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  Painting the Roses Red

  Dismantling Wonderland Book 1

  A Hacking Wonderland Novel

  Allyson Lindt

  This book is a work of fiction.

  While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Allyson Lindt

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Acelette Press

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Painting the Roses Red (Hacking Wonderland, #3)

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  For every reader who wanted another trip down the rabbit hole...

  Prologue

  The dead body on the medical examiner’s table wasn’t the first Ephraim had seen in his life, but it sent as much shock racing inside as the first time he’d watched through his binoculars as a soldier’s head exploded.

  The acid burning up his throat prevented him from speaking. He nodded to let the ME know that yes, this was The Queen of Hearts. Jabberwock’s right hand. His general and fixer. One of the most dangerous women in the world.

  Things weren’t supposed to go this way. Then again, from Day One, nothing had gone as it was supposed to. Ephraim had been looking for hints to lead him to Blake. A confirmation Blake and Alice, the woman Ephraim left his Marine buddy with at the airport, so many months ago, survived what came next.

  The private plane Ephraim had put them on had been diverted mid-trip, and he lost track of them when they landed at a municipal airport where he didn’t have contacts. He’d only wanted to know getting lost was their idea, and not Jabberwock’s.

  “Expensive jewelry.” The ME handed Ephraim a bag of the woman’s personal effects. “18 karat gold. Expensive diamonds.

  Through plastic, Ephraim examined two earrings—a crown and a heart on gold posts. “She was The Queen of Hearts.” His phone buzzed, and he fished it from his pocket. It was a new email. His pulse hammered in his ears when he saw Queen’s name on the screen. His nausea swelled. “I need to run. Call me if you need anything else.” He kept his tone polite, but couldn’t hide that he was in a hurry.

  He headed out to his SUV.

  Did Ephraim want to keep pursuing this? He’d called Blake obsessive all those months ago, for refusing to walk away despite having an out. Now he was considering surrendering everything—comfort, security—and replacing it with a Most Wanted tag attached to his name.

  It might not come to that, but he couldn’t rule it out.

  Ephraim’s battered Explorer sat at the far end of the lot, away from lights and security cameras. People knew he was here. Jabberwock’s people. Whisk’s people. But there was no reason to make tracking him any easier.

  The compulsion to read the message was overwhelming, but he’d wait until he was in his own room, in a copper shielded tent that provided at least some measure of privacy from prying eyes and ears.

  The ten-minute drive back to his hotel felt like an eternity and a half. He locked every bolt when he stepped inside. It only took a couple of minutes for him to erect the makeshift faraday cage he’d brought with him. It was basic and ugly, but it was effective.

  He booted his laptop, waited while a series of security protocols loaded, and then opened the message. Now that he was here, trepidation kept him from opening the email. If he didn’t, though, he’d never have his answers.

  That was the only thing he’d wanted, after all this time. Answers.

  The email held a single link to a secure server. He steeled himself and followed the link to an audio file. After a laborious scan for anything malware related, he clicked Play.

  “I hope to God if you’re listening to this, you’re Ephraim.” Lisa’s voice carried from his speakers. “If not, then I hope you enjoy this traipse into voyeurism. At the risk of sounding cliché and melodramatic, if you’re hearing this, I’m dead.”

  He couldn’t do this without alcohol. He grabbed the bottle of Jack from the nightstand, and took a swig directly from the bottle.

  “The people you’re looking for didn’t met the same fate I did. I know. I arranged their safe exit.”

  Thank fuck. Finally an answer. Blake was safe. That should reassure Ephraim. This was the point where he could stop listening. Pack everything up and go home.

  He let the recording continue. “I’m going to give you what you need. You’ll avenge me. This will give you the kind of prestige that will allow you to retire peacefully, if you choose to use it to walk away. Please choose that. If any god still hears my prayers—one of chaos or death maybe—don’t do what Blake did. You deserve a better fate than the one he chose. I’m going to give you everything you need for law enforcement, to destroy Jabberwock’s empire.”

  Ephraim wanted another drag off the Jack. To numb his mind. To help him make stupid decisions.

  Instead, he hit Pause and went to make himself a pot of coffee. It was going to be a long night, and he needed to process every word he was about to hear.

  Chapter One

  1 Month Ago

  Years of playing Jabberwock’s right hand had taught Lisa to contain any show of emotion. She stood in front of Bill Whisk, one of the wealthiest businessmen in the city thanks to his grip on the regional heroin and ecstasy market. Her posture was appropriately stiff, her expression neutral.

  “I’m a gesture of good faith.” She slipped the faintest hint of seduction into her cool tone. “Enforcer. Escort. Anything you need me to be, I will be.”

