Code Name - Hacker (Jameson Force Security 4)

I’m pissed he made me think I’d deserved it.

Corinne’s face is open and inviting. I know this shameful event would stay private between us if I wanted to tell her about it.

But I don’t. Mainly because these feelings resurfacing are awful and sickening. I don’t want to relive what happened to me. I don’t want to talk about it. I’d like to sweep it back under the rug where I’d kept it, then let myself be healed by helping to take him down. Surely, seeing Bogachev behind bars forever would go a long way to soothing my soul, right?

“Listen,” I say, pushing off the doorjamb. “I think I’m good right now, but if I feel the need to hash it out, I promise I’ll come talk to you.”

The way Corinne purses her lips tells me she doesn’t really believe a word I say, but she can do nothing more than accept my word. She can’t force me to talk as she’s only a resource available to us.

“I’ll catch you around, okay?” I say with a friendly smile.

“Sure thing,” she replies.

Spinning from her office, I head toward the stairs and bound up them two at a time, enjoying the slight sway. In my apartment, I eat a tuna fish sandwich and putter around on my computer, writing notes for potential new code strings to implement.

I also spend a great deal of time wondering what Griff is doing and if he’s safe.CHAPTER 15GriffinAnatoly Bogachev lives in a fifteen-million-dollar Brooklyn apartment with gorgeous views of lower Manhattan. His family roots are in Brooklyn with strong mafia ties. But he sort of eclipsed those uncles and cousins who deal in extortion and money laundering. The money he makes from cybercrimes puts him in the penthouse—an eight-thousand-square-foot apartment—while his relatives lead a far less luxurious lifestyle.

I decided to play it blasé about the death of his nemesis, Bebe Grimshaw. I’d texted him late Sunday to tell him I was back in the city and had good news for him. He told me to be at his apartment at noon, and I was there fifteen minutes before, always habitually early because I know that impresses a man like Bogachev.

I wait for him where I always do, in his formal living room. His office is just down the hall, and I can see his door is firmly shut from where I sit on a vintage Victorian-styled sofa that’s uncomfortable as hell and twice as ugly. But it’s expensive, which is really all that matters to the man.

The door doesn’t open. Anatoly leaves me to stew, and he doesn’t beckon me into his presence until five after twelve because while he appreciates punctuality, he doesn’t feel compelled to bestow it on others. It’s just one way he loves to display his power.

“Stoltz,” he bellows, and it carries through the heavy carved door of his office. I’d only ever given him my fake cover name of Stoltz. I have no clue if he ever did a background check on me or not when I first came to work for him, but I’ve got an extensive history built under that name by the FBI.

I push up from the sofa, the delicate wooden joints squeaking, and make my way down the parquet floored hallway to my boss.

Unsurprisingly, the door opens by another one of Bogachev’s employees, a beefy Russian immigrant named Karl who speaks heavily accented English. Normally, I’m the guy who stands in this office to protect the kingpin from some crazed intruder should that ever happen, but with me gone, Bogachev is using this guy as my replacement. As soon as I enter, Karl exits and shuts the door.

Anatoly sits behind a hand-carved Italian desk with stunning filigree work on the sides. It’s large enough it could be considered masculine, but it’s so ornate in its details it just comes off as prissy. All that matters to my employer is it’s insanely expensive, so it’s worth it for him to sit behind.

His head bent over a stack of papers, he doesn’t bother glancing up. I take a moment to survey the room—a roving gaze I’ve performed hundreds of times over the last few years. The office has dark paneled walls and custom built-ins, many of which hold a host of electronics and servers.

Anatoly works mostly off his laptop, which is closed on top of his desk. I’d kill to be able to log onto it for just five minutes. I dart my eyes over to the large flat-screen TV mounted to the wall and I know there’s no way I can plant Bebe’s device there while occupying the space with Bogachev.

I quietly take one of the chairs across from him, waiting for him to acknowledge me. It takes almost a full five minutes before he does. “You said you had good news.”