CHAPTER 8

“God damn it!”  Maribel slapped her hand on the desk, rattling even the heavy thirty-four inch monitor.  “No way am I getting paid enough for this shit.”

Her client had asked for a way to close any back doors into their data systems.  The longer she worked on the problem though, the more she wondered.  Who could possibly need a back door into these guys?  The company her contact claimed to work for had to grow some to be considered small-fry.  She smelled organized crime, but asking questions was not something she did unless the buyer wanted her to dip her toe into illegal waters.

“Doesn’t matter either way if I can’t deliver.”  She tossed her pencil aside and ran crampe...

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