Chapter 807
I waited until Bennett was back in the living room before I bolted into the master bedroom. Alistair was sitting up, watching the security feed on a tablet.
“I saw it,” Alistair said before I could speak. “Military-grade decoder. NSA stuff or worse.”
“He’s here for the Insight algorithm,” I said. “He thinks we have it on a drive in the study. He’s trying to physically retrieve it because he can’t hack the cloud.”
“We feed him,” Alistair said, thinking tactically. “We give him what he wants. Or what he thinks he wants.”
“A honeypot?” I smirked. “Risky.”
“We’re already at risk. He’s in our living room drinking our scotch. If we confront him now, we lose the link to his handler. We need to know who sent him.”
𝘈𝗱𝘥𝗂c𝗍iv𝖾 𝗻𝘰𝘷𝖾l𝘀 𝘰ո 𝗀𝖺𝗅𝗇o𝘃𝖾𝗹ѕ.𝗰о𝗺
We went back out for dinner. The atmosphere was strained, to say the least. Victoria poked at her roasted chicken like it was radioactive, occasionally shooting confused glances at Bennett, waiting for her cue.
“So,” I said loudly, pouring wine, “Alistair, honey. About that hard drive. The one with the Project Insight source code.”
Bennett’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. Just for a fraction of a second.
“What about it?” Alistair asked, playing along perfectly.
“I’m worried the safe in the study isn’t secure enough,” I said. “Maybe we should move it to the bank vault tomorrow.”
“It’s fine,” Alistair said dismissively. “The code is alphanumeric. It’s uncrackable. Besides, I hid the backup key.”
“You hid it?” I gasped, feigning horror. “Where?”
“In the hollow base of the concrete sculpture in the library,” Alistair said. “No one ever looks there.”
Bennett took a sip of his wine. “You have a library? How charming.”
“It’s mostly digital,” Liam chimed in, catching on. “But Alistair likes his Brutalist art.”
Victoria rolled her eyes. “Can we stop talking about furniture? Skye, I heard your little company is in trouble. Stock plummeting?”
“My stock is up forty percent,” I corrected. “Unlike your family’s reputation, Victoria. How is your father handling the… rumors?”
“What rumors?” Victoria snapped.
“That the Hayes family is broke,” I lied. “That you’re flying that helicopter on credit.”
Victoria slammed her glass down. “You take that back. We are Hayes. We own this city!”
“Then why is your cousin picking locks?” I asked sweetly.
Bennett choked on his wine. “Excuse me?”
“I saw you,” I said, staring him down. “Trying to fix the bathroom door lock? It sticks sometimes.”
He recovered quickly. “Ah. Yes. Habit. I hate sticky doors.”
Later that night, Lucian called us into the security room. The real Parker was there, typing furiously.
“He’s moving,” Lucian whispered, pointing at the monitor.
On the screen, in grainy black-and-white, Bennett crept into the library. He went straight for the heavy concrete sculpture. He found the hidden panel. He found the slip of paper Alistair had planted there.
He pulled out his phone and took a picture of the code.
“Gotcha,” Lucian grinned.
“What’s the code?” Liam asked.
“It’s not a code,” the real Parker said, spinning in his chair. “It’s a beacon. That sequence triggers a silent alarm on the external server and traces the IP of whoever tries to input it.”
Bennett typed something on his phone. Sent it.
“Signal outgoing,” Lucian tracked it. “Encrypted burst transmission. It’s bouncing off three satellites.”
“Where is it going?” Alistair asked.
Lucian typed furiously. “Triangulating… It’s not going to a remote server. It’s going to… a localized node.”
“Where?” Lucian frowned. “In the city. The signal terminates at the Old Port District. Terminal 4.”
My blood ran cold. “Terminal 4? That’s Ethan’s old stronghold. The place where we almost died last month.”
“They’re going back to the source,” Alistair said darkly. “The Architect is trying to salvage Ethan’s operation.”
“Someone is waiting for that data at the terminal,” I said. “Someone close.”
“Let’s see who logs in,” Alistair said.
On the screen, Bennett put the paper back and slipped out of the library. He looked smug. He thought he had won.
He had no idea he’d just handed us the keys to his handlers.