Cross Roads, page 1
Cross Roads
Steele Ridge: The Blackwells
Tracey Devlyn
Cross Roads
Steele Ridge: The Blackwells Novel, Book 3
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Cybersecurity expert Rohan Blackwell left his fellow hackers in the Collective behind to focus on the family business. But when an unusually fruitless background check on a potential contractor coincides with a savage cyberattack, he can’t help but suspect that the two events are connected. Determined to ferret out the beautiful artist’s real story, Rohan soon finds himself distracted by more than her secrets.
Hard work and quick thinking pulled Lena Kamber out of a difficult past and into a successful fine arts reproduction studio. Then disturbing visions of her childhood begin to surface, and she senses malevolent eyes on her at every turn. Add to that, a gorgeous stranger inadvertently helps a burglar steal her latest high-profile commission, a million-dollar painting. With her beloved career on the verge of collapse, Lena turns to a reluctant Rohan to help her recover the stolen artwork.
As Rohan and Lena draw closer to the truth—and each other—the stakes get higher, the bodies pile up, and the two loners unite to stop a vengeful cyberterrorist from destroying a future they have only just begun to imagine.
* * *
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* * *
Published by Steele Ridge Publishing
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Flash Point
Discover More Steele Ridge
Also by Tracey Devlyn
Acknowledgments
About Tracey Devlyn
To Heather Machel—
Thanks for your endless patience and for shining your light into the dark corners of this world.
1
An alarm jolted Rohan Blackwell awake. Reaching for his phone on the bedside table, he blinked moisture back into his dry eyes before squinting at the notification on his screen.
ATTEMPTED SECURITY BREACH DETECTED
“Sonofabitch.”
He jumped out of bed, shoved his feet into tennis shoes, grabbed his keys and Maglite, and, wearing nothing but his boxer briefs, wrenched open the French doors that opened onto the ground floor patio. Taking the outside route allowed him to move faster, and he didn’t have to worry about waking up the household.
Clicking on the flashlight, he hotfooted it around the enormous Friary, a large stone building that had originally housed Franciscan monks but was now home to the Blackwell clan, until he reached the flagstone path that led to the family’s on-site office building.
Early morning emergencies like this made him appreciate living in Western North Carolina, where overnight temperatures in early October were still relatively mild. The sprint to the Annex took less than a minute, but it felt like a full revolution of the earth.
Fight, Lucy. Fight.
Disengaging the alarm, he rushed into his office and woke up his computer. Four large, wall-mounted monitors flickered to life. The company’s silver logo—BARS—appeared above the login dialogue box and he typed in his ten-digit code.
He grabbed his glasses off the desk, crammed them on his nose, and set to work. His fingers flew across the keyboard, every passing second thundering through his veins.
He pulled up his multilayered cyber defense system, aka Lucy, and waited for the status reports. Each layer blinked, ATTACK, ATTACK, ATTACK, ATTACK, ATTACK in bold red letters.
“Come on, sweetheart. You can do this.”
Rohan fought to keep his thoughts positive. He’d prepared for this moment, built Lucy to guard their network against viruses, malware, worms, denial of service, and all other manner of digital terrorism. But he, more than anyone else, knew there was no perfect defense, no absolute security.
The first level changed from a blinking bright red ATTACK to a steady green PROTECTED, and the knot sitting between his shoulders loosened a little.
One by one, the status of the levels updated.
PROTECTED
PROTECTED
PROTECTED
PROTECTED
Safe. Everything’s safe.
He drew out his next exhale, slow and long, and rotated his head, left and right. Splayed his fingers wide on top of his desk. Squeezed his eyes shut.
We’re safe.
This time.
2
Three hours later and fully clothed, Rohan stood sipping his coffee while monitoring the activity on his screens, scanning them for additional malicious attempts at finding and exploiting vulnerabilities in Lucy’s defenses.
Blackwell Asset Recovery Services—BARS—had grown with lightning speed over the past few years, and it was Rohan’s responsibility to ensure that his family’s intellectual property and financial assets remained safe from people like him.
Hackers.
From firsthand experience, he understood the type of destruction cybercriminals could bring down on businesses and individual users who became too complacent about cybersecurity. Something as simple as a missed patch—or software update—could be enough for a patient and persistent hacker to wreak havoc.
