Chapter Two

Wolfe- July

My computer pings with an incoming message alert. I click over from one screen, to the next, and open up the chat feature on my website. Everything is anonymous, though my name is pretty well known, especially on the dark web.

The message is a request to have some sex videos removed from a few smaller porn sites that were taken without the person’s consent. I message back asking for a hyperlink to the video, and within seconds I’m in.

Jesus .

As I watch the woman with her hands, eyes, and mouth bound, her blissed-out face clearly in the shot, I can’t help the fact that my dick is interested. The way the dude’s railing her from behind, his fingers digging into her thick thighs without mercy, has heat flaring through me in a way most things these days don’t.

The video plays on one screen while I work on another, using one of the programs I coded to search the web for any other sites the video might be on. The person who sent the request, the woman I presume, says she only found it on three, but in less than 30 seconds my program finds it on eight. After a minute, the search is done and as suspected, it’s been sent to over forty porn sites.

What a piece of shit.

I’m in the process of removing it when the sounds from the video playing through my speakers change. My fingers pause on my keyboard as my eyes flick to the opposite screen. The woman’s head moves slowly from side to side, and through his never-ending grunts, I can barely make out a whimper. I quickly turn the volume up and give the video my full attention. She shakes her head again, this time with more strength. I zoom in. Her body’s shaking, and from the way she’s sloppily trying to pull away, I don’t think it’s from pleasure.

Anger fills me, and in an instant, I’m ready to smash not only my screen but my hard dick. Fucking hell, she’s drugged. I click back over to the original chat and respond, hoping for honesty, but knowing it doesn’t matter one way or the other. I know what I see, and she doesn’t have to confirm it to solidify my decision.

KillerClown666: Is the filming the only part that was not consensual?

Anonymous: typing…

She types and erases multiple times, dragging out the suspense and irritating me even more. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the answer, especially with her reluctance to tell me. Finally, she responds, giving me just one word.

Anonymous: No.

KillerClown666: What’s his name?

She doesn’t need to tell me. I can figure it out. It will just take more time than I currently have, especially since the video was uploaded using an encrypted browser with a bogus IP address. Not only that, the fucker only posted her face, keeping all of his identifying features out of the shot.

Again, there’s a lengthy pause while I wait for her response. Leaning back in my office chair, the leather creaks beneath my weight. I run a hand through my black hair. My fingers get caught in the strands with a tug. I grimace. My eyes dart to the window. The curtains are blackout and drawn tight. I can just barely make out a peak of sunlight, telling me it’s daytime. Standing, I make my way to the coffee table, shoving aside the stacks of paperwork and books in search of my phone. My hand connects with the device just as an old pizza box clatters to the floor, spilling rotten food across the hardwood.

Fucking hell. How many days has it been since I’ve left here? Or eaten something that’s not trash or taken a shower, for that matter?

Sighing, I go to check the time on my phone but find the piece of shit dead. “Christ,” I mutter. Time to rejoin the land of the living.

Glancing around my filthy office, I cringe. Fuck it. Already regretting my decision, I squeeze my eyes shut and preemptively rub the space between my brows before yanking the curtains open. Sunlight spills into the room, temporarily blinding me and nearly sending me on my ass. It’s then that I realize I’m dizzy and exhausted as shit. I guess the better question is, how long has it been since I’ve slept?

I make my way back to my desk and plug in my phone. Looking up at the screen, I find a few messages from the client.

Anonymous: It doesn’t matter.

Anonymous: I just want the videos taken down, please.

Anonymous: I want to pretend this never happened.

The organ in my chest I thought had long since stopped working, gives a painful squeeze. What the hell? Narrowing my eyes at the chat, I rub the sore spot to eliminate the ache.

Killerclown666: I’ll find out either way. You’re just saving me the trouble of searching.

KillerClown666: The videos are gone. Let me take care of him.

Anonymous: I can’t afford that. I only have enough for the video removal fee.

