2. Calista

2

CALISTA

I look up at the New York head office for a banking client I serve and catch sight of my reflection in the mirrored exterior. My custom Hugo Boss suit fits to perfection. My almost-floor-length black Burberry overcoat is as soft as butter and warmer than ten layers of cashmere. And my red-soled shoes may have a four-inch heel, but I can still sprint in them.

I might need to after what I'm about to do.

Because this client is getting on my last nerve. They called me in because they keep having breaches and then danced around implementing the solutions and paying my fees. And security is my middle name.

Actually, it's Valentine. Calista Valentine Moray.

But in the world of high-tech fraud, I'm one of the very best there is. And I'm about to show these elite snobby bank men why there isn't just a problem with their digital security, but one with their physical security too.

I've already done my research. The building plans were easy to acquire. A reconnaissance trip to a coffee shop next door to the building two weeks ago revealed an HR manager with a love of fly fishing. He wore his badge on his shirt pocket. Fred Huntley.

Everyone in this building has the same email structure. First name. Last Name. At company name. So, Fred received an invitation to enter a fly-fishing competition. Took me all of five minutes to use a graphic design app to pull together the log cabin, in the lush mountains, with lake and river views.

A fisherman's delight.

And Fred fell for it.

Once he opened this email and clicked on the attachment, the virus code I wrote activated on his machine. When he logged in, it connected me through him to the bank network. It was the easiest of pickings. Seating plans. Calendars.

I've planned my route up to the CEO's office with utmost precision, and I know he'll be here until eleven, when he'll take a town car to the newly opened private-members club with a quarter-of-a-million-dollar initiation fee and twenty thousand in annual dues. Once there, he'll meet with a political action committee lobbyist regarding how to minimize government oversight and banking regulation enforcement.

I have a security badge with an intern's name on it. You have to be careful to not put someone well-known by the organization on it. Nobody remembers the names of the interns who turn over so quickly, but it needs to be a real person, because there's every chance someone will type it into an employee list if security asks to see it.

I pull out my phone and call my own voicemail so my screen actually shows a real call, then step into the lobby with it pressed to my ear.

"Trevor," I say, loudly enough to be heard, not loudly enough to be memorable or annoying. "No, I just got to the office. I know I'm late. Sorry, I'm running. Be there in two minutes. I made a stupid shoe choice."

Dramatically, I check my watch and reach for my pass.

"No. I'm in the building. I—" I pull the phone away from my ear and pretend to wince at the imaginary yelling at I'm getting.

I present my badge to the scanner, and it beeps red. I know damn well it won't open the gate. It's a piece of laminated plastic made to look like everyone else's badge.

Attempting to look flustered, I try it again, then glance at the queue forming behind me.

I look to the security guard, trying to look as desolate as I can. "I'm sorry. Could you?" I gesture to the gate.

He holds his own card to the gate to let me in. "Come and get that card looked at later," he says.

I nod, mouth the words thank you , and hurry through.

"No, I'm at the elevators. Might lose you, but I'll see you in another two minutes if we don't stop at every floor on the way up."

I hang up the phone, move the badge to my pants pocket so it's covered by the hem of the jacket, and step into the crowded elevator. Slinking into the back corner, I keep my head down. Not so down that I look suspicious, but down enough to avoid eye contact.

People mindlessly chatter.

Boring shit.

How was your evening?

An update on Josh's little indoor league game.

Someone is feeling better after a cold.

Someone telling another banker that they've had a positive update on the Allastrom thing , and it should be a go. I enter Allastrom into my phone to check whether what I just heard was a security breach.

The elevator empties as it gets higher.

Finally, there's only me and an older lady in the elevator. "You're brave wearing those shoes in the snow," she says.

I chuckle. "I thought the snow would have been cleared by now." I don't need to tell her that I have a town car circling the block until it's time for me to leave. I don't drive in Manhattan unless I absolutely have to.

