LITMIR.BIZ

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just do your job and give me a break.” He jabbed the disconnect button.

      Tall. Blonde. Rage burned through him.

      That was his luck. Of course they would send Natasha. His nemesis. The only hacker he’d ever known who could even approach his talent. He’d realized her worth the first time he’d ever met her.

      He sat and pulled the keyboard toward him. He cracked his knuckles and flexed his fingers, then arched his neck. A slow smile spread over his features. In a way it was like a karmic balance.

      He’d almost destroyed her once because she refused to follow his lead, but fate in the guise of the FBI had intervened. They’d trained her and hired her instead of sending her to prison. At the time the irony had eaten a hole in his gut.

      Now he understood. His patience, his efforts to distance himself from the radical group who’d caused the death of Stryker’s wife, were paying off in a way he’d never dreamed.

      Stryker’s interface and the software that operated it were worth billions. Several foreign leaders were waiting, cash in hand, for the technology that had the potential to create a real supersoldier.

      Yes, he wanted the money, but that wasn’t why he was doing this.

      He finally had a chance to prove once and for all that he was the best. He was pitted against Natasha Rudolph again.

      He held the advantage because he knew her greatest fear. Before this was over, she’d pay for dodging prison eight years ago. And her punishment this time would be worse—so much worse.

      He put on his telephone headset and hit a preset number on his cell. He had to make sure everything was in place for his first destructive attack on Stryker’s estate.

      As he waited he placed his fingertips on the keyboard. A thrill, almost sexual, shot through him, all the way to his groin. Natasha was on the other end of his computer.

      It would double his pleasure to know she would die along with Stryker.

      Chapter Two

      By midnight, Natasha was certain of two things. Someone had definitely targeted Dylan’s computer, and she needed much more powerful equipment if she was going to build an effective firewall.

      She stretched and arched her neck to loosen the tight muscles, then glanced toward the ceiling. If she had to be down here much longer, she’d go crazy. Sure the lab was brilliantly lit and air-conditioned, but that didn’t change the fact that it was buried under twelve feet of dirt, steel and wood.

      A movement across the hall caught her eye. Dylan Stryker leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face. He’d appeared in the glass-walled room across from hers a couple of hours before, freshly showered and dressed in neat khaki slacks and a navy polo shirt that left his long, muscled arms bare.

      Even though she’d been concentrating on the patterns in screen after screen of code, a part of her had remained acutely aware of his presence.

      Mintz had told her he was working on a computerized surgical simulation program. It had only taken a few seconds’ observation for her to figure out that he was using a stylus like a surgical tool to practice attaching microscopic nerves to microscopic wires. The neural interface.

      She’d read the basics of the device in a classified NSA memo. It was a rectangular box about the size of a USB plug, maybe a centimeter long. The 3-D computer-generated mock-up looked like a millipede with thousands of hairlike microfibers covering its surface. Once the device was surgically implanted into a human being, and each microfiber was attached to the proper neural sheath, the interface would feed impulses to and from nerves too damaged to receive proper signals from the brain.

      No wonder the government wanted it. The possible uses were astounding. The supersoldier of fiction, with computer-enhanced reflexes, sharpened vision and hearing, perfectly timed response and accuracy, could become a reality. The thought of that technology falling into the hands of terrorists was horrifying.

      Abruptly, Dylan pushed back from his workstation and stood. He pushed his hands through his hair and started to pace.

      Campbell, sitting at the other workstation, yawned and said something. Dylan shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, as if trying to work the tension from his body.

      His movements were spare and graceful. As he rubbed his neck, his biceps flexed and he arched his back, emphasizing the seductive curve at the base of his spine and his strong, well-shaped buttocks.

      He turned toward her. Embarrassed, she dropped her gaze to the flat-screen monitor. Studying his physical attributes wasn’t getting her any closer to the hacker.

      She reexamined the section of code that had grabbed her attention earlier, and suddenly the jumble of numbers and letters coalesced into a pattern.

      “Why you clever little—” she whispered to the unknown hacker as she advanced to the next screen, searching for the same telltale string of numbers she’d just spotted.

      Whoever he was, he was good. As she’d told Mintz, they always left something behind, but this guy’s tag was almost undetectable.

      It was also vaguely familiar. She frowned at the tiny string of code. She’d seen that pattern before. A nauseating dread began to build in her stomach. Could it be Tom?

      No. That would be too weird a coincidence. Although…he had always been fascinated with the fringe groups who would do anything to bring down the government. Not because he had anything against the U.S.

      He loved being in control, and he’d always said the zealots who would die for their cause were ridiculously easy to manipulate.

      Her heart jackhammered in her throat. If it was Tom, did he know she was here? Eight years ago he’d framed her for hacking into the FBI’s domestic terrorist database. But eight years ago she’d been naive and trusting. She was smarter now. Of course, Tom probably was, too.

      Her peripheral vision picked up a movement to her left. She stiffened and casually dropped her hand to the fanny pack where she kept her weapon.

      “What’s so interesting on that screen?”

      It was Dylan. She glanced up at him, then through the glass toward the lab. She’d been caught off guard. Something that never happened to her.

      “No,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I can’t walk through walls. Alfred believes in triple redundancy. There are doors all over the place.” A ghost of a smile flickered about his mouth, making him look younger and achingly handsome.

      “Triple redundancy is a good thing.” Having plenty of doors was even better—excellent in fact. She hoped they all led upstairs.

      Dylan studied the young woman the FBI claimed was the best hacker-tracker they had. She was young, but computer expertise didn’t depend on years of training. The best hackers were often under twenty-five.

      He put his hand on the back of her chair and leaned over, studying her screen. “Find something?”

      Her pale blond hair tickled his nose, and the scent of springtime and wild strawberries filled his nostrils. He took a deep breath, faintly shocked at his reaction. He had a sudden urge to run his fingers through her silky hair, to nuzzle the graceful curve of her neck.

      What the hell was he thinking?

      She cleared her throat and pulled slightly away from him. “I’ve found traces of the hacker.”

      He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant, trying to throw off his body’s instantaneous response to her closeness. He straightened.

      “You told Alfred the hacker couldn’t have gotten out clean.”

      She shook her head. “That’s right. Everything that’s done on a computer leaves a trace. This guy is very good, but—”

      “You found him.” Dylan leaned in close to the monitor again, curious about

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