Many in the industry separate hackers into three broad categories—white hats, or ethical hackers, operate under a code of ethics and only search for system vulnerabilities with the organization’s permission. Then there are gray hats, who uncover security weaknesses and report them to the company. Often, gray hats request payment before fully disclosing what they have uncovered. The third category includes black hats or cybercriminals. Without consent, black hats find security vulnerabilities and exploit them.
How they exploit them depends on the hacker’s motivation. Some seek proprietary or protected information and they’ll implant a virus to get it. Those who like money will employ ransomware to tie up a company’s data until they pay a specified amount, generally through Bitcoin.
However, payment doesn’t guarantee they’ll unlock the encrypted files. Some cybercriminals might disappear once they get the ransom and others might demand more money. Since there is no way of knowing how the hacker will respond, the FBI recommends not paying the ransom.
Which is doable for businesses who have good data backups. For those who don’t, paying the ransom is far less painful than losing their files.
The overhead light flashed on, blinding Rohan for a split second.
“At it early again, I see,” Zeke Blackwell said in a morning-roughened voice.
Rohan checked the small digital clock on his far left monitor.
6:32 a.m.
Unable to turn his back on the data flashing across his screens, he half-turned toward his brother. “You’re not exactly rolling in at a normal start time.”
Zeke shrugged, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. “Mom wanted to meet with me before the team check-in to discuss hiring a fine arts copyist she found.”
“Is this follow-up on Cruz’s idea?”
The hint of an admiring grin formed at the corner of Zeke’s mouth. “Leave it to the hard-ass to come up with such a diabolical plan.”
A genius plan. If they could find the right artist.
In his role as the FBI’s new Art Crime Team leader for the region, their eldest brother Ash Blackwell had hired BARS to recover one of the Agency’s Top Ten stolen art pieces, Caravaggio’s Nativity with San Lorenzo and San Francesco, from an estate in North Asheville. An estate owned by Holster Energy president Ezra Payne.
The Nativity’s storied past was both tragic and legendary. In 1969, two thieves, believed to have been associated with the Sicilian Mafi
What happened to it from there has remained a mystery that neither the Italian police, Interpol, nor the FBI have been able to crack. Over the years, several informants have offered unique and colorful stories about the stolen painting.
The most notable one came from a Mafia informant who said the thieves had damaged the seventeenth-century masterpiece so badly during the robbery that mob boss Salvatore Riina couldn’t sell it. Deeming the canvas worthless, Riina used the painting as a floor mat.
Two weeks ago, Ash had learned from a new confidential informant that Ezra Payne kept an “old painting” locked up in his ten-by-ten steel-reinforced safe. When the CI described it, Ash suspected it was the Nativity.
But did Payne harbor the original 1609 Caravaggio or a knockoff?
When Ash discussed getting a search warrant with his SSA, his supervisor denied his request, believing no local judge would authorize a search of Payne’s property on the word of an untried CI.
Ezra Payne was a big deal in the Southeast.
The energy mogul contributed to dozens of political campaigns on both sides of the spectrum. His company poured millions of dollars into community projects like boat launches, solar fields, and pollinator gardens, while supporting the construction of fossil fuel power plants and installation of pipeline projects through Black and Brown neighborhoods and Indigenous lands, and tapping into his legislative buddies to ensure they voted to approve astronomical utility rate hikes.
Rather than let an international treasure languish on the wall of a corrupt mogul’s safe, Ash had hired BARS.
While driving together to attend one of Zeke’s soon-to-be-stepson’s baseball tournaments, Cruz had come up with the idea that they swap Payne’s copy with a reproduction. One good enough to fool Sotheby’s specialists, researchers, and scientists. No sense in poking the bear by leaving a blank space on his wall.
If they were lucky, Payne would never discover the ruse. Or, if he did, it would be years from now and he wouldn’t be able to link the heist to BARS.
Or Ash and his CI.
This recovery carried a significant risk, but everyone had agreed it would be worth it if they could successfully return the remarkable piece of art to its rightful owner in Italy.
“Who made it to the top of Mom’s list?” Rohan asked.
