Неизвестный - 5. Justice Served

“And you pilfered that report from my hard drive.”

“I did. Yes.”

Dee didn’t move a muscle, but her voice had dropped dangerously low. “You should’ve asked.”

Sloan’s voice was steady, her expression unperturbed. “I don’t have to. That’s the point. I own the system now.”

The two women stared at one another until, Þ nally, Dee smiled.

“Now I know why you play on Frye’s team. But I’d bet you don’t play unless you want to.”

“Ordinarily, you’d be right.” Sloan lifted a shoulder. “Right now, I’m Frye’s.”

“I’m impressed. So—what’s your point, besides that?”

Sloan grinned. “Can I tell Frye you said that? About being impressed?”

“I’ll deny it.”

“Thought you might.”

“Do I have a problem down here?” The humor had ß ed from Dee’s eyes, leaving them glacially cold.

“You do. Since I was already looking around, I discovered that I’m not the only one who’s accessed your computer with sysop privileges.

Except, of course, that shouldn’t be possible, because until today, the network wasn’t set up to allow that.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning you’ve been hacked. And by someone who’s good at it.” Sloan leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped.

There was an edge of excitement, verging on respect, in her voice. “My guess is someone sent a Phatbot—”

“A factbot?”

“No—Phatbot.” Sloan spelled it, then continued, “a form of Trojan horse—a bit of malicious code that’s tacked onto something that appears harmless. An e-mail, a doc Þ le, an image. The kinds of things that you open and review dozens of times every day.”

“I know what they are—but what exactly do they do? ”

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Sloan raised her hands and let them fall. “Just about anything the intruder wants. If a computer is infected, a remote attacker will have access to all the Þ les and programs. They can copy data, alter data, insert data. Pretty much have the run of the house.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dee said in a strangled whisper.

“When you and I talked about this before, all I could do at the time was patch a quick Þ x onto your system. Beef up your Þ rewalls.

Now, with unrestricted access to the network, I can do something real about it.”

“I need to protect the evidence.” Dee bolted up so quickly that the chair spun back against the wall. “Christ.” She leaned forward on her desk and Þ xed Sloan with a Þ erce stare. “You need to Þ x this now.”

“I will. What we’re going to do is follow the bread crumbs back to the source. The advantage I have now that I didn’t have a week ago is that I’ve eliminated a number of potential sources and narrowed down the Þ eld of possible suspects. I’m going to insert a bit of code of my own into your operating system and see if we can’t catch the mole in our trap.”

“Is there some way for you to tell if something has been…tampered with?”

Sloan grinned. “You know what they say in this business—it’s almost impossible to commit the perfect crime.”

v

The instant Sandy stepped off the elevator into the darkened loft, she sensed her in the shadows. Waiting.

“Dell?”

“Here.”

Navigating to the hollow echo of Dell’s voice, Sandy circumvented the furniture in the dark until she reached the sofa in front of the ß oor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Delaware River. Even now, well into the night, lights ß ickered on the water, ships gliding in and out of the Port of Philadelphia. Dell was hunched in one corner of the broad leather sofa, her injured leg propped on the coffee table. Sandy kicked off her silver, stack-heeled shoes—the ones that matched her shiny, short, patent leather skirt and silver bustier—and curled up beside Mitchell with her legs tucked beneath her. Sandy’s breasts

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pressed against Mitchell’s right arm as she reached between Mitchell’s thighs to mold her palm to the inside of Mitchell’s leg—high up, but not touching her crotch.

“Where’s the evil twin?”

Mitchell laughed, a short, sharp-edged laugh slivered with pain.

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Don’t know. Probably back to DC.”

“She lives there?”

“Stationed there.”

Sandy stroked the inside of Mitchell’s leg rhythmically. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Not really. A duty station never really feels like home, no matter how long you’re there.” Mitchell shrugged. “Maybe it’s knowing that you might be deployed elsewhere at any time. You don’t want to get too settled.”

“Sounds like foster care,” Sandy said dryly.

Slowly, Mitchell swiveled her head and looked directly at her girlfriend for the Þ rst time. The moonlight reß ecting off the leather and silver made her sparkle. “Is that how it was for you?”

“Yeah.”

Mitchell smoothed her Þ ngers down Sandy’s arm and caught the hand between her thighs, covering it with her own. “How long were you—you know, in the system?”

“Look, Dell—”

“How long?” Mitchell asked gently.

“Ten years. Until I was Þ fteen, and then…I split.”

Three years on the streets. Not many girls survived that long—not without becoming addicts or victims of violence and disease.

“You’re never going back there again,” Mitchell said with lethal conviction, her Þ ngers tightening unconsciously around Sandy’s small hand.

“Where, baby?” Sandy’s voice was gentle, soothing.

“The fucking streets.”

“I work there.”

“You been working tonight?”

Sandy grew very still, and her hand stopped moving against

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Mitchell’s thigh. “Remember we said no questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”

“You’re all dressed up for work.” Mitchell gave another stilted laugh. “And you know what? I think you look so sexy like that.

Jesus.”

“Why is that bad?”

“Because I think about…them looking at you, and it makes me crazy.” Mitchell groaned, nearly a sob. “I don’t want anyone else touching you.”

“What do you want me to do, Dell? Starve because you’ve got a thing about my body?”

Mitchell jerked as if she’d been slapped. “A thing for your body?

Yeah, that’s it. That’s all I want from you.” When she braced an arm on the sofa and pushed up, struggling to stand on her weak leg, Sandy tugged on the back of her jeans and pulled her back down.

“Look, I’m sorry.” Sandy huffed out a breath. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t…I don’t want anybody to touch me except you.”

The tension ebbed from Mitchell’s body in one blessed rush. “I love you.”

“That won’t get me breakfast, Dell.” Sandy’s voice was soft as she spoke.

“Then let me buy you breakfast.”

“I’m not talking about just breakfast.”

Mitchell wrapped an arm around Sandy’s shoulders and held her tightly, pressing her lips to the top of Sandy’s head. “Neither am I.”

“I don’t think we better talk about this anymore right now.”

“Making you nervous?”

“Big time.”

“I’m not going to give up, you know,” Mitchell murmured.

“You mean it?” Sandy tried but couldn’t keep the tremor of need from her voice.

“Oh yeah, I mean it.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, you can bug me about the life…if you want to. Just…not all the time.”

“Where did you go tonight?”

“Nowhere special.” Sandy tugged Mitchell’s T-shirt from her

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jeans and slid her hand beneath, playing her Þ ngertips along the curve of Mitchell’s ribs. “Just around.”