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404 laughs. “It does.”

“What about the Jester? Surely he isn’t as good as Jensen.”

404 nods and starts typing.

“He is going to kill us,” Clay says with a smirk.

“He doesn’t need to know,” 404 says.

“Oh, he will know,” I reply.

“Then he needs better security if he doesn’t want people digging around in his private information. The internet is full of people smarter than him.”

404 digs around for about five minutes, then in the most unimpressed Australian accent I have ever heard he says, “Well, that was a piece of piss.”

“That was quick—it only took you five minutes.”

404 looks offended. “Three minutes and forty-eight seconds to be exact. His security is terrible, worse than I thought.”

Clay laughs quietly. “Please tell him that.”

“I will.”

“No, please don’t,” I say.

“Why?” 404 asks.

“Because I don’t want to clean your blood off my floor.”

404 doesn’t seem bothered as he pulls up a picture on his screen. “Is this is the man?” He turns his laptop toward us.

I don’t recognize him, but why would I? He is middle-aged, ordinary enough that you would walk past him and not look twice.

Clay turns to me. “What do you want to do?”

But I already have my phone out. “I’m not doing anything.” I find the Jester’s number and hit call, and he answers on the second ring.

“My favorite cook.”

“I need you in Clay’s office.”

“Are you finally ready to confess your love for me?”

“No.”

“Shame.”

“Just get here now,” I snap.

There is a pause on his end, when he must register how serious I sound. “On my way.”

He hangs up, and we wait, none of us saying anything. The contents of that drive are something you can never unsee.

Within a few minutes the Jester walks through the door and thankfully he is wearing a shirt, although it’s open far enough down the front that the top of the V is visible.

He looks from me to Clay, then glances at 404.

“Who is that?” he asks, nodding his head.