A_Father's Sacrifice Page 3

He jumped. “Son of a—” He jabbed the talk button. “What? I’m in the middle of something.”

  “The computer expert is here.”

  Excitement spread through him like electricity. At last, a challenge. “When?”

  “An hour or so ago. She’s an FBI agent—Natasha something.”

  “Natasha?” His fingers went numb with shock. “Are you sure?” He stood, propelling the computer chair backward. “What does she look like?”

  “Tall. Long blond hair. Do you know her?”

  Natasha. “Of course not.” Sweat prickled his neck and armpits. He glanced at his computer screen. “Is she online?”

  “No. She’s in her room.”

  “Did she have a laptop?”

  “Nope. Mintz won’t allow wireless in here.”

  “I want to know the instant she puts her fingers on the keyboard.”

  “I’ll try. You know how hard it is to call out. How much longer until—”

  “Don’t start with me. I’ve got to think. You just make sure you’re ready.”

  “Are you sure I’ll be safe?”

  “God, just do your job and give me a break.” He jabbed the disconnect button.

  Tall. Blonde. Rage burned through him.

  That was his luck. Of course they would send Natasha. His nemesis. The only hacker he’d ever known who could even approach his talent. He’d realized her worth the first time he’d ever met her.

  He sat and pulled the keyboard toward him. He cracked his knuckles and flexed his fingers, then arched his neck. A slow smile spread over his features. In a way it was like a karmic balance.

  He’d almost destroyed her once because she refused to follow his lead, but fate in the guise of the FBI had intervened. They’d trained her and hired her instead of sending her to prison. At the time the irony had eaten a hole in his gut.

  Now he understood. His patience, his efforts to distance himself from the radical group who’d caused the death of Stryker’s wife, were paying off in a way he’d never dreamed.

  Stryker’s interface and the software that operated it were worth billions. Several foreign leaders were waiting, cash in hand, for the technology that had the potential to create a real supersoldier.

  Yes, he wanted the money, but that wasn’t why he was doing this.

  He finally had a chance to prove once and for all that he was the best. He was pitted against Natasha Rudolph again.

  He held the advantage because he knew her greatest fear. Before this was over, she’d pay for dodging prison eight years ago. And her punishment this time would be worse—so much worse.

  He put on his telephone headset and hit a preset number on his cell. He had to make sure everything was in place for his first destructive attack on Stryker’s estate.

  As he waited he placed his fingertips on the keyboard. A thrill, almost sexual, shot through him, all the way to his groin. Natasha was on the other end of his computer.

  It would double his pleasure to know she would die along with Stryker.

  Chapter Two

  By midnight, Natasha was certain of two things. Someone had definitely targeted Dylan’s computer, and she needed much more powerful equipment if she was going to build an effective firewall.

  She stretched and arched her neck to loosen the tight muscles, then glanced toward the ceiling. If she had to be down here much longer, she’d go crazy. Sure the lab was brilliantly lit and air-conditioned, but that didn’t change the fact that it was buried under twelve feet of dirt, steel and wood.

  A movement across the hall caught her eye. Dylan Stryker leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face. He’d appeared in the glass-walled room across from hers a couple of hours before, freshly showered and dressed in neat khaki slacks and a navy polo shirt that left his long, muscled arms bare.

  Even though she’d been concentrating on the patterns in screen after screen of code, a part of her had remained acutely aware of his presence.

  Mintz had told her he was working on a computerized surgical simulation program. It had only taken a few seconds’ observation for her to figure out that he was using a stylus like a surgical tool to practice attaching microscopic nerves to microscopic wires. The neural interface.

  She’d read the basics of the device in a classified NSA memo. It was a rectangular box about the size of a USB plug, maybe a centimeter long. The 3-D computer-generated mock-up looked like a millipede with thousands of hairlike microfibers covering its surface. Once the device was surgically implanted into a human being, and each microfiber was attached to the proper neural sheath, the interface would feed impulses to and from nerves too damaged to receive proper signals from the brain.

  No wonder the government wanted it. The possible uses were astounding. The supersoldier of fiction, with computer-enhanced reflexes, sharpened vision and hearing, perfectly timed response and accuracy, could become a reality. The thought of that technology falling into the hands of terrorists was horrifying.

  Abruptly, Dylan pushed back from his workstation and stood. He pushed his hands through his hair and started to pace.

  Campbell, sitting at the other workstation, yawned and said something. Dylan shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, as if trying to work the tension from his body.

  His movements were spare and graceful. As he rubbed his neck, his biceps flexed and he arched his back, emphasizing the seductive curve at the base of his spine and his strong, well-shaped buttocks.

  He turned toward her. Embarrassed, she dropped her gaze to the flat-screen monitor. Studying his physical attributes wasn’t getting her any closer to the hacker.

  She reexamined the section of code that had grabbed her attention earlier, and suddenly the jumble of numbers and letters coalesced into a pattern.

  “Why you clever little—” she whispered to the unknown hacker as she advanced to the next screen, searching for the same telltale string of numbers she’d just spotted.

  Whoever he was, he was good. As she’d told Mintz, they always left something behind, but this guy’s tag was almost undetectable.

