Page 19 of Hacking the Holidays
I’d heard stories of this brand of professional suicide before. Agent Marts had compromised an entire Miami money laundering case after falling for her target, when he had been playing her the entire time. Agent Jackson in Chicago had nearly blown a major cybercrime investigation when he’d gotten romantically involved with a witness. The bureau’s solution had been to ship them both off to Nebraska, where they now dedicated their talents to insurance fraud cases in offices that made sensory deprivation chambers look like day spas.
Sam’s phone rang, making us both jump.
He held up one apologetic finger. “Sam speaking …”
While he talked, I was able to regain my focus, then seized the opportunity to casually glance at his computer screen. A little reconnaissance never hurt anyone.
His desktop background made me do a double-take—a photo of a distinguished golden retriever wearing wire-rimmed glasses, sitting in a leather armchair with a hardcover book open in front of him. Either Sam had an unexpectedly whimsical sense of humor, or there were layers to this man I hadn’t uncovered yet.
The desktop itself was meticulously organized with justthree folders on the bottom right. “Santa” was the first folder, most likely his volunteer schedule. “ProjectGive” had to be the families he was helping. And “BadBoys”—well, that was probably his hit list of corrupt individuals funding his operation.
Now, I just had to figure out how to crack open those folders without getting caught. They were probably encrypted—because of course a genius would lock down his files—but I’d deal with that digital fortress when I reached it.
At the Bureau, I could instantly vanish from networks if I detected any signs that my targets had noticed my digital presence—close connections, wipe my tracks, disappear back into the cyber shadows. Here, with Sam literally breathing down my neck, there was nowhere to hide if he got suspicious.
His eyes flicked over to me mid-conversation, and I glanced away, suddenly pretending to be fascinated by the Einstein poster on the wall with the quote, “Strive not to be a success, but rather to be of value.”
Without missing a beat in his phone call, he smoothly reached over and clicked off the power button on his monitor.
Coincidence? Or had he caught me red-handed?
I would find out soon enough …
“I understand, Harold. Feel better.” Sam hung up the phone with a heavy sigh. “Well, that’s not good.”
“Trouble in the North Pole?” I asked.
“Harold was supposed to be my fill-in elf this week—now he’s not feeling well.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking genuinely worried. “The timing could not be worse. I’ve got Santa events lined up every week until Christmas.” He slumped back in his chair. “Harold’s the third elf to cancel on me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
It definitely wouldn’t be me; I knew that much.
Eleanor appeared at that moment, coat already on and keys jingling. “I’m taking off. Everything set for tomorrow night?”
“I thought it was,” Sam said grimly. “Harold is sick and had to cancel. He was my second backup. I’m all out of elves.”
Eleanor’s eyes went wide. “Harold in elf tights?” She shuddered dramatically. “That must be quite a sight to see.”
“Believe me, I’m still recovering from the experience,” Sam said with a rueful laugh. “But he was actually amazing with the kids—patient, organized, never once complained about the hat with bells or anything else, for that matter.”
“What are you going to do?” Eleanor asked. “I’ll be managing the floor and the cookie table, so there’s no way I can fill in.”
Sam shook his head helplessly. “I have no idea. Everyone’s already drowning in holiday commitments. Finding someone willing to wear pointed ears with less than twenty-four hours’ notice is going to be nearly impossible.”
“There has to be someone …” Eleanor mused, tapping her chin thoughtfully.
They both fell silent, clearly cycling through mental contact lists. Then, as if controlled by the same puppet master, they slowly turned toward me in perfect synchronization, identical hopeful expressions blooming on their faces.
“Me? Oh, no.” I wagged my finger at them, then actually scooted my chair backward. “Absolutely not. I would be the worst elf in the history of elfdom. We’re talking legendary levels of terrible. Kids hate me.”
“I seriously doubt that,” Eleanor said, practically bouncing with excitement. “You’d be absolutely adorable!”
“I’m not talking about the cute factor—though green really isn’t in my color palette,” I said quickly. “I’m talking about being epically awkward around children. My very-limited interaction skills are calibrated for coffee-dependent adults, not sugar-fueled tiny people.”
“That’s actually perfect,” Sam said. “Kids love it when adults are a little awkward. Just being yourself will make them feel more confident, which will help them later in life.”
His rationale was getting under my skin.
