Page 38 of Tamed Enemy
“You weren’tdragging your feet. You were working. Coding takes time.”
Cole sighs. “Too much time for Tarasov.”
Anger, my familiar friend, flares beneath my breastbone. “Well, if he thinks this approach will work, he’s a regular header.”
Cole shakes his head. He doesn’t know the Irish slang.
“The shitehawk’s mad,” I clarify. “Sure, he’s made your life miserable, releasing the indictment. But that will only slow down your work on RedBear. And now he’s handed over his best bargaining chip.”
“I’m not so sure about that. He released the indictment because he thinks he has a bigger stick.”
“Like what?”
“Your Red Cap record. He’ll get you arrested.”
“That threat’s not new. Besides, your lawyers will have me out by suppertime. They can drag out trials for years. There must be something more immediate. Something worth giving up the steady draw of blackmail.”
Cole sighs. His eyes are dull as he stares at the mess at the foot of the wall, the jumble of glass and office supplies, of pottery and food. “I don’t know what it is. Yet.”
“You’re certain he can’t get past the firewall?”
“As certain as I’ve ever been about anything.”
I’ve tested the code myself. I can’t imagine finding a way in. “What about Nilsson? And Anna?”
“You think he can buy them?”
I snort. “I’d love to see him try. But they’re vulnerable. They cross the street every day to work here. And that street is now full of feckin’ reporters screaming for their pound of flesh…”
Cole pulls himself out of his chair. He’s regained control over his body; every motion is measured. But the room still stinks of desperation.
Nilsson is waiting just outside the door. “Sir?” he asks, immediately drawing himself to attention.
“Effective immediately, you and Anna are confined to your home, across the street.”
“Sir?” Nilsson asks again, and this time there’s emotion buried deep beneath the word. He’s confused.
“It’s not safe for you to come here now.”
“With all due respect, sir?—”
“The articles hitting the news are part of a targeted campaign from the Tarasov bratva. We think it’s an opening volley. And we can’t be certain some of those reporters aren’t plants.”
“I understand, sir.” Nilsson says the words, but it’s clear from his demeanor that he isn’t backing down.
“But?” Cole prompts him.
“But you need us.”
“What Ineed?—”
“Sir,” Nilsson interrupts. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him cut off his boss. From the look of surprise on Cole’s face, it’s the first time he’s ever heard it too. “The problem, as I understand it, is not ourbeingin this house. It is our arriving at the house every morning.”
“And leaving it every evening,” Cole says testily.
“Then we will not arrive. Or leave.”
“Nilsson—”
