aware of the cramp in my lower back and the fact that the sun has completely set since I started working.

Maya's text glares accusingly at me.

You were supposed to meet me TWO HOURS AGO. Still alive or do I need to send a search party?

"Shit!" I check the time and groan. It's almost midnight. I was supposed to meet Maya at ten to go over plans for tomorrow's conference.

I stop halfway through the door, my eyes dragging back to monitor four where another program churns—the one tracking Asher Cross's movements. I hesitate, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

"Just a quick check," I murmur, clicking through his latest location data. It's the third "quick check" today. My heart pounds against my ribs as his file loads on the screen. Must be from those three shots of espresso I downed earlier.

I save the updated location points to his folder, Asher's folder, which has somehow become more detailed than my folders for actual confirmed suspects.

I force myself away from the screen. Maya's waiting.

I race into Cafe Nouveau, scanning the interior until I spot Maya in the back corner, her face illuminated by the laptop glow. My heart hammers as I weave through tables, adjusting my oversized hoodie.

"I'm so sorry," I gasp, dropping my backpack beside the chair. "I got caught in this financial pattern and—"

"Hyper focus strike again?" Maya doesn't look up, but her lips quirk into a half-smile. The knowing eye-roll follows as she slides a large coffee toward me. "This is your third Strike Three this month, mija. At some point they're just strikes."

"But it was worth it this time." My fingers tremble with excitement as I pull out my laptop. "You won't believe what I found in Paradise Elite's financials after digging through their encryption layers for the past three days—regular payments to three modeling agencies across different states."

Now I have Maya's full attention. She straightens, dark eyes narrowing. "Show me."

I flip my screen around, displaying a complex web of transactions that took me nearly seventy-two hours to uncover and map.

"See these quarterly payments? They're consistent, disguised as consulting fees, but the pattern is unmistakable."

"Hijo de puta." Maya leans closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "These are fronts?"

"Has to be. And look—" I point to another spreadsheet. "Each agency specializes in recruiting girls from specific demographics. Different enough that nobody would connect them without seeing the financial trail."

Maya pulls out a folder, sliding several documents across the table.

"This makes sense with what I've been tracking.

These girls disappear from these agencies' rosters right when they get 'international assignments.

' Their families get regular money transfers, but the communication patterns change completely. "

My fingers fly across the keyboard, connecting her data points with mine, building a visual map. "Classic tactic. Keep the families financially comfortable while controlling all contact."

The cafe's quiet buzz fades into the background as we work, adding nodes to our map, building the skeleton of a trafficking network that spans at least five states. This visualization is just the beginning—the full analysis will take days, maybe weeks.

"We're getting close," I whisper, feeling a thrill of vindication for Jenny.

My secondary screen pings with an automated alert. Blindly, I click it open, and Asher Cross's profile fills my screen. The background analysis completes, the fifth scan I've executed this week, each layer revealing more complexity than the previous.

His intense gaze catches me off-guard. Those dark eyes seem to look straight through the photo, like he knows someone's watching him.

A surge darts through my ribcage while I examine the sharp contours of his face, that analytical gaze that scans everything, and the thin mark by his temple suggesting adventures his flawless service file leaves out.

I fixate on that scar, and wondering what left such a mark. Not relevant to the case, but I save the higher resolution image, anyway. For thoroughness.

"I thought you were looking into Paradise Elite, not building a shrine to Mr. Perfect Jawline." Maya's voice makes me jump. "What's the connection?"

I clear my throat, heat rushing from my neck to my cheeks. "I'm tracking everyone who might have ties to Paradise Elite, and Asher's background has too many convenient holes. It's all standard procedure."

Maya's eyebrow arches skeptically. "Really? Because this is your third separate folder on him. The actual Paradise Elite executives share one folder."

"His case is complicated," I answer too quickly, minimizing his image. "I need to be systematic."

"Uh-huh. And that's why you've got satellite tracking on his movements from the last seventy-two hours?"

"Look at his military record." I swipe to another screen, avoiding Maya's knowing gaze. "Special Forces, supposedly, but half his deployments don't line up with official operations. And his identity paperwork has inconsistencies that scream cover story."

The café has emptied considerably, our corner table now isolated enough that we can speak more freely. A barista wipes down distant tables, paying us no attention.

"I've researched him, his military record, identities, even his coffee preferences." I twist a strand of hair around my finger, an old nervous habit. "But it's relevant. His appearance at the café wasn't random. He's been circling locations connected to Paradise Elite for weeks."

Maya slides her chair closer, her expression shifting from teasing to concerned. "This feels different from your usual case obsession, Nessa. You don't normally track what brand of toothpaste a suspect buys."

I blink, suddenly realizing I'd actually noted that in his file. My stomach tightens. She's right, and we both know it.

"The modeling agencies are what matter here," I deflect, pulling up the financial records again.

"Each one recruits from different demographic backgrounds: Eastern European, Southeast Asian, and South American.

They operate in Chicago, Los Angeles, and Miami, all major transit hubs with international shipping access. "

My hands tremble slightly as I outline tomorrow's conference strategy.

"I'll hack into their systems from inside the conference. If Asher is connected to Paradise Elite, his reaction to my digital breadcrumbs might confirm it. If not..." I trail off, unsure what I'm hoping for.

"These girls need our help more than you need answers about mystery man," Maya reminds me gently, tapping a victim's photo.

She's right. Whatever pull I feel toward Asher Cross is irrelevant compared to what's happening to these women.

Maya closes her laptop decisively. "You know who might have more insight? We should call Slate. He was tracking similar financial patterns before he went off-grid."