“A local artist named Angelena Kamber. Heard of her?”
“No, have you?”
Zeke shook his head.
“Does she have a gallery in town?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“You sure commissioning a local is the right call? There’s a lot at stake with this one. We can’t afford to hire an amateur.”
“I’m aware of the stakes.” Zeke rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “So is Mom. She won’t recommend someone who looks like they paint by numbers.”
An inexplicable unease stirred in Rohan’s chest. Maybe he was still on edge after his early wake-up call or maybe his compulsive need to vet everyone they did business with was kicking in. Either way, he’d learned a long time ago to trust his instincts. Right now, they were screaming extreme caution. “What time is your meeting?”
Zeke checked the clock on his phone. “Twenty minutes.”
Rohan set his coffee cup down on a warming plate, a ridiculous but effective gift from Zeke’s significant other and BARS’s new provenance expert, Liv Westcott. She’d noticed how many trips he made to the microwave to reheat his coffee because he’d gotten too wrapped up in his work to drink it.
Grabbing an arm of his chair, he rolled it closer to his electronic cockpit and sat down. “Let me see what I can find out about this artist before you make any decisions.”
“Why are you getting involved in this? She either paints well or she doesn’t. Mom’s got a better eye than either of us for that sort of thing.”
Rohan understood his brother’s reluctance to interfere with their mom’s part of the recovery. Last summer, Zeke had surprised them all by vowing to do less hovering and more delegating. So far, he’d kept his promise and was a great deal happier for it.
They all were.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” Rohan admitted. “But my gut is telling me to check out this artist. Whoever we work with is going to be curious about why a business like ours is commissioning a replica of a missing masterpiece. It’s best to know who we’re dealing with.” He caught his brother’s eye. “Intimately.”
“Shit.” Zeke tapped his thumb against his thigh. “I hope for both our sakes you don’t find anything. Mom seemed excited about her top pick.”
“All you need to do is stall her for an hour. Give me time to look into Kamber’s creds.”
“Thirty minutes. You take any more than that, and I’ll send Mom down to chew on your ass.”
Twenty-three minutes later, Rohan had all the information he needed. He marched down to Zeke’s office, where he found his brother pointing at a colorful spreadsheet on his computer screen.
“Explain to me again your logic behind this formula,” Zeke said.
Lynette Blackwell glared at her son as if he were a fresh-off-the-bus private who’d upended her tray of chow. “Did Liv keep you up late again last night? Is that why your brain hasn’t engaged?”
“Jeezus, Mama,” Zeke growled. “I just—”
“Do y’all have a moment?” Rohan asked before his blunt-speaking mom gave Zeke a heart attack.
“Yes—”
“Not now—”
They said in unison.
Lynette raised a brow at Zeke. “What about our meeting?” The twenty years their mom had spent in the military ensured she was never late and never unprepared. She demanded the same of her sons.
Rohan interjected. “What I have to discuss concerns your meeting.”
“Does it.” Lynette stood straighter and her blue eyes slid from Rohan to Zeke, then back to Rohan in a careful-as-you-go warning both men knew too well.
Even at twenty-nine years old, Rohan wasn’t immune to his mother’s authoritarian presence. She could make perspiration break out on the back of his neck with nothing more than a look.
Zeke must have felt the pressure too, because he lifted a black coffee mug, displaying BARS’s silver logo, to his lips while he surreptitiously swiped a hand over his jean-clad thigh. Then he indicated the two guest chairs in his office. “Make yourselves comfortable.” When they did as instructed, he turned to Rohan. “What’d you got?”
Rohan looked at Lynette. “Zeke mentioned who you were considering for the Caravaggio commission.”
“Angelena Kamber.” She studied him a moment. “What’s your concern?”
Lifting his hand, he listed them off, one finger at a time. “She’s an unknown local artist. Her website is nothing more than a contact page. She doesn’t have a gallery, nor does she appear to be selling anything on consignment at Triskelion.” Many artisans in the region vied for an opportunity to showcase their wares at the gallery on Main Street. Not having a single piece there said a lot about the quality of her work.
“Miss Kamber has a studio in her loft apartment and most of her commissions are via word of mouth,” Lynette said.
