Page 7 of Dozer

"High pay."

Even better.

"And I need someone I trust completely and soon."

There it is. Whatever this mission was, he’d only have his most trusted on. Color me curious. I want to hear more.

"Define soon."

"Today, ideally."

I look at my screen. At the note that says Told you I'd be back, from a program that has, in fact, come back, exactly as promised, to a payroll database that processes maybe four hundred employees and honestly does not deserve this level of drama.

"I can be off this by tonight," I say. It isn't strictly true. It's true enough. Somebody else can finish chasing this particular ghost, or it can sit for a week, or — realistically — the client will call three more times panicking before I finish no matter what I tell them right now, and none of that changes my answer.

"You're not going to ask what it is?"

"I figured you might not be able to tell me over the phone, but I’m asking now. What is it?"

"Escort job. High-value cargo, D.C.-bound. I’m thinking it might lead to a possible permanent position after with my company doing forensic based jobs, if it goes the way I think it will."

A permanent position. The two words settle over the room with surprising weight.

Permanent.

I stare at the malware still running on my monitor, but the code blurs together. My brain has already wandered somewhere else entirely.

A permanent job.

I hadn't realized how desperately I needed to hear those words until now. Three weeks earlier I walked out of the Department of Defense carrying one cardboard box, one coffee mug that reads Trust Me, I'm a Forensic Nerd, and a plant that had somehow survived four office moves and one unfortunate intern who'd nearly loved it to death with overwatering.

I’d been receiving emails for over a month about government downsizing, agency restructuring and budget realignment. Every email used different words to describe exactly the same thing before I got my formal letter laying me off. I read between the lines.

You're no longer necessary.

The irony hasn't escaped me. Nine years of helping catch cyber criminals, exposing fraud, recovering deleted evidence, assisting federal investigations... Gone because someone I've never met moved a number from one column of a spreadsheet to another. The money was gone and therefore, so was my position.

No one once questioned my work. In fact, every review I’d ever had, and the subsequent promotions showed how beneficial I was. They simply eliminated the position.

I understand budgets and politics but, that doesn't mean it hasn't hurt. The hardest part isn't losing the paycheck, but in losing my purpose. Every morning for nearly a decade I clipped my badge to the empty lanyard hanging beside the front door before I'd even brushed my teeth.

Now freelance work is what will keep the lights on. I'd never admit it to Hunter, but I've started doing math in the middle of the night. Not the fun kind involving encryption algorithms or forensic reconstruction. The terrifying kind… budgets. The line items weren’t fun either. Words like mortgage, utilities, insurance, and student loans. I always land on the same conclusion.

I have time but not much. Enough to find a way to pay all my bills. Probably. Maybe… hopefully.

Hunter clears his throat softly through the speaker. "Kenzi?"

"I'm here."

"You got quiet, again."

I smile to myself. "I was just thinking."

"I know that look."

"You literally can't see me, Hunter. We’re on the phone."

"I've known you long enough to know what look is currently on your face."