Page 56 of Rebel
Then I catch a flash of motion. Gentry himself, older, smooth, laughing at some investor’s joke. He slides a keycard into his pocket before heading toward the back hall.
Rebel shadows him, the hem of her gown whispering across marble. She moves like smoke, elegant, precise, and lethal.
Divine murmurs, “You’ve got ten minutes.”
I track Gentry’s bodyguards, two, maybe three. One breaks off to make a call. I drift closer, keeping them in sight.
Then Divine’s tone sharpens.“Hold up. There’s another signal. Someone else is in the system.”
“What do you mean,someone else?” I ask.
“Another user is accessing the same terminal. Unscheduled. External IP.”
Rebel’s voice cuts in, low. “It’s not me.”
“Then who the hell?” The lights flicker. Once. Twice. The sound of laughter covers the hum of security feeds powering down. The gala crowd barely notices. They’re too drunk, too rich, too safe.
But I see the way Gentry stiffens. The way the guards reach for their earpieces.
“Divine,” I hiss. “Talk to me.”
“Someone’s overriding the system. They just locked the primary network. You’re trapped in a live infiltration with a second hacker, and whoever they are, they’re faster.”
“Can you trace them?”
“Not yet. But Carter…”
“What?”
“They’re not working for the Vultures. They’re working against them.”
Rebel’s whisper bleeds static. “Then who the hell are they?”
Before I can answer, Gentry turns the corner, and the barrel of a silenced pistol presses against my spine.
“Funny thing about secrets,” a voice murmurs behind me. “They always come due.”
The crowd keeps laughing. The chandeliers keep glittering. And somewhere down the hall, Rebel’s footsteps stop.
16
REBEL
The voice behind Carter says, “Funny thing about secrets, they always come due,” and my feet stop like I’ve hit black ice.
I don’t blink, nor do I breathe. I track the angle of the barrel pressing into Carter’s back, the tightness in his jaw, the way his hand lifts, empty and patient. The chandeliers drip light, violins skate over money. No one notices we’re a heartbeat from bleeding out on marble.
“Smile, Mrs. Cavanaugh,” Carter says without moving his mouth. “We’re rich and bored.”
“Bored is dead,” I murmur. “Tilt right on three.”
Divine’s whisper hisses in my ear.“Rebel, do not engage. I repeat, do not…”
“Three,” I say, and fling my champagne flute.
It arcs like a glittering comet and detonates against the gunman’s wrist. Carter twists, catches the pistol, snaps the slide with a clean, brutal motion that’s part dance,part war. The man snarls, tries to head-butt, but Carter gives him the wall instead. House security hesitates, eyes glancing toward the donors before they act, trained to protect wallets before lives. The quartet plays on like they’re paid not to notice.
Screams bloom a second later, like flowers after a frost. Security starts shouting. A donor shouts for his driver, as if money can valet the apocalypse.