Christ. She’s worried about money when she was drugged, raped, filmed, and exposed for everyone to see? My opinion of the world and its contents only worsens with the painful reminder. People are shitty, and the economy is trash.

KillerClown666: Don’t worry about the cost.

KillerClown666: Seriously. Tell me his name, and you won’t need to pay for the video removal.

Anonymous: I don’t understand why you’d do that for me.

KillerClown666: It’s not for you. Men like him don’t deserve to get away with shit like this.

KillerClown666: Do it for all the rest of the women he’s probably going to do this to after you…Or the ones before you.

It’s a low blow and borderline manipulative, but I don’t care. My mouth is already salivating for the hunt. My brain begins to work through all the different ways I can ruin a person without even having to leave my office. I may have started off hacking as a way to make money quickly, using a skill I’ve perfected over the years, but this is why I stuck with it. I’ve made millions in the last fifteen years doing this job, but taking down pieces of shit like this one? That’s the real prize.

Anonymous: If you’re sure…Lawrence Jacobs. From Jacksonville, Florida.

Anonymous: What are you going to do to him?

I disconnect the chat, blocking her ability to message me again. I have everything I need. My lips tip up in a smile, causing my cheeks to throb instantly. Apparently, my phone isn’t the only thing that’s gone unused for…

I swipe the screen on my now partly charged phone and check the date and time. “Holy shit,” I grunt. I’ve been holed up here for four and a half days. No wonder I feel disgusting. I’ve barely been eating and only napping at my desk in between jobs. Suffice it to say, I’m a workaholic. As was just demonstrated, I have a hard time saying no to clients and often take on more than necessary.

The most common jobs I usually take are hacking corporate sites, infiltration of social media accounts, breaking into cell phones to permanently delete shit, money laundering, and financial absorption. I’ve even been hired by the random spoiled rich kids to change their grades before mommy and daddy find out they’re tanking their Ivy League education.

But my highest requested jobs are those of the ‘ personal attack’ nature. Most of the time, that includes financial sabotage, legal issues, and public defamation. They’re also my highest-paying gigs. They aren’t my favorite. I don’t generally relish the idea of destroying someone, especially a stranger, for unknown reasons, but the gain is usually too much to pass up.

Thirty minutes later, Lawrence Jacobs, a 23-year-old frat boy from Jacksonville, Florida who's been living off of his late grandmother’s funds and pissing away his education, is effectively ruined.

He’s on his way to being homeless, broke, carless, and friendless. Not to mention, I swapped out his Ritalin prescription for estrogen, so that’ll be fun.

Grinning from ear to ear, I push up from my desk, deciding I’ve earned a little mini vacation. By that, I mean a shit, shower, and shave. Maybe a steak. Stepping toward the door, my eyes catch on my reflection in the tempered glass. I grimace.

My short black hair is slightly grown out and disgustingly greasy. Beneath my glasses, the dark circles under my eyes stand out starkly against my paler-than-usual white skin. My eyes rake down my body as I slide my phone into the pocket of my grimy jeans. My white t-shirt has a few stains down the front of it. The material is hanging loosely and stretched out everywhere except the sleeves, which still cling tightly across the large swell of my tattooed biceps.

Usually, I keep my tattoos and piercings hidden. I made sure every single one of them is in a place easily concealed with my clothing. My body is etched with so much ink, sometimes I forget which tattoo is which. They all blend together seamlessly, hiding scars, both physical and mental. Some are better than others, depending on their location. I was young when I first started getting them, using the process as a way to simply feel something…anything. Now, it’s just become a habit.

They line my thighs, front and back, up to my hips and ass. My torso, chest, and back are fully covered, barely leaving an inch of blank space. My biceps are the newest additions, but they end just above my elbows. As much as I’d love to add to my collar and neck, I can’t risk it. I’ve created an outward appearance that’s meant to blend in. No distinguishing features. Nothing crazy or eye-catching that could easily be recalled. In my line of work, which often goes beyond digital hacking, I have to become no one. Nothing but a shadow. A silent fixture on the wall. Someone who can become anyone and then fade back into nothingness.