Hell, I don't even come north of Santa Cruz on the opposite coast if I can help it. I prefer the heat of sunshine on my skin for the majority of the year.

I glance at her sensible winter boots. "Bet your feet are nice and warm in those."

"Hmm. Got ‘em on sale maybe a decade ago. One of my best no-remorse purchases."

"I can see why."

I watch the numbers count upwards. Three floors away. I need two things to happen: Her to get off the elevator at the floor she pressed the button for. And her to not ask me why I'm here.

Energy vibrates through me. I resist the urge to run my thumb across the pads of my fingers, something I do when I get excited.

See, I was interviewed by Forbes just last year about how I made such a success of myself at thirty-three years of age. How I built my security company into one of the most successful. I gave them an answer that matches the facade.

I'm a well-dressed, capable, results-driven businesswoman with a knack for understanding the psychology and technology that enables breaches. Doesn't hurt that I'm considered good looking, looks I play down to be taken seriously, but play up for the magazines.

But what they don't know, what they don't see, is that I'm still a hacker, not just at heart, but in practice.

I love the thrill of blowing something wide open, of breaking into places I shouldn't be. Of demonstrating why access is always possible. Of understanding system vulnerabilities. Of leveraging social engineering tactics to bend human nature to my will. It's how I stay sharp, witness emerging trends, and navigate my clients through the most serious of data breaches and future protections.

Like everything I've ever done, my professional organization is a legitimate front to my private illegal enterprise.

Because until society finally realizes that we need to redistribute wealth in this goddamn country, I'm going to take matters into my own hands.

No one would suspect one of the world's leading cybersecurity experts.

Which is why the Wilders Bank of Manhattan, the private bank of the super-rich that called me in but didn't like what I had to say, is about to find out why I'm right and they were wrong.

They haven't paid last month's invoice, even though the diagnostic work was completed and exceptional in its recommendations. But I'm not worried about the money. Truth is, I can cover it a hundred thousand times over.

If they don't pay, I could even hack in and take it myself. And about four million more. We'll wash it clean through our legal enterprises, then donate it to an accelerator lab that's decided to break away from the Silicon Valley crowd by setting up in Memphis. Keeping skills local and rents livable but attracting brilliant minds to do good social shit.

It's the perfect philanthropic endeavor Valentine Security can get behind.

Plus, there's a phenomenal woman in charge of the whole thing, and we all know women only get access to less than five percent of all the social investment capital because douche bros love nothing more than giving money to other douche bros.

I guess the sweaty scent of testosterone is more reassuring than the power of a woman's highly targeted brain.

Another reason why I hate men most days.

"I had to get a little heater for under my desk because the office is always so cold on a Monday morning," the lady says, bringing me back to the reason I'm here.

"Layers are my solution," I say, pointing to the champagne-colored cashmere sweater I'm wearing beneath my jacket.

"That color's pretty on you." The elevator starts to slow. "Do you know where you're going?"

I smile. "Yeah, I'm good. I might come looking for you to steal those boots so I can make it home, though."

She laughs at my joke. "I'll give you a fair fight. You have a good day."

"Thank you. You too."

The elevator doors close, and my heart gives a little skip. I catch the blurry outline of myself in the slightly warped elevator doors.

You've got this, Cal.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I take it out and check it, surprised I got any reception in the elevator.

Anonymous: You think you can hide in New York. I'll find you, bitch.

The band around my chest tightens. He's good, I'll give him that. I'm assuming it's a he. Only a man would use as many sexist insults as this number has sent me.

This is message seventeen. I laughed off the first message, thinking it was some kind of phishing scam, trying to get me to respond. It was vague, could have been meant for anybody. Recently, they've become more focused.

I've reported it to the police, but as with most cyber-crime, they have little to no interest in pursuit. Apparently, I have to be physically harmed for them to take it seriously.

