Page 30 of Cipher: Lethal Algorithm

It’s a massive operational liability.

I stand and walk to the small kitchenette. I find the grinder, load a fresh allocation of beans, and set it running. The harsh, mechanical grinding noise obliterates the lingering tension in the room.

I need the noise. I need the manual task to re-align my focus.

The coffee brews in silence. I pour two mugs. Black.

I carry them back to the operational space, setting one on the desk beside her right hand.

She doesn’t jump. She simply opens her eyes, picks up the ceramic mug, and takes a long drink. The steam curls around her face, highlighting the sharp angle of her cheekbone.

“You code like a fed.”

She doesn’t look at me. Her eyes lock on the dark monitor, tracking the final, dying echoes of the server we just killed.

I take a drink of my coffee. I don’t engage the provocation immediately.

“I mean that as a compliment.” Her voice is low in the quiet room. “It’s load-bearing. There’s nothing wasted. Everything you build is designed to withstand a siege.”

She understands the architecture. Fourteen analysts at the Department of Justice review my scripts every month, and none of them understand the philosophy behind the code. They just verify the legality. She spent three hours inside my routing node and instantly diagnosed the entire psychological foundation of my work.

“You code like you’re daring the system to catch you.” I lean against the edge of my desk.

She takes another sip of coffee. A ghost of a smile touches the corner of her mouth.

“That’s the point.”

I watch her. In her profile, they categorized her as a reckless improviser. They assumed she was chaotic.

They were categorically incorrect.

The chaos is a deliberate defense mechanism. She builds beautiful, wildly dangerous exploits because she trusts her ability to navigate the fallout better than she trusts a locked door.

“You survived eleven weeks against a cell of internationally funded assassins.” I keep my tone perfectly level. “The technique is effective.”

“I survived eleven weeks because the strike teams didn’t know what they were looking for.” She sets her mug down, dragging her fingers through the tangled mess of her dark hair. “But whoever is building their cyber-defenses does. The person writing their counter-code isn’t just reacting to me. They’re predicting me. An architect building a cage.”

I file the metaphor away. The Architect. It’s a fitting title for the ghost operating the Consortium’s digital defense.

“I wasn’t the primary target.” Her voice drops, losing its defensive edge. “I was the collateral damage standing next to the real target.”

She shifts her gaze to me.

“Your file.” The sharp, analytical curiosity abruptly shifts the vector of the conversation. “The Kincaid breach. The woman Task Force 9 protected. Iris.”

I nod once. I don’t confirm or deny the classification status of the file. I simply acknowledge the fact.

“The file says the Consortium contracted a hit squad to liquidate her before she could testify.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “It also says Boyd Vance was the primary deterrent deployed by your team to ensure she survived.”

She’s systematically probing the operational boundaries of Task Force 9, trying to assess exactly how lethal the people supposedly protecting her actually are.

“Boyd Vance ensured her survival, yes.”

“What happened to her?” The question is entirely sincere. I can see the underlying calculation.

Ivy is a woman who lives her life according to a strict risk-assessment protocol. She asks if trusting Task Force 9 works. She wants to know whether the protection holds or whether the witness eventually dies when the cameras turn away.

“She testified.” I hold her gaze. “She survived the trial. She is currently living under a modified identity, provided directly by Hutch. She is completely safe.”