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I check the address I’ve already found for Orlov Financial Solutions—an older pre-war building in Hell’s Kitchen. Typing quickly, I hack into the security system of a bodega catty-corner to the building, and then use their outside security cam to zoom in on my target.
The place looks like a shithole. There’s a defunct laundry on the first floor, and a sign in the window of the third floor that says “rooms for rent”. Though, the number Sharpie-d under it is out of service.
Yeah. This is one hundred percent a front.
It’s also where I have to go right now if I want to snag those financial records for Kir.
I ditch the headphones and grab my black hoodie and black leather jacket from the back of the chair, putting them on over my thin shirt. I pull the hood up to hide my face as I slip my laptop into a bag and shoulder it.
The city is a different world at night. Streets that are usually packed with tourists and locals are almost deserted, lit only by the flickering glow of streetlights and the distant hum of neon signs. A dull mist floats down from the night sky, and I keep my head down as I make my way to the car parked a block away, my boots echoing on the cracked pavement.
I start the Audi—thank you very much, Kir and his habit of payingverywell—and the engine purrs softly as I pull away from the curb and glide off into the night.
I find the building easily enough. It’s nothing special—just another crumbling five-story brick thing tucked away between twoothercrumbling five-story brick things. Some of the windows on the lower floors are boarded up. The paint’s peeling off the front door.
I park a block away, slipping out of the car and drifting through the shadows like a wraith. The air is cool and heavy, the sounds of the city white noise in the background as I approach. There’s no sign of life, no movement. That doesn’t mean anything.
I’ve learned appearances can be deceiving.
The side door creaks as I push it open, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. The air inside smells of dust and rusted metal and decay. I take a dark staircase up to the second floor, glancing around to see the space is littered with old machinery and crates piled up against the walls.
I move carefully, my senses on high alert. The server I’m after—if it even exists—is probably at leastnearthe computers I was able to access via the net. So I keep heading up the stairs looking for them. The second and third floors are empty. The fourth looks like it’s a hangout area for exactly the type of guys who would guard an off-the-books mafia financial business—pool table, stale cigar smoke in the air, bar to one side, and X-rated centerfolds tacked up all over the walls.
I stop to snicker as I eye one of the blonde, surgically enhanced Playboy Bunnies with a spray tan and bolted-on tits.
My eyes swivel to check my own reflection in the grimy mirror hung on the wall next to the blonde. My gaze takes in the jet-black hair, the heavy,heavyblack eyeliner and shadow intended to give my blue eyes as spooky and as sharp a glint as I can. The pierced nose and eyebrow, not to mention the collection of metal through almost every part of my ears. The generally pale, sunless complexion. The chest that doesn’t exactly need a bra most of the time.
“What do you think, girl?” I murmur quietly, pulling my gaze back to the pinup. “Think I’ve got a shot at being Miss October?”
She just beams her pristine white, unblemished, perfect smile at me.
“Well, fuck you, too,” I mumble back at her before I turn and head for the stairs again.
One more floor to go.
It’s on that top floor where I finally hit paydirt. The big open space is set up roughly like an office. There’s a receptionist desk, some cubicles, a water cooler, a walled-off corner office. Even some generic “office art” hanging on the walls.
I could use any of the cubicle computers to be inside their system in seconds. But it’s not going to help me. The information I need isn’tontheir system, but on a machine intentionally left unconnected to the web so that people likemecan’t get to it.
I’m betting on it being a shitty old piece of hardware collecting dust in a back room somewhere.
There’s nothing in the walled-off office, though. Or in the copy room, or the break room. I’m exhaling slowly and grudginglypreparing to admit defeat when I stop and peer into the far back corner of the main work area.
Fuckingbingo.
I tuck a lock of black hair behind my ear as I head over to what I’d at first thought was an old mini fridge. But then I pull open the door and see the flickering of LED lights, and my lips pull into a triumphant grin.
It’s not a fridge. It’s an ancient, super outdated server. One I didn’t see on their network, which means this is probably the one I’m looking for. I crouch down behind the desk next to the old server and pull out my laptop. I plug in directly, my fingers flying over the keyboard until a folder pops up on my screen.
I’m in.
I can sift through the the noise and bullshit later. For now, I just start copying literally everything off the old server onto my laptop. There’s not much, and they’re small files. But the server itself is old as shit, and the transfer is taking forever.
That’s when I hear it.
Oh, fuck.
Voices.