But when I’m alone, in my office and on my own property—I can be myself.

Still, a no one, the annoying and ever-present voice in my head supplies, making my gut clench. Growling, I shake off the annoyance and reach for the door handle, ready to breathe in fresh air for the first time in days. I’m just about to step out when the request alert goes off once more.

“God fucking dammit,” I bark, shaking my head. My body twitches toward the sound as if it already knows what I’ll do before my brain can catch up. Indecision wars within me. I should walk away. Should do exactly what I said I’d do and fuck off, get some fresh air, but—

Exhaling heavily, I turn back around and make my way to my computer. The three screens are all blank and on rest mode, but unfortunately, my notifications are on. I open my website and pull up the email app. Nothing comes through on my main account or my instant chat. Both are used by smaller paying clients, or those who found me through a simple search on the dark web. Clicking over to my alternate site, the one reserved for high-profile clients and costly requests, I find the new message.

My ass drops back onto my chair, knowing there’s no way I’ll be leaving now. I skim through the short message, my eyes narrowing as I take in the vague information.

Attn: Immediate request.

I need this woman defamed and no longer able to work within the state of Colorado. In fact, I’d prefer she be disbarred completely. Remove her notoriety and reputation by any means necessary. I will pay triple your fees.

Re: Rayvn Porter

That’s it. The entire message. One name, a few context clues, and a request for absolute destruction. My heart rate picks up in my chest at the mention of my fees. They’re already high as it is. I have the ability to charge whatever the hell I want, being the best at what I do, but triple? Shit.

I don’t need the money, but—

My eyes flick over to the photo sitting on my desk. The only personal touch in my entire office. The only person who means a single fucking thing to me. For her, I can take on another job, ruin another life. For her, I’d do it. For her, I’d do anything because I owe her everything.

It’s not enough, the voice whispers again. Will it ever be?

I stare at the photo for countless minutes. For some reason, I feel like the woman staring back at me is questioning me and my career choice. Something similar to disappointment washes over me. It’s brief. There and gone in an instant, so quick that I’m unsure if it’s real or if I’ve just imagined it.

What would she think about all this? Would she be angry with me for trading my soul and my conscience for money? Would she hate what I do? Or, would she be proud of how far I’ve come? I get lost in an endless loop of questions and self-deprecation, for a ridiculous amount of time. Time that I don’t have.

Another ping finally pulls me from my thoughts, though it’s more of a struggle to face reality than usual. My eyes find the chat box, and everything comes back like a sucker punch to the gut. I’d been so lost in the void that the memories of her always inspires, that I’d completely forgotten about the new job.

The user sent another email. This time, only containing two words. Two words phrased as a question.

Anonymous: You in?

But when a message like this comes from someone with the type of money this person is referencing, I’d be a fool to believe it’s anything other than a demand. There is no choice. There is no question as to whether or not I’ll take the job. There are no morals too high or souls too pure.

What’s one more life in the grand scheme of things when you’ve already ruined so many? What’s one more shadow in my chest where my soul used to exist, when it’s been gone for so long already?

Nothing. It’s nothing.

With that thought in mind, I reply.

Killerclown666: Send half the payment upfront. You’ll know when it’s done.

I send over the banking details, then close out of my site. I swap over to begin the search for my new target. For some reason, my palms start to sweat uncharacteristically. My fingers click against the keyboard as I type in her name.

Results pop up instantly, and it only takes a moment of searching to narrow it down to the correct person. Her information coincides with the few details left by the sender, confirming my suspicions.

Rayvn Porter.

34-year-old, female.

Criminal Defense Attorney at Attenborough Law in Denver, Colorado.

Graduated top of her class from the University of Colorado at Boulder.

Grew up in a middle-class neighborhood less than an hour from her current residence.

