Lila hitched her satchel higher on her shoulder and picked up her pace, the butt of her Colt a balm to the dangers around her. No one wanted to tangle with a tranq, not even for a twenty, and the people who tarried in this neighborhood recognized her boot knife bulging at her ankle.
The only thing they couldn’t recognize was a woman who couldn’t throw a punch to save her life.
Lila turned toward Chaucer’s Ghost. She hacked into the terminal on the abandoned restaurant’s side door and slipped inside.
Her breath caught at the change. No more pigeons cooed inside. Someone had cleared away the droppings that had littered the floor a month ago, as well as the smell of death from their fallen brethren. Only a whiff still lingered, a soft note amid the silence.
The city had hired cleaners to prep the property for sale.
Luckily, the cleaners didn’t work at nine o’clock at night. She climbed upstairs and sat upon the floor in an empty room, reclining against the wall. Last time she’d been inside, Dixon had played lookout down the hall. Tristan had stayed at the window, his eyes fixed outside for any sign of movement. Toxic had helped research the results, straining to prove herself as a competent hacker.
They’d laughed together. They’d been nervous together. They’d nearly been caught together.
They’d run away together, all doing their part to get away.
This was what she’d give up to follow her mother’s dictates. This was what she’d trade for family dinners and Randolph business and assassination attempts.
This was what must be given away, and given freely.
Tristan must be given away, for he refused to share.
Lila frowned and pulled her laptop from her bag, uploading her snoop programs. It wasn’t her fault they’d broken up. She didn’t want to end things. He wanted to end them because he couldn’t agree to her terms.
He’d said he loved her.
Lila shook her head. She couldn’t think about that now. She couldn’t think about that ever. Love and monogamy were luxuries that only the poorer classes could afford.
They weren’t for primes. Not ever.
Not unless you were Jewel Randolph.
Lila wiped away a tear and kicked away her satchel. She had to get hold of herself; all this blubbering at the slightest trouble was not how highborn handled their dismay.
They didn’t cry. They conquered.
The hack shouldn’t have taken long, but Lila refused to use her old exploit. Twirling her sapphire ring, she poked into the system, seeking another way inside, wanting her last hack to be her best, her injured fingers throbbing with every keystroke.
After an hour, she found a way in through a third party’s door. Once inside the system, she created a new login, assigning herself as a new account manager. Then she stole into the strange account that had paid off Davies and Muller.
It wasn’t new. Thousands upon thousands of transactions graced the account every month, stretching back for several years. Deposits and withdrawals shuttled to the far reaches of Saxony, some even traveling to the rest of the country.
Lila saved every piece of data. She’d piece together the entire operation and find out how far the blackmailer’s influence spread. Earlier mistakes would show here, for the account had been dated to a few weeks before the Baron had laid the first trap in BullNet.
Lila scrolled back through the account, searching the contact information for a name.
Freiherr. More German.
She did a quick translation search and found exactly what she had expected.
Baron.
Why would her blackmailer have a German name? Were Germans behind the hacks in BullNet? Were Germans paying off Muller and Davies? Had a German merc played Celeste and Patrick Wilson as puppets?
Had German mercs hired two Bullstow militiamen to poke at her? To assassinate her?
Perhaps both?
Perhaps it wasn’t the Germans. Perhaps it was the Italians again, setting up their German kinsmen to take the fall.