Chapter 18 - Back-channel

Chapter 18: Backchannel

Marcus

I shouldn’t be doing this.

Not because it’s illegal, though it’s probably skimming the edge of a dozen internal policies, but because it’s personal.

Too personal.

I open a secure line, type in the credentials, and wait for the call to connect.

It rings twice before a voice answers.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the Bureau’s favorite reclusive disaster. You lose a bet or something?”

“Hello to you too, Emerson,” I mutter.

Emerson Wu used to run cyber intel for the FBI before burning out and retiring into the warm, chaotic arms of open-source journalism and encrypted podcasting.

These days, he mostly freelances for anyone who can afford to indulge his paranoia, in order to access his incredible skills.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re about to ask me for something you can’t put in writing?”

“Because I am.”

“Delightful.” I hear typing, then the hiss of a soda can opening. “Hit me.”

“I need a background sweep. Quiet. Deep web. No agency tags. She’s using the alias Sophia Sterling.”

I can hear the soft clacking of his keyboard and then a soft whistle. “That my friend, is the esteemed journalist Sophia Chen.”

My stomach tightens. “You know her?”

“Not personally, but I’ve read her stuff. She’s sharp and has a knack for seeing beyond the surface. She wrote that takedown piece on the Fremont Group laundering operation. Took out a whole hedge fund with one exposé and a pixelated flow chart. You don’t forget that kind of chaos. If I had time for such nonsense I’d have a crush on her.”

“Yeah,” I say slowly. “That tracks.”

Emerson keeps typing. I hear keys clicking like rapid gunfire. “This for a case, or a… situation?”

“It’s both.”

He snorts. “You always were efficient. But I’m going to assume mostly situation.”

I glance out the office window, watching the traffic blur below. I may as well tell him. Otherwise he’ll just hack into the FBI database for the information.

“Someone’s using my matchmaking service to profile targets. There have been two deaths. Maybe more. She’s inside.”

“Inside as in… a source?”

I hesitate. “Inside as in undercover. Like me.”

Another pause.

Then Emerson mutters, “Jesus, Marcus. You’re running parallel ops with a civilian?”

“She’s not just a civilian. She’s a trained investigator. With motive.”

“You sure she’s not investigating you?”

That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?

“No,” I admit. “But she hasn’t run. She’s not sloppy. And she’s too close to the center to pull out now. She wouldn’t even if I tell her to.”

“Well,” Emerson says, voice dry, “At least you’re consistent. Still putting your faith in women who can ruin you.”

I don’t rise to the bait. “Can you compile a full dossier on her or not?”

He sighs. “Already started. And I’m sure you meant to say ‘will you’ instead of ‘can you’, because we both know I can.”

“Ping me when you find something,” I say, getting ready to close the line.

“You got it, Blackwood. And hey, try not to fall in love with her. Journalists are notoriously bad partners.”

Click.

I lean back in my chair, exhaling slowly.

The problem with investigating someone you’re attracted to isn’t just the ethical minefield. It’s the blur. The way every detail gets colored by touch. By voice. By memory.

It’s knowing what their laugh sounds like when they’re not on guard. It’s remembering how their fingers trembled, just slightly, under yours. It’s the way her voice softens when she forgets to keep her armor on.

It’s not supposed to matter.

But it does.

I stand and cross to the filing cabinet.

It’s biometric-locked, the kind of thing the company pretends is for privacy compliance, but it’s mostly for hiding my own secrets.

Pulling out Pemberton’s file, I head back to my desk. The man was filthy rich, but hasn’t done a day of real work in his life. Coasting along on his family’s fortune.

He was a longtime client of Platinum Connections. We do our best to screen all applicants and keep out gold diggers. In all honesty, that was his best chance of finding someone who’d put up with him.

We gave finding him a match our best shot, but his reputation preceded him and his meeting with Sophia was the first one he’d had in months.

They didn’t hit it off and as far as I know they never met outside these premises. She had no way of knowing where he lived.

If Emerson’s right and Sophia took down Fremont and survived the fallout, then we’ve got a shot. Together. Maybe even a real chance at cracking this thing wide open.

But if she’s hiding something deeper?

If there’s another agenda beneath her agenda?

Then I’ll be the one who handed her the whole operation wrapped in a bow. Along with the reputation of the company I co-own.

I look at my screen when Emerson’s tracker pings. sweep in progress. encrypted sources accessed.

It’s beginning.

I close my eyes for a second and breathe.

This isn’t supposed to be personal.

But somehow, it already is.