This building, unlike the theatre in Oslo, didn’t bother with hidden cameras. There were four security cameras that Brenden spotted without trying, including one right over the front door, a box half the size of his fist, colored to blend in with the stone work.

  Harriet Winslow swept up to the door. It opened without hesitation, allowing her to step through without breaking her pace.

  Brenden hurried after her. He wondered if the door would shut in his face, but the software running it was of the same high quality as everything else he had learned about the Winslows. Because he was with Harriet Winslow, it let him through.

  There was a guard in a uniform standing on the other side of the door, but all he did was smile in welcome at Harriet Winslow, who was already moving past him.

  “Where is Sakow, Pattison?” she called.

  “He was heading for his office to meet you, ma’am!” Pattison called after her. He nodded at Brenden as he passed.

  If the guard wasn’t going to do any scanning it meant they had passive scanners already in place. There was no way they’d let a total stranger walk around their command center without even minimal scanning, even if he was with the owner’s wife. That meant the scanners were probably a part of the archway, ahead. There was a lintel over the broad steps leading up to the drop shafts. Possibly there.

  Or built into the walls themselves. If they had constructed this building themselves, the Winslows could have included anything they wanted.

  Brenden was here on legitimate business, so he didn’t sweat over identifying everything that was pointed at him. Harriet Winslow was his security pass. He hurried to catch up with her.

  The security manager was a grizzled veteran of off-world campaigns. He had a bionic leg that hadn’t been fitted properly and made him limp. He’d probably lost the leg wearing a spacesuit that had been compromised during a battle. Thirty years ago, battle suits would contract to preserve integrity and air. A damaged limb was severed by the suit, to preserve the seal, right there and then. Massive stay-happy and pain-killer injections would keep the soldier unaware of the trauma until he was picked up.

  Suits had improved since then, but because the veterans of the old campaigns were mercenaries rather than state soldiers, many of them had never been properly rehabilitated.

  Uncas Sakow thrust his hand out to Brenden when Harriet Winslow introduced him. He sized Brenden up in one sweeping glance. Brenden didn’t know what Sakow thought, for he didn’t give away anything. “The Majestic is part of a passive watch system we set up,” Sakow said, once Harriet explained why they were there. “Kid called Meadows runs the show down there.”

  “Reliable?” Brenden asked.

  “Gifted,” Sakow replied. “He actually likes what he does.”

  That probably meant he wouldn’t put his job in jeopardy, or grow bored and miss things.

  Sakow limped over to the door. “Let’s check with him,” he said.

  Harriet stayed alongside Brenden this time, as they follow Sakow through the building to old-fashioned stairs. Sakow gave them a small smile. “My leg doesn’t like the drop shafts,” he explained, as he gripped the bannister and hobbled down the steps one awkward lunge at a time.

  Stairs didn’t seem to agree with him, either.

  They walked down three flights, telling Brenden there was more to this building below ground than there was above. That wasn’t unusual these days, but none of the floors they were passing now had shown in the electronic directory Brenden had glanced at on the way through the foyer.

  The room Sakow showed them to was dim, with screens providing most of the light. “This is every passive watch we control, right here,” Sakow said. He nodded toward a young guy who was stepping out of a more normal-looking office tucked behind a big glass window. “That’s Meadows,” he said.

  “He runs this place by himself?” Brenden asked.

  “There’s a staff, but they keep normal business hours,” Sakow explained. “Meadows,” he continued as the man reached them. “Someone hijacked one of your feeds and published it.”

  Meadow’s mouth dropped open. “That’s not possible,” he said slowly, shaking his head. “We control the feeds very carefully. Every minute is accounted for. I personally oversee the scrubbing.”

  “How often do you scrub?” Brenden asked. If it was once a year, then the old footage could have been lifted and duplicated without anyone knowing.

