Page 16 of Cipher: Lethal Algorithm

“The vine.” I shift my weight to face her, noting the way her knuckles have turned white on the wheel.

The city blurs past the window. The casino towers—the Wynn, the MGM—catch the first bruised light of the predawn, their glass faces going flat silver. The Pearl River is a dark, churning mass to our left, the water reflecting the sickly orange glow of the streetlights.

“The animation.” I let the words land. “Forty seconds per session at close. Every server you’ve ever touched. It’s a distinctive signature. Like a fingerprint left in wet ink. Or a neon sign strapped to your back. You’re either incredibly talented or incredibly stupid.”

“It’s bait.” Her voice matches the air-conditioner. “It’s me telling the Consortium who burnt their house down.”

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. The air in the car suddenly feels too thin.

“That vine’s dangerous.”

“It’s just a signature.”

“It’s a dare. You’re screaming, ‘Come and get me.’ Tell me, do you have a death wish, or are you just looking for someone to tell you that you’re doing a good job?”

The car swerves, a violent movement before she corrects it. She doesn’t look at me, but her chest is heaving.

“You think you have me figured out because you watched my packets for eleven weeks?” She spits the words. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you’re the best I’ve seen.” My voice drops into a register far too intimate for a getaway car. “I know that every time you leave that signature, you’re looking for a reaction. You’re looking for a witness. Well, congratulations. You’ve got one. I’m impressed. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Shut up, Rhodes.”

“It’s poetic, but it’s also a cry for attention.” I lean closer, catching the scent of her adrenaline and stale coffee. “You’ve been a ghost for years. But ghosts get lonely. You wanted someone to see the strings. You wanted someone to follow the trail.”

“I want to burn them to the ground.” Her voice is low and dangerous. “I’m not a stalker with an ego.”

“And yet, here we are.” I let my eyes trail down her arm to where her fingers grip the wheel. “The Consortium hired a Specialist. A real one. High six figures for a live retrieval. They’re not coming to tell you that you’re a genius. They’re coming to put you in a very small and very dark room.”

“I can handle them.”

“You haven’t been fast; they’ve just been slow. But the math changed. Twelve operators versus one solo with a laptop and a need for validation? Those aren’t odds. That’s a tragedy waiting to happen.”

She cuts the wheel hard, weaving between two delivery trucks with reckless disregard. “I don’t need validation from you or anyone else.”

“Then stop leaving your name on the wreckage.” I lean into her reaction, enjoying the friction. “It’s sloppy and arrogant. It’s the only reason I’m sitting in this seat right now. I like a challenge, but I prefer my partners to have a survival instinct that outweighs their ego.”

“Partners?” She scoffs. “We’re not partners. You’re a passenger I haven’t decided to throw out yet.”

“You decided you weren’t going to throw me out three traffic lights ago.” I watch the flush creep up her neck. “Left on Avenida Dr Mário Soares. We cross to Taipa before the morning traffic chokes the bridge.”

She doesn’t turn left.

She continues straight, hugging the waterfront. It’s a slower route and passes two camera-heavy intersections my route avoids.

“You’re not going to the safe house.”

“I haven’t decided if I trust your ‘workspace’ yet. Or your face. Especially the part where you look like you’re enjoying this.”

“The part where I’m enjoying this is the most honest thing about me.” My gaze drops to her mouth for a fraction of a second too long. “The turn is behind us, Ivy. Tactical emotionality is a vulnerability. You’re letting your annoyance with me override your survival instinct.”

“It’s not emotional. It’s an audit.”

“You’re wasting time. Every minute we spend in this car is another sixty seconds the Specialist gets to close the gap. Keep driving the long way. I’m enjoying the view.”

She changes lanes with a harsh flick of the wrist. The harbor resolves at the end of the road, the Taipa Ferry Terminal looming ahead. She takes the exit, the approach road sloping down toward the drop-off lane.

“You’re not going to the ferry. You’re smarter than a public terminal.”