  It was also vaguely familiar. She frowned at the tiny string of code. She’d seen that pattern before. A nauseating dread began to build in her stomach. Could it be Tom?

  No. That would be too weird a coincidence. Although…he had always been fascinated with the fringe groups who would do anything to bring down the government. Not because he had anything against the U.S.

  He loved being in control, and he’d always said the zealots who would die for their cause were ridiculously easy to manipulate.

  Her heart jackhammered in her throat. If it was Tom, did he know she was here? Eight years ago he’d framed her for hacking into the FBI’s domestic terrorist database. But eight years ago she’d been naive and trusting. She was smarter now. Of course, Tom probably was, too.

  Her peripheral vision picked up a movement to her left. She stiffened and casually dropped her hand to the fanny pack where she kept her weapon.

  “What’s so interesting on that screen?”

  It was Dylan. She glanced up at him, then through the glass toward the lab. She’d been caught off guard. Something that never happened to her.

  “No,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I can’t walk through walls. Alfred believes in triple redundancy. There are doors all over the place.” A ghost of a smile flickered about his mouth, making him look younger and achingly handsome.

  “Triple redundancy is a good thing.” Having plenty of doors was even better—excellent in fact. She hoped they all led upstairs.

  Dylan studied the young woman the FBI claimed was the best hacker-tracker they had. She was young, but computer expertise didn’t depend on years of training. The best hackers were often under twenty-five.

  He put his hand on the back of her chair and leaned over, studying her screen. “Find something?”

  Her pale blond hair tickled his nose, and the scent of springtime and wild strawberries filled his nostrils. He took a deep breath, faintly s
hocked at his reaction. He had a sudden urge to run his fingers through her silky hair, to nuzzle the graceful curve of her neck.

  What the hell was he thinking?

  She cleared her throat and pulled slightly away from him. “I’ve found traces of the hacker.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant, trying to throw off his body’s instantaneous response to her closeness. He straightened.

  “You told Alfred the hacker couldn’t have gotten out clean.”

  She shook her head. “That’s right. Everything that’s done on a computer leaves a trace. This guy is very good, but—”

  “You found him.” Dylan leaned in close to the monitor again, curious about what she’d seen. At that moment she turned her head. Her brilliant green eyes were only a couple of inches away from his, her mouth so close he felt her breath.

  Her eyes widened and she turned her head back to the screen.

  “In less than three hours.”

  “I—I haven’t found him, just his trail.”

  She nervously moistened her lips and a spear of lust streaked through him.

  As if she knew the effect she was having on him, she leaned farther back in her chair and took a deep breath. “Is this your first hacking attempt?”

  For his own sake, he straightened and stepped away from her. He crossed his arms. “We get reports of failed attempts—maybe once or twice a month. But two days ago Campbell received an alert. It wasn’t just a knock at the door. It was unauthorized access.”

  “Well, either Campbell made another mistake or this is a different hacker, because this guy’s been accessing the vulnerable areas of your system for at least two years.”

  Dylan stared at her. “Two years?” He shook his head in disbelief. “That’s impossible!”

  She sent him a sharp look.

  “Okay. Two years.” His insides twisted in horror. He ran his hand across the back of his neck, massaging the tight muscles there. Two years. Ben!

  “What kind of damage has he done?”

  “He’s accessed your document files, household calendars and schedules, financial records, buying habits.”

  Dylan’s jaw clenched and a cold fear engulfed him. “Buying habits. Household calendars.” He cursed vividly. “Then he knows Ben is alive. What else does he know?”

  “Anything that came in or went out via e-mail.”

  “Even to or from NSA?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Damn it!” He whirled and slammed his palm into the door facing.

  Natasha jumped.

  “Sorry,” he said, glancing at her sheepishly. He rubbed his hand. “So he knows about the interface. Knows how close I am to perfecting it.” Fear and rage swirled through him.

  “What the hell good is a firewall then? What’s the point of all the damned computer security if—?”

  She held up a hand. “He hasn’t cracked the encryption that protects your neural interface. Not yet anyway.”

  He blew out a breath. “Thank God for that. But why hasn’t my software detected him? It was developed by NSA.”

  Natasha smiled without humor. “That’s why he hasn’t gotten what he wants. But whoever he is, he’s that good. Firewalls are built by people. People can crack them.”

  The confidence in her voice intrigued him. Dylan eyed her. She could pass for a college kid. Too young, too innocent, to be so sure of herself. He asked her a question he already knew the answer to. “Could you have gotten into my system?”

  Natasha stared into Dylan’s eyes, into the lake of blue fire that burned so intensely. She resisted the urge to look away. “Yes.”

  He nodded as he studied her thoughtfully. “So are you a hacker?”

  She swallowed. “No.” Not anymore.

  His gaze searched her face. Did he believe her?

  “Okay then, who is this guy?” he asked.

  The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. She looked at the screen and didn’t quite lie this time. “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him before. Since I’ve been with the FBI, I’ve run across a lot of very good hackers. This is almost certainly one of them. But to catch him, I’m going to need much better equipment.”