  “Daily,” Meadows said flatly. “We keep footage for a month, then the oldest 24 hours is scrubbed from the archive at midnight each night.” He was speaking more to Harriet Winslow and Sakow, than Brenden, but his gaze flickered over Brenden as he spoke.

  Meadows knew who Harriet was, then. He was keeping his boss and the owner of his company happy.

  “So footage is actually stored for thirty days,” Brenden clarified. It was still time enough for some enterprising soul to raid and collect what he needed.

  “The footage with nothing interesting is kept for thirty days,” Meadows clarified. He waved behind him toward all the screens. “This is passive watch, but the software analyzing the feeds is very sophisticated. It flags anything unusual, so one of the daily tasks is to check what has been flagged. Anything interesting is put aside. Storage for that archive is permanent. It is also the most secure location on our servers.”

  “What if the system flashes something that is more urgent?” Harriet Winslow asked. “Something that needs immediate response?”

  “There’s always someone on shift here,” Meadows replied. “They would arrange for response teams, if they were needed, but in my seven years here, that has never happened. They call this the graveyard watch for a reason.” His smile was small, but there was genuine amusement there.

  Sakow scrubbed at his bristly face. “What about the Majestic Theatre?” he asked.

  “Oslo?” Meadows clarified. “There hasn’t been anything flagged from there for months and months. Over a year, now I think back.”

  “Then there’s a flaw in your software,” Brenden growled. “Something happened last month that should have at least been flagged.”

  Meadows pressed his lips together. “You have to understand,” he said slowly, “the programs we use are very sophisticated. They’ve been built upon military grade applications that have been developed in the field to meet exacting standards. This wasn’t developed just last year, or even in the last decade. The algorithms and the subroutines have been around for over a century and with each new generation they are improved upon. If something happened a month ago at the Majestic Theatre, the system would have picked it up.” Meadows shrugged. “I think your information must be faulty. Or the footage that was published was faked.”

  Brenden sighed mentally. “Not possible. I was in that footage and I was at the theatre.”

  Meadows studied Brenden openly. “I begin to understand,” he said. “The footage compromises you in some way. That’s why it’s out there and that’s why you’re tracking it back.” Then he stirred and stood a little bit straighter. “But I assure you, nothing has been smuggled out of this office.”

  “Let’s just review the archives, shall we?” Sakow said gently.

  Meadows shrugged again, smiling. “By all means,” he said affably. “It is an opportunity to prove I am right.”

  * * * * *

  It took Brenden five hours to review all the footage and in that time, Harriet Winslow didn’t leave. She sat on a chair behind him, leaving him to work without interruption. Sometimes she went and found herself coffee or other refreshments and Sakow brought her lunch on a tray.

  Meadows stayed in his office, his door shut, bent over reading boards. Brenden didn’t notice him look up once.

  Finally, Brenden sat back, the chair creaking as it accommodated the movement. He blew out his breath.

  “There is nothing there?” Harriet Winslow asked.

  “That’s the problem,” Brenden said, studying Meadows behind the glass. “There should be.”

  Harriet moved over to the station next to the one Brenden was using and pulled out the chair there. She turned it to face him and sat down with the effortless grace that made watching her move so pleasant. She gave him a small smile. “Perhaps this is the wrong feed?”

  “It’s the same one. The same angle. I went back to the three minutes when I was behind the theatre. I’m not in the footage. Neither is the…other person.”

  She pressed her lips together. “Has it been tampered with?” she asked. “That’s the only other possibility.”

  “It is,” Brenden agreed. “But if this has been doctored, then they’re better than me at it. I can’t find a single trace of changes, not even in the source coding.”

  Harriet considered. “The tape you have can’t be a fake. You were there and you remember being there. Someone recorded you behind the theatre and you say that this is the same angle. So the footage did exist. It’s just not here now. Ergo, someone did tamper with the footage. They removed the vital three minutes.”

