Page 61 of Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games 2)
But it’s his eyes that are most arresting. Pale, icy blue, heavily fringed with dark lashes, his eyes have an arrogance and cruelty that the rest of his elegant features can’t soften.
Taken from various angles, the pictures of his face are accompanied by dozens of pictures of the rest of him. Striding through an airport, crossing a busy intersection, waiting on a subway platform, always standing a head taller than anyone else. Always looking at the people around him like a king surveys his subjects. Always alone, regal, dressed in beautifully tailored suits.
I can’t help but glance down at myself, clothed in a black T-shirt and cargo pants.
Harry leans closer to the monitor, squinting at it. “These are all taken from surveillance cameras. Look at the angles. They’re all from above.”
“If that’s true,” says Chan slowly, “he’s hacked into the entire infrastructure. Transportation grids, law enforcement grids, traffic cams…you name it.”
“He’s already proven he’s in the power grid,” points out Miranda.
“If he had that much access, he’d have caused a lot more problems than what we’re dealing with here,” I counter.
Tabby asks quietly, “How do you know he hasn’t?” She glances at me over her shoulder. Her normally bright green eyes are troubled and dark.
“What do you mean?”
She looks at Harry. “How many terrorist acts go unclaimed?”
“Almost all of them,” he replies, watching her closely. “Only fourteen percent of the more than forty-five thousand terrorist acts that have occurred since ’ninety-eight have credible claims of responsibility.”
“What are you saying?” As my heart starts to beat faster, I move closer to her. “That Søren’s not only an extortionist, he’s a terrorist? You have proof of that? What do you know?”
Her prolonged silence infuriates me. My patience, worn to a shred, finally snaps.
I growl, “Tabby, whatever problem you have with me, you better spill your fucking guts before Harry decides you’re withholding evidence, because I will not stand here with my dick in my hand while you get hauled away to prison and interrogated by the FBI! Am I making myself clear?”
Faint color rises to her cheeks.
Ryan says, “Lady, start talking, because if he squares off against the feds, so do I, and that is one shit storm you definitely don’t wanna get in the middle of.”
“I’m going to pretend both of you idiots didn’t just threaten me,” says Harry between gritted teeth. “But if it happens again, you’re all going to prison. Miss West, you’re walking a very fine line here. Talk.”
She looks at the three of us, then at Chan, then at Miranda. Finally, she heaves a breath that sounds exhausted and flops into a nearby chair. She rests her elbows on her knees and puts her head in her hands. When she speaks, her voice is hollow.
“I don’t have proof of anything. All I know is…Søren. I know Søren. Whatever his interest is in this studio, it isn’t money. He doesn’t care about money. He’s an anarchist, not a capitalist. What he cares about is chaos. Instigating it, creating it, and then sitting back with a bowl of popcorn and enjoying the show. He likes to set things in motion. He likes to destroy things.” She pauses, and when she speaks again, her voice is shaking. “He just wants to watch the world burn.”
Her pain is so obvious, it seems like another person has suddenly appeared in the room, an invisible, heavy presence, indelibly dark. With a shock, I realize this is the thing she hides at her core. Beneath her smart mouth and rebel attitude and odd costumes, all the walls she’s built around herself, lies a lost soul, alone and in pain.
My sweet Tabby is in so much pain.
“Shut it down,” I instruct Chan, my voice thick.
Tabby raises her head. Our eyes lock. Her lashes are wet. It sends a flood of emotion coursing through me, fury and possessiveness and a need to protect her, stronger than everything else.
“Shut it down right now,” I repeat, turning to Harry. “Get that asshole off the screen.”
While looking at me, Harry says to Tabby, “Has it been long enough for your pro—”
“I don’t care about the program,” I snap, squaring off to face him. “Shut the fucking thing down!”
“You’re being paid to care about the program,” says
Miranda stiffly, sending me an arctic stare.
Special Agent Chan says, “Too late. He’s out. He must’ve spotted the trace.”
When we all look at the screen, the monitor has gone dark. All the pictures of Søren have vanished. Only a blinking green cursor remains.
