Page 95 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
He plants his hands on the back of the couch, knuckles white. “Defense is a joke. Information is too slow. The only permanent answer ispermanent.”
Finally, I sigh and flip open my laptop fully, forcing the conversation to an end. “Fine. If I can’t kill him, I’ll rob him. That I can live with.”
Huck snorts, a short, sharp sound that might almost be approval. “Do your thing, tech boy. Bleed him dry if you can’t bleed him out.”
I glance at him, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth despite the darkness in the room. “Careful, you sound like you approve.”
“It’s a start.” He stalks out then, leaving me with the glow of my screen and the low hum of my rage.
I crack my knuckles and start pulling up David’s accounts. David thinks money makes him untouchable. He’s wrong.
I lean back, crack my knuckles, and start. The routine is muscle memory by now—spoof my location, build false trails through three different continents, slip behind the cheap walls of protection his banks think are iron gates. David’s passwords are predictable. Birthdays, production codes from films he’s proudof, a combination of initials and numbers that make me roll my eyes.
The first account cracks in under ten minutes. A fat line of numbers greets me, zeroes stacking high. He keeps a lot liquid, too much for a man who likes to flaunt but still play safe. Probably thinks he can grab it if he needs to disappear.
I don’t give him the chance.
With a few keystrokes, I siphon half. Not into my pockets. Not into offshore accounts. Into women’s shelters, one after another. Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York. I split it, keep the transfers small, layered through a dozen intermediaries. By the time anyone notices, the money will already be spent on beds and meals and locks for doors men like David try to kick in.
The satisfaction is sharp. For once, his money isn’t buying him silence. It’s buying safety—for women and children.
But it isn’t enough.
I go for the next account. This one takes longer—foreign currency, more firewalls—but eventually I’m through. Another fat stack of zeroes, more arrogance made visible. I drain it too, this time routing it through a network of shelters in smaller towns. Women who don’t make headlines, who can’t just pick up and move to LA or New York.
Click by click, I bleed him.
When the third account opens, I’m smiling. My chest feels lighter, the anger easing into something sharper, cleaner. This is justice. Maybe not the kind Huck wants, maybe not the kind Sean pushes for, but mine.
Still, when I finish, when the last transfer pings complete, the rage seeps back in. It’s satisfying, yes. But not permanent. He’ll make more. His family is filthy rich too. He’ll find ways to patch the holes.
I lean back in the chair, running a hand down my face. My eyes flick to my phone on the table. Maybe it’s not enough to take. Maybe I need to make him feel it.
I pull up a spoofed number, one that looks like it’s routed through an anonymous service. Something he won’t trace. My thumbs fly across the screen.
Check your bank accounts.
I hit send.
The message goes out, vanishing into the ether. I picture him at some dinner, some smug cocktail party, feeling the buzz in his pocket, pulling his phone out with that little smirk he thinks makes him charming. I picture the way his face changes when he sees the numbers drop, the way he stumbles, the way his perfect mask cracks.
I wait.
The phone stays silent. No reply. No call. Not even the dots of someone typing. It’s almost worse than a reply.
“Coward,” I mutter, tossing the phone down. “You don’t even have the guts to answer.”
The monitors flicker. A guard outside radios in, routine. I answer back, automatic, but my head is still in the numbers, the absence of response. I wanted him angry. I wanted him rattled. Instead, all I have is silence.
The house hums with the kind of quiet that makes my skin itch. The monitors glow, the HVAC sighs, the fridge clicks on and off. I’m still staring at my phone, waiting for dots that never appear under the text I sent David. Nothing. He’s a black hole—no heat, no light, just gravity.
My phone vibrates once, the short, sharp buzz I use for our encrypted thread.
Sean:Track my signal. Get to me. Now.
The wordnowhits like a hammer. I’m already moving, shoving the laptop off my thighs, fingers flying over the keys to wake the ops tablet.
Huck sets his mug down without looking, the sound a solid ceramicthunk.“What is it?”