  He liked that she wasn’t questioning whether the incriminating footage actually existed. He had given her a copy and although she hadn’t looked at it, she trusted him. That was unusual.

  She tapped the desk with her fingers. It was a quick nervous mannerism, unlike every other studied and graceful gesture she made. Her attention had been diverted by this. Brenden had a feeling that didn’t happen often with her. She would need laser focus to get through the sort of day that Winslow’s business affairs would create.

  “It has to be one of Meadow’s people,” she said at last. “As much as I don’t like that conclusion, there is no other.” She looked at Brenden for confirmation.

  “You’re right. It’s not a happy conclusion,” he said. “Would Meadows be willing to give you access to his personnel files?”

  Harriet got to her feet. “Let’s find out.”

  * * * * *

  Meadows wasn’t happy. Not in the slightest. “I hand-picked every one of my team!” he protested. “I would trust them with my life!”

  “What you know about them has changed since you brought them aboard,” Brenden said, as gently as he could. “Life happens. People get sick, get old, relatives get into trouble. Addictions, criminal problems. Hell, someone might even be putting the squeeze on one of them for some indiscretion they’d rather have buried. If you haven’t monitored your people’s personal lives since you hired them, I guarantee that something has changed for at least one of them, that they haven’t shared with you. Whatever that is, it’s leverage. Either for someone else to use against them, or for them to justify stealing security footage.”

  Meadows blinked. His hand was fisted at his side and his keen glance was inward. “I will talk to them,” he said stiffly.

  “I’ll sit in with you,” Brenden added.

  “No.” Meadows said it flatly. “You’re not a part of this company. I have no idea who you are besides being Mrs. Winslow’s guest. No offence, but I don’t think it’s fair to expect people to air their personal problems in front of a stranger.”

  Harriet laid her hand on Brenden’s arm. “I’ll do it,” she said softly. “If that will satisfy you?”

  The touch of her hand was soft, barely felt through the layers of jacket and shirt, but warmth seemed to radiate through his arm, anyway. Brenden forced himself not to look at her hand. “Very well,” he said, trying to sound gracious about it. But the delay irked him. He couldn’t demand they pull everyone into the office on their day off. They would wait until everyone arrived on Monday. Personnel interviews took time. Brenden had done enough of them himself to know how all the delicate stepping around of sensibilities could chew up the minutes. This would take days.

  “How many staff?” he asked Meadows.

  “Seventeen, who work directly with the feeds. Twenty-three counting support staff.” Meadows sounded almost truculent. He didn’t like having even Harriet Winslow involved.

  He was protecting his team, Brenden reminded himself. It was something Brenden would probably do, too. He would be pissed as hell if a stranger stepped onto the station and declared that someone in Brenden’s security staff was corrupt.

  But it didn’t take away the fact. Someone had screwed with the tape and someone had smuggled out footage that made Brenden and vampires in general look very bad indeed. This was the source of the video, so that someone was from here.

  Brenden tried to forgive Meadows for his prickly defensiveness. He glanced at the time readout on the wall. “I appreciate your time,” he told Meadows, “and the use of your facilities.”

  “We can conduct the interviews over the next few days,” Harriet said, “and I’ll let you know the results.”

  Meadows was still scowling.

  “One more thing,” Brenden said. “It’s unrelated, but I’d very much like to know. Where is the camera hidden, behind the theatre? I turned that place upside down and scanned it every which way and I couldn’t find it. It was brilliantly hidden.”

  Meadow’s face changed. He brightened. “Thank you,” he said, with sincere pleasure. “I developed that camera myself. It has a one millimeter aperture and it’s only three millimeters in total width.”

  Brenden was startled. He let his admiration show. “I hope you patented it,” he said.

  Meadow’s cheeks turned pink. “The size isn’t anything new. I couldn’t patent it, but I did patent the shielding system. The camera won’t show up on infrared, ultra violet, gamma or any of the usual scans.” He lifted his hands, excitement energizing him. “I designed the camera specifically for that placement. Oslo is usually cold, so I shielded for heat, too.”

