Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
“Who has access to your code?” he asks.
“Me. My PM. Two rotating devs. Major Chen. And probably Brenda in Finance, because she stares at my budget spreadsheet like it owes her an apology.”
“Finance doesn’t fly drones,” he says.
“They kill dreams,” I say. He chuckles. Actual chuckle. Tiny smile. Achievement unlocked.
As I dig deeper, I find a weird trail of access. A login that bounced through one of our contractor portals. Familiar. Suspicious.
And then I see it.
“I’ve got something,” I whisper. “A path that links back to Stanton Dynamics.”
Crewe’s eyes sharpen. His whole vibe shifts from steady to laser-focused. Like a storm just found its center.
“Then let’s start sweeping,” he says.
And just like that, I know I’m not alone in this. Which is good… because I have a feeling things are about to get a whole lot worse before they get better.
But for the first time all day, I’m not scared. Not really.
Because he said “we.”
And I believe him.
THREE
CREWE
Group chats are the worst.
Correction: my brothers in a group chat are the worst.
I call it Hawthorne Idiots + Crewe—because I’m the one who actually answers when Mom texts. The chat blows up before I’ve finished my first cup of coffee.
NASH: u alive?
ME: Barely. A drone tried to eat me.
MACK: please say u punched it. like, physically.
SIN: tell us when you fell in love with the robot
BANKS: wait… was it at least a hot robot?
JACE: speaking of hot robots—what’s the lab girl’s name again?
COLT: shut up. Crewe, report.
I lean against the wall outside the hangar, sip my second cup—burnt, bitter, barely coffee—and type.
ME: Downed trainer. Night exfil. Rogue drone tried to hit our bird mid-rescue. Brought it back. Code looked familiar.
NASH: familiar like YouTube or familiar like call Mom?
ME: Looked like Ridgeway tech. Riley Willow’s platform. But altered.
MACK: parasite? like Banks’ ex?
BANKS: wow. okay. accurate.
SIN: what’s Willow’s damage?
JACE: is she competent, terrifying, or make-you-forget-your-own-name pretty?
COLT: is she safe?
I glance back through the hangar window. Riley’s pacing in the lab in sneakers, ponytail swinging, energy vibrating just under her skin. She's short, sharp, fast. Always thinking. Always moving. She runs hot, and I can’t seem to stop watching.
ME: She’s good. Smart. Knows her code like I know a hoist cable. Someone used her credentials last night while she was off-base. We’re tracking it.
NASH: internal?
ME: Maybe. Or a contractor breach. We found a breadcrumb.
MACK: gimme a name and an address. muffins incoming.
BANKS: I volunteer to bring flowers
JACE: Riley, right?
ME: Willow. Yeah.
There’s a beat of silence. They can smell what I’m not saying. I didn’t give them much, but they already know.
NASH: pretty?
MACK: smart pretty or ruin-your-life pretty
SIN: both is lethal
BANKS: he’s being quiet. it’s both.
JACE: describe her like we’re blind and shallow
COLT: do not.
I don’t respond.
But I think it—
Pretty like the first warm day after a hard winter. Like the feeling of breath after being underwater too long. Her eyes are blue, but not soft. They cut and spark. And when she laughs, it knocks the wind out of me because I didn’t realize I missed that sound.
Instead, I text:
ME: focused. fast. hands steady under pressure.
NASH: yeah. just googled her. she’s definitely hot.
MACK: you’re done for
SIN: proud of you, brother
BANKS: get her number in case you die
COLT: shut up. protect her.
The bay door buzzes. One of the techs waves me in. Time to test Riley’s locked code build. I text one final line before walking inside.
ME: test range in 20. She's running the demo. I’ll keep her behind my shoulder.
COLT: good.
NASH: don’t let command eat her alive
MACK: punch anyone who raises their voice
SIN: kiss anyone who deserves it
BANKS: pics
JACE: be careful. we like this one.
ME: Roger.
The test range is quiet, snow blanketing the concrete in uneven patches. Wind slices in from the ridge like it’s looking for trouble.
Riley stands just ahead of me, eyes locked on her tablet, shoulders squared like she’s got something to prove—which she does. Not to me. To whoever tried to hijack her drone.
She walks me through the locked code again, double-checked, verified, squeaky clean.
“You sure you want to do this?” I ask. “You’ve got nothing to prove.”
She lifts her chin, stubborn and fierce. “Oh, but I do. Someone twisted my work to hurt people. They don’t get to hide behind my name.”
The drone waits on the pad, ready to launch. Riley touches it the way some people touch family heirlooms—gentle but fierce, with this weird kind of affection. She talks to it like it understands.
And maybe it does.
“Locked build,” she calls. “Logging begins now.”
Major Chen nods. “Proceed.”
The drone lifts off. Steady. Beautiful. Everything works like it’s supposed to. I’ve seen a lot of tech—but watching her code do what it’s meant to do? It’s like watching a rescue happen before the first call is even made.
It hovers. Adjusts for wind. Glides like it owns the air.
Then… something’s off.
The first sign is small. A delay in response. A twitch at the edge of the turn.