Page 3 of Remote Access

That had been the second worst day of his life and he hated to think about it.

He wondered if Helix was still under Letsen's thumb…and if he'd ever recovered from what he'd been forced to do. To this day, nightmares still crept like devious demons into Lane's mind—when the nights were too long and too dark. When his regrets didn't rip into center stage with their own sharp claws. He wondered if the number Helix had given him for emergencies still worked. He’d never used it.

Headlights blinded him and Lane melted into the shadows of a large sycamore to his right. He held still until the car passed, waiting, making sure the person driving hadn't seen him and circled back.

When it was clear, he continued, glad for the old trees that dotted the yards here. He'd noticed the lack of trees while driving through parts of Oklahoma, so it was wild seeing so many in this concentrated spot. He passed a group of white-blooming trees and winced when he was hit with a wall of stink.

"Holy shit," he mumbled, slapping a hand over his nose.

The only description he could give the smell was jizz gone bad. Liketime to see a doctorbad.

He sped up, glad when Hayrick's home finally loomed, large and less ostentatious than he'd had expected. Built in the 1970s, it was one of those flat-roofed, sprawling ranches he found particularly unattractive.

After circling the house and watching for signs of life, Lane crept to the front. Buried behind a winding walkway and porch, the door was set completely out of prying eyes and would bring less attention than the back door—which basically screamed "Here I am!" without anything to shield him.

It didn't take long to disable the security system and cameras and break into Letsen's house—he had an "in" where this security system was concerned—and because he'd been here once before, he had a good idea of where Letsen kept his files. Real, paper files. One thing about Hayrick, he never trusted digital files and always printed off information before deleting the digital. So every single one of the items Lane had been forced to steal was in a fuckingliteralpaper trail. It could take the week he had to find what he needed, so he'd packed snacks in a backpack and was ready to buckle down for days in Hayrick's home.

He also got a perverse thrill at the idea of messing up a few things while there.

Lane passed the ornate dining room and snorted in amusement at a gold chandelier. Shouldn't surprise him that Hayrick's taste ran to ostentatious. He walked through the master bedroom with its gray walls and opulent furniture and managed to keep himself from pissing on the asshole's bed. He still had to be here for a while so that could wait. The master bath kept the same gray color scheme, this time in vines on wallpaper. He hadn't bothered to check the office because he'd seen the plans for the house and knew there was a hidden room off the closet. That room he wasn't sure how he'd get inside, but it didn't matter if he did any damage at this point. With the cameras down, he could stay as long as he needed.

The door to the room was behind a floor-to-ceiling rack for shoes. He never would have spotted it if he hadn’t already known it was there. And when he pushed that aside and saw the keyhole, he grinned and pulled out his tools.

That soulless fucker, Hayrick Letsen, had trained this thief well.

Chapter Two

Quincy wondered if insomnia made a person age faster. He stared into the bathroom mirror, sure there were a few more lines around his eyes than had been there a month before. Of course, the stress of everything that had put him into this situation would have aged the most laid-back of men. He slathered shaving cream over his jaw then slowly razed away what was left of the beard he'd just spent half an hour trimming.

It was time he made some changes.

Find what he needed to put both Hayrick and his former boss away for life.

Get Gareth his job back.

Prove Carter and Liam’s innocence.

Gethisfucking job back.

He'd spent years building his career as a cop and the fury that boiled through his veins daily over losing that career kept him running hot. All the time.

Growling in the back of his throat, he glanced at the headline of the newspaper he'd picked up this morning. Why was he so surprised the journalists were still clinging to this old news?

Crooked Cop Fired for Bad Shooting and Still No Arrest?

Bad shooting, his ass. He'd been told to stop investigating Hayrick Letsen and neither he nor Gareth had. His former police chief was as dirty as they came.

And now, Quincy actually worked for Letsen.

Months of Quincy gritting his teeth and following orders and finally, Letsen trusted him enough to leave him alone. Today had been the first day and he’d spent it going through the house, avoiding cameras when he could, trusting Isaac to keep the loops going. He’d found a few boxes, but nothing he’d been able to use. It had only been one day. Tomorrow, he’d hit the master bedroom harder. Then the garage. The man was a packrat in certain areas of his home.

Quincy rinsed his face and rubbed it dry with a towel as he walked through the dark pool house toward the small bedroom where he'd been staying. Everything had been quiet, but seeing the cameras dark surprised him.

Shocked, he dropped the towel, and like clockwork, his cell rang. His employer stayed plugged into his phone. He clicked it on and heard a deep breath on the other side.

"Problem, Mr. Holt? My view is black."

Letsen's voice made the hair on the back of his neck rise, and he barely managed to hold back a shudder.

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