  “That’s why I couldn’t find it,” Brenden said. “I’ve never seen a camera shielded for heat.”

  “I had to find a way to mask the heat differential,” Meadows said. “The smaller the camera, the hotter it runs. At three millimeters, it would have melted the ice on the outside of the façade where it was mounted.”

  “Which was where?” Brenden asked curiously.

  Meadows laughed. “I would love to tell you, but the camera is still operational, so it falls under trade secrets for right now.”

  Harriet Winslow rested her hand on his arm again and once more, the heat seemed to penetrate to his bones. No shielding there, he thought.

  “I’ll take you home,” Harriet told him softly. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Meadows. I will see you on Monday.”

  Meadows nodded and Brenden added his own thanks, before letting Harriet lead him out of the building. She had failed to remember—or perhaps she simply didn’t know—that he could have seen himself home from the spot he was standing on.

  So why hadn’t he pointed that out, found an unobstructed corner and jumped back to the station from here?

  He was very aware that his arm still felt warm, where she had touched it.

  Chapter Three

  Berlin, Germany-Austria Confederacy, 2263 A.D.

  The interior of the limousine seemed to be even warmer than before. Brenden shrugged off his coat as soon as the door closed and tossed it to one side.

  Harriett was watching him closely. “You don’t feel the heat,” she pointed out.

  He looked her in the eye. “It depends on what sort of heat you’re talking about.”

  She ran the tip of her tongue over her upper lip. “I’m glad you’re not a stupid man.”

  “I’m not a man at all,” he reminded her.

  She slid off the edge of the seat and onto her knees, which put her right in front of him. “Let me dispute that.”

  He drew in a sharp breath as she reached for his trouser fastenings. His cock stirred. His body clearly thought this was a good idea, despite his mental misgivings. She got his trousers open and pulled them down as far as the seat would let them go. He could lift his hips and let her remove them, but his doubts wouldn’t let him.

  Harriett smiled, the smile with secrets behind it. “You need coaxing,” she said. She pushed her hand inside his trousers and stroked the flesh there, making the nerve ends ripple. Then she straddled his knees, the dress separating over one thigh, and pressed herself against him. Her lips brushed under his ear.

  She was hot and soft against him. Her breasts were pushing against his chest and he could feel the sharp tips of her nipples through the fine material. Her scent seemed to wreath his head and fog his thoughts and his body tightened even more. His cock was throbbing now.

  Her tongue thrust into his ear and he gritted his teeth, holding in a groan.

  “Or should I tell the driver to head straight back to the office?” she whispered in his ear. Her hand was still pushed down between her thighs, exploring inside his trousers. As she spoke, her fingers curled around his shaft and slid up to bump over the head.

  Brenden pushed his hands under her dress and around her hips. Her hips were bare, as he had suspected them to be. His fingertips brushed over the warm mounds of her ass. Then he gripped and lifted her. “Pull my pants down,” he told her.

  She smiled and complied, sliding the fabric down his thighs. His cock reared up, red with need and he lowered her directly onto it. Heat and moisture enveloped him and a tight sheath of muscle that squeezed around him. She gasped, a shuddering exhalation.

  There wasn’t room in the car to stretch or flex. There was barely room for her to ride him like she was. She had one hand pressed up against the roof, balancing herself. So Brenden slid down the seat, his hips barely on the edge of the cushions. He thrust as she rolled her hips in a way that massaged the length of his cock.

  It was good. It was better than anything he remembered. Harriet Winslow knew what she was doing. It clearly pleased her, too. Her eyes were almost closed, as she took her enjoyment.

  The pleasure on her face was a goad. He drove himself into her, the last of his reservations dropping away. He held her hips steady and thrust in hard strokes. He didn’t try to delay his climax. He strove for release in the fastest and most direct way he could.

 

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