  “Fine. I’ll contact NSA.”

  “No need. My boss can have it here sometime early tomorrow by jet courier.”

  “Good. Do it.”

  She began to breathe easier. He’d been satisfied with her answer about the hacker’s ID. There was no way she was going to tell anyone of her suspicion that the hacker was Tom. Not until she was sure, and maybe not even then. She told herself no one needed to know she’d been so desperate for money to pay for college that she’d performed hacking jobs for the same man who might be attacking Dylan’s system—who might even be responsible for the death of his wife and the crippling of his young son.

  A sickening dread spread through her, and her gut clenched.

  Dylan propped a hip on the edge of her desk, way too close for comfort. His eyes blazed.

  “Well, Agent Rudolph, you are good. I assume you’re old enough to be an FBI agent. What are you—twenty-five? Twenty-six.”

  “I’m twenty-seven, and my name is Natasha.”

  “How did you get to be the government’s best hacker-buster?”

  She smiled wryly. “So you’re still not sure about me?”

  His cheeks turned faintly pink. “It’s not that I question your ability—”

  “You just question my ability,” she tossed back at him.

  His long black lashes floated down for an instant, giving her his answer.

  Normally, she couldn’t care less if some military type or stiff-necked suit doubted her expertise. But the fact that Dylan had reservations about her made her feel as if she had something to prove. She pushed that notion aside. She wasn’t here to impress him, just to do her job and get out as soon as possible.

  “Let’s just say I had a lot of incentive,” she said wryly. Incentive. That was an understatement. Mitch Decker had saved her from going to prison for hacking into classified files. No matter that she’d been framed. Prison was prison. She owed a big debt to the U.S. government.

  Dylan’s dark brows went up. “Incentive?”

  She gnawed on her lower lip. His intensity was mesmerizing and a little frightening. When he looked at her, she felt as if she were the only person in his world. She dropped her gaze to her hands. She wasn’t answering any more questions.

  “I need to contact Mitch and give him my equipment list. Until it gets here there’s not much I can do, unless you give me access to your program files.”

  Dylan shook his head and stood.

  “Look, Dr. Stryker. If I’m going to do my job—”

  He broke in. “It’s almost midnight. You should be in bed.”

  She tilted her head at him. “As you just pointed out, I’m well over twenty-one, all grown-up. I usually make my own decisions about bed.”

  She hadn’t meant it to come out like that. To her dismay, she felt a flush rising from her neck to her cheeks.

  The corner of his mouth turned up. He took a step backward and leaned against the door facing.

  “Campbell’s working on the programming code right now. You should get a good night’s sleep and get started in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” she snapped, and came to her feet.

  Even slouched wearily against the door facing, he commanded attention. His shirt strained over his biceps and lay gently against his well-defined abs.

  He exuded strength, competence, and yes—obsession. Not to mention undeniable sexuality. She’d never been in the presence of anyone so physically compelling.

  He gave her a quick nod, straightened and turned on his heel. “I assume you can find your way to your room, being so grown-up and all,” he said over his shoulder.

  JERRY CAMPBELL yawned loudly and twisted his stringy hair back into its ponytail. He’d stared at screen after screen of computer code until he was cross-eyed. It was almost midnight. Dr. Stryker had
told him to go to bed an hour ago. He was about ready to take that advice.

  But first—he glanced through the glass walls of the virtual surgery lab, searching the halls and other offices, making sure no one was around. Typing briskly, he opened his e-mail account and composed a message, quickly attached a file and pressed Send. Then he began to shut down the computer.

  THE WALLS WERE CLOSING IN. Little Tasha pushed against the car seat that pinned her. But she couldn’t move. She tried not to think about the blood, or why her mama and daddy wouldn’t talk to her.

  A big boom shook the car. She shrieked. That one was louder than the first, the one that had smashed the front of the car.

  She saw a flash of light, and then another boom rumbled through her. She couldn’t see! Couldn’t breathe!

  Daddy!

  Natasha sat up, gasping for air.

  Her chest heaved as spasms racked her rigid muscles. Her mind crashed back into her body. She’d been dreaming. Again.

  Where was she? Not in the car where her parents had died. Not buried under mountains of debris in a burned-out building.

  She was inside Dylan Stryker’s secluded estate—in the windowless pitch-dark room. No wonder she’d dreamed of being trapped.

  Quiet and safe. Plenty of fresh air. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

  She kicked at the tangled sheets. She had to get out of there. She’d go sit under the skylight.

  As she stood up, she heard something. It sounded as if it was just outside her door. Silently, she slipped her Glock from under her pillow and slid out of bed, gliding silently along the wall, listening. As she neared the door, she saw the knob slowly turn. The door swung open a few inches, until a pale night-light from the hall sent a long shadow across the floor near the foot of her bed.

  Natasha flattened herself against the wall, her eyes glued to the hand on the knob. She braced herself, then grabbed the wrist with her left hand and yanked, aiming her weapon at the intruder’s neck.

  “Don’t move,” she hissed, her heart hammering.

  A deafening screech split the air. Natasha jerked and almost dropped her gun.