Raised by a single father, Harris Porter, who was a fireman for the majority of his adult life. Harris retired ten years ago and still lives in their family home.

Though she doesn’t have any social media accounts, and a lot of her information is blocked more than likely due to her high profile/high-risk job, it’s not hard to find what I need. In fact, in less than an hour, I could have access to every single facet of not only her life, but everyone she cares about as well.

A few more clicks and I gain access to her banking details. It seems Ms. Porter makes a significant amount of money at her job, and is using a large portion of it to take care of her father. My brows furrow. Is he ill? Why would she give him more than half of her income?

I pull up the official site for her law office and get my first look at her. It’s a standard photo in a long line-up of employees and partners, putting a face to the high-priced name. However, Rayvn is anything but standard.

She’s perfect.

The image is nothing more than a professional headshot, but it’s enough. Enough to give me a glimpse—a taste, of her . I do a cursory once over, noting every detail in rapid succession, committing her traits to memory.

Her—no... Rayvn’s skin is rich brown and smooth like polished moonstone. Her inky black hair is in tiny braids and pulled up into a tight bun, showing off her slender, regal neck. My mouth waters at the sight of it. She sits tall in her seat with an air of superiority, like she wants everyone to know she’s the shit, but at second glance, it’s easy to see it’s a facade. A well-perfected mask, much like my own.

Leaning in, I take her features apart, piece by tantalizing piece. Her eyes capture me first, making my breath stutter and catch in my chest. They’re large, almost disproportionately so. Wide and animal-like. They’re dark, nearing pitch black, though it could just be the lighting in the photo. They smolder like hot coals, burning so hot I can damn near feel the flames licking up my skin. There’s a curiosity to them, almost as though she’s trying to figure me out.

Her full, red lips are tipped up at the corners, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s mocking me. Through miles of space, and unfathomable time, between myself and her picture, it still feels like she knows something I don’t. My skin prickles with irritation as though I’ve been insulted. It makes my gut clench with the need to defend myself against her attack, her vitriol. I ignore it, knowing the knee-jerk reaction has far more to do with my past than with her. Still, anger and agitation claw against my skin like a crow digging its talons in.

“Ray—vn,” I breathe, testing the name on my tongue as my eyes rake over her miniaturized features on the screen.

For some reason, the sight of her inspires images of a dark forest, illuminated only by the soft white glow of the moon. The sound of branches snapping beneath my feet and heavy panting breaths fill my ears. My muscles tense and burn as though they’re depleted and crying out for oxygen from overuse. My heart thumps erratically in my chest, pounding painfully against my ribcage.

The vision is so visceral, so real, that I don’t realize I’m standing, my hands braced on the edge of my desk until the wood creaks beneath my clenched fists. Shaking my head, I suck in a gasping breath.

It wasn’t my imagination. Not fully, anyway. Whatever that was, caused a very real reaction from my body.

“Fuck,” I grunt, wiping my sweaty palms down the front of my jeans. My thumb brushes against my solid, stiff cock, and the sensation has my knees buckling. What the hell is happening to me? I have to get out of here. Clearly, I need sleep way more than I’d realized.

My eyes flit up to the screen once more, grazing across her photo. My body jolts forward in an effort to get closer. I feel like an addict getting a hit, but it’s not enough. I need more. Why? Sure she’s beautiful, but why am I having this reaction to her?

Nerves pool low in my stomach, further solidifying my decision to abandon the project for now. I don’t get nervous. More than that, I don’t have feelings when it comes to my work or my marks. They’re irrelevant and nothing more than a means to an end, but as I stare into her soulful, endless, wide eyes, I know without a shadow of a doubt, this time is different.

She’s getting to me, but I can’t let her. This job is too big, too important. Too much weighs on the outcome. No matter what the sight of her does to me, I can’t let one woman stop me when I’m so close to finally reaching my goal.

I have to end this, and that means—I also have to end Rayvn Porter.