After the last one, I made a snap decision. I flew here for the sake of this job. I checked into a hotel last night using my credit card because I didn't take him seriously enough. But perhaps I should. Perhaps I should drop off the grid for a little while to give the private investigator time to find my harasser.

When this is over, I'll get the town car to drive me to my hotel. I'll pack up and use the subway to get to the train station. I'll pay cash to get the train to Asbury Park.

And I'll attempt to make some kind of peace with my mother so I can stay there. I'm not sure what made me do the huge detour last night to visit the exterior of my old house. I haven't set foot in it since that horrific day and Mom's ultimatum.

When the elevator doors open, I take a deep breath, forget about the text message, and walk confidently to the left, head held high. One of the tricks to making people believe you belong anywhere is to walk with purpose. Head up. Smile. Make eye contact. Unless you're in an elevator with a captive audience. Then, look down.

But in the hallway of an open-plan office, no one is going to get out of their seat and chase you down, even if they could swear on a Bible that they never saw you before.

Now that I'm out of the elevator dead zone, I hit Send on the search engine for Allastrom and find they're one of the last major American steel plants. The company is in all kinds of trouble and looking for an investor or buyer. Looks like they're trying to avoid being sold to overseas investors.

Interesting.

Wouldn't be hard to use the access I have to their bank systems to narrow down the likely list of purchasers from their client list and invest in some stock, if possible.

After all, it's only insider trading if you're actually on the inside.

In my head, I follow the path on my mental blueprint. Left out of the elevator. First left. Third left. Then, right.

The furnishings change. Practical utilitarian carpet tile turns plush. Whitewashed walls with pedestrian prints become wood- paneled with real art. I glance up at the peacock-blue modern art piece.

"Nice," I mutter to myself.

A contemporary glass sculpture sits on a plinth. It reminds me of fulgurites made when lightning hits sand. Bet it costs thousands of dollars when you can make them for free with a length of rebar, a beach, and a lightning storm.

"I'll be with you in a moment," a woman says, walking through with two cups of coffee in her hands.

"You headed in there?" I tip my head to the wooden door of the CEO's office. "Let me get the door for you."

"Oh…no…I mean…okay, yes, thank you."

I glance at my watch. Seven minutes from start to finish.

I'm getting slow.

I smile at that thought as I push the door open and follow her inside.

"Mr. Moore," I say.

Shock graces both their faces when I sit on the chair opposite his fancy solid wooden desk. It's one of those antiques, with dark green leather in the center. Bet it weighs a ton and had to be brought up here on the backs of hardworking men earning minimum wage. Or craned up, blocking the street outside while everyday New Yorkers went about their jobs.

"Have we met?" he asks.

"Should I call security?" his assistant asks.

"Feel free to call Korey Fuller, senior vice president of risk," I say. "Oh, and Jane Galle, head of security. I happen to know that Gord Windcroft, your head of legal counsel, is on vacation skiing in Banff. Thank you, Liesel."

Her eyes widen at the use of her name, but I glance back to Carl Moore. "I'm Calista Moray, CEO of Valentine Security. I've been having some issues getting your team to understand just how wide open to risk you are. And despite me providing them advice, they've yet to implement any solutions or pay me."

"I'm not sure this is the right way to make your point," he says, but he shoos Liesel out of the room with his hand.

I'm mad for her.

"Thank you, Liesel," I say softly.

She leaves as he picks up his coffee and takes a sip.

"So, tell me, Ms.…"

"Call me Calista."

He nods. "Calista. What was this stunt supposed to prove?"

Once I've run through the ease with which I found a way into the company, from which I remove all mention of specific employees, Moore looks uneasy. By the time I mention that I need to keep the meeting brief because of his meeting with the lobbyist and that he's probably super-busy working on the financials for a takeover of Allastrom, he's gone gray.

Well, grayer.

And then, with two words, he strips away all pretenses of who actually holds the power in this room: "How much?"