Chapter 9 - The Betrayal of Trust
The download progress bar hit ninety percent, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from the screen.
The "Project Penelope" file was a terrifying catalog of my entire existence.
There were photos of my tiny apartment, transcripts of my college records, and detailed maps of my daily commute.
Larkin Steves had known exactly who I was before I ever walked into an interview.
I pressed the earpiece hidden beneath my severe hair clip, opening the secure comms channel to the safehouse.
"Larkin," I whispered, my voice trembling with a mixture of betrayal and absolute rage.
"Why is there a surveillance file on me dating back to 2023?"
Silence echoed over the comms for three agonizing seconds.
"Penny, get the data and get out of there," Larkin ordered, his voice tight.
"Answer me!" I hissed, watching the download hit ninety-five percent.
"You thought you were hiding from the world, Penelope," Larkin finally confessed, his tone heavily guarded.
"But I was looking for the daughter of the FBI agent who nearly dismantled this syndicate ten years ago."
My blood turned to pure liquid nitrogen.
"I knew who your father was," Larkin continued.
"I hired you to keep my enemies close, but then I realized you were the smartest person in the room."
Before I could process the massive deception, the server screen flashed a brilliant, blinding red.
The download finished, but the silent alarm had been tripped by a secondary firewall.
"They know you are in the basement," Larkin yelled over the comms.
"Run!"
I yanked the flash drive from the port, shoving it into my bra as the heavy steel doors of the server room began to close.
I dove through the gap just as the magnetic locks slammed shut behind me.
I sprinted down the concrete service corridor, my sensible shoes slapping against the floor.
Alarms blared through the Glass Tower, echoing like a siren song of death.
I reached the exit stairwell, throwing my body against the heavy fire door.
It swung open, but I didn't step out into the alleyway.
Standing at the bottom of the stairs, flanked by three massive bodyguards, was Viktor Volkov.
The Russian arms dealer smiled, pulling a heavy revolver from his tailored coat.
May you like
"I told Larkin that ghosts have a habit of disappearing," Viktor laughed, aiming the gun at my chest.
"Hand over the flash drive, little accountant, or I will paint these stairs with your brains."
