He didn’t rent this apartment; he owned it, and he had upgraded it into a smart home. Nearly everything in it could be controlled from his phone. And perhaps now from someone else’s phone.
A TV, suspended from the ceiling and serving the dining area, switched on and began to channel surf ceaselessly, images flickering by so fast that the eye could not make sense of them.
The microwave began to rattle against the cabinetry in which it was mounted, and the coated-metal walls of its interior appeared to be—and sounded as if they were—buckling. Which made no sense. Appliances linked to the internet could be remotely controlled, but they couldn’t be forced to operate beyond the limits of their design and tested to destruction.
He went to the refrigerator and opened the freezer drawer on the bottom. From behind the other contents, he retrieved a half-gallon container of chocolate-almond ice cream and a much smaller package of breaded fish sticks.
A kaleidoscopic montage of images continued to flash across the TV screen. Abruptly sound exploded from the set as well, a high-volume cacophony of ever-changing music and a word or two each from countless voices in an incoherent babble.
As Kenny put the ice cream and the fish sticks in a grocery-store tote bag, Leigh Ann appeared, radiant even though now fully clothed. She shouted, “What the fuck?”
He grabbed her by one arm and hurried her out of the kitchen, through the dining area, across an open living room. He heard the safety glass in the microwave shatter.
As they reached the apartment door, the fire sprinklers blew out their wax seals, and water cascaded. Every apartment in this converted warehouse featured sprinklers, but they were supposed to discharge only when heat melted the seals.
In the third-floor public hallway, Kenny had second thoughts about using the elevator—a potential trap—and led Leigh Ann to the stairs. They raced down to the basement, where he’d parked his Lincoln Nautilus.
As they crossed that windowless realm toward the SUV, overhead fluorescent panels winked off, and another bank of fire sprinklers showered cold water on them. Enough light faded down the garage access ramp from the street that they could still make their way to the Nautilus, although by the time they climbed into it, they were soaked to the skin.
Kenny put the grocery tote in Leigh Ann’s lap, started the engine, switched on the windshield wipers, and drove through the indoor rain, up the ramp, into the stormless day.
She said, “What the hell was that all about?”
“A job I took.”
“What job?”
“This über-rich guy’s getaway ranch in Montana.”
“What über-rich guy?” she asked as he switched off the wipers.
“Liam O’Hara. You probably never heard of him.”
“Don’t treat me like arm candy. Of course I’ve heard of him. But I always thought he was one of the white-hat billionaires.”
“Maybe he is. That wasn’t him screwing with me back there. Some internet buccaneer took over all the tech on O’Hara’s ranch. I was hired to find the bastard’s footprints and track him to source.”
“But he found you instead.”
“Instantly. Like he’s the god of hackers.”
“What was all that about pestilence and vermin, filth that has to be flushed away?”
“Best guess is he’s not just a black-hat master of cyberspace but also a raving lunatic.”
After a silence, she said, “You better take me home.”
“That’s what I’m doing. Where do you live?”
She gave him the address, which he knew. It was three blocks from the club where they had met, in an established neighborhood of graceful old houses, where there was no such thing as a real-estate bargain.
“You live with your folks?”
“It’s my place. And, no, I wasn’t born to money. I’ve developed a slew of damn successful apps.”
“What’re you—twenty-five?”
“Twenty-seven. I started when I was eighteen.”
“Started what?”
“Making serious money.”
He glanced at her. Leigh Ann’s hair was plastered to her head, and water dripped from the tip of her nose.
“You look like a mermaid.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you look wet but nice.”
“One thing you’re not is a master of the compliment. Listen, I like you a lot. I never jump into bed with a guy on the first meet. Ninety-eight percent of the guys I’ve dated, I never go to bed with at all. Or date more than twice. You’re not the usual Emerald City jackass. You’re smart and sweet. But I don’t need big drama in my life. Things are smooth with me, and I prefer them smooth.”