  It was a lie. Jabberwock was dead. She’d been the one to put a bullet in his head. No one knew that, though. At least, no one who was talking.

  “I want to hear it from the man himself.” Bill dragged his gaze over her, lingering on her hips and breasts. His smile would have made most women swoon and drop their panties. The man was a gorgeous specimen—dark hair, dark eyes, strong jaw and shoulders. But cruelty lingered underneath it all.

  She expected the staring. Had worn the tight skirt and sweater specifically to draw his attention. “I’m Jabberwock’s mouthpiece, the same way I’ve always been.”

  Not completely true. There was a small break in there, when Sawyer stopped hiding behind the mask of anonymity. He thought it would help him reassert his dominance. He’d been wrong. Since his death, Lisa had woven a tale of Jabberwock realizing his folly. Stepping back into the shadows. Bringing down the hammer on anyone who opposed him.

  The deception was giving her the opportunity to dismantle his business partners one by one. Bill was next on the list. If his office was any indication—and they typically were—he enjoyed flaunting his wealth. His furniture was intricately carved mahogany. His shelves and walls were lined with classic sculpture and art, o
r incredible imitations. Expensive either way.

  One piece stood out from the others in its stark harshness and beauty. Vines of thorns bound a man, whom the artist had somehow managed to give an expression of pure ecstasy and absolute agony. Though Lisa had to admit the two were frequently intertwined.

  “I’d like to hear it from him, anyway.” Bill stepped closer. “Some things are best said in person.”

  She shook the emotion the painting evoked from her mind. “He doesn’t function that way anymore. I know everything I need to about your business with him. Would you like me to recount the story of what happened in Beirut?”

  Anything Sawyer hadn’t told her, she saw in the videos. Thank God that paranoid fuck recorded everything. Some of that footage was nauseating to watch. Another reminder of why she’d offed the bastard.

  “That won’t be necessary.” Bill nodded to the bodyguard behind Lisa. She didn’t have to look to know the double snick of the door was the man leaving. “You’ll do anything I need you to?” Bill was so close, his heat brushed her skin. The faint scents of whiskey and cigars teased her and churned in her gut.

  She never flinched. “Anything.” She added a purr to her reply and slid her body against his. “If you want me chained to your bed, to fuck at your leisure, I’ll be that for you.” She pressed her hip into his half-hard cock.

  He raised an eyebrow, and glided a hand up her chest to cup her breast. “That’s a tempting proposal.”

  “As long as you remember I’m still his and this is just a loan. But until payment comes due, I’m yours.” She prayed to a god who wouldn’t listen, because her life was nothing but sin, that the implied threat of Jabberwock’s wrath would be enough to keep Bill from taking her up on the sex-slave offer.

  He dragged a thumb over her nipple, then glided his hand down her stomach to the edge of her skirt. He shoved up the hem, to stroke her pussy through her panties.

  She jammed her emotions further into the back of her mind and let her body’s reaction speak for her. A groan escaped her throat.

  “You’re so very tempting.” His voice was a low growl.

  She thrust her hips into his touch.

  “But I think you’d enjoy that too much.” Bill pulled away and stepped back.

  She pouted, to hide the rush of adrenaline and relief that joined the sick pit inside. “Whatever you think is best.” This submissive bullshit gnawed at her.

  “I want you to babysit.”

  “Excuse me?” She wasn’t a nanny. She’d had a hard enough time keeping an eye on Reagan, and the woman was in her twenties.

  “I’m patron to an artist. Brilliant man. That’s his work you were staring at. He has a show opening in a few weeks, but he’s struggling to finish his main piece. I want you to watch him. Sit by his side. Do whatever he asks, as long as he completes that painting.”

  Lisa didn’t understand. “How does that help strengthen our business relationship?” This was too easy. Keeping a temperamental artist company, after her time with Jabberwock? It was cake.

  “How does sucking my filthy cock help?” Bill countered.

  “That was just one option. You’re supposed to use me where I excel. As a fixer, for instance.”

  “This needs to be fixed. His artwork is a religious experience, and this piece needs to be done.”

  “Your wish is my command.” She wasn’t going to argue too much. Alex had been an artist, and she understood how the ego and inspiration worked. “Do you want to warn him I’m on my way, or just send me in?”

  Bill handed her a business card with an address written on it. There was a tiny baggie with two pills in it pressed to the back of the card. “I’d like to surprise him.”

  This wouldn’t get Lisa closer to Bill’s finances, or position her inside his organization where she could discover what she needed in order to destroy him and assume his empire, but if it helped her earn his trust, it was an important step. The clock was ticking, though. Someone would figure out Jabberwock was dead, and then her time would be up.

  So she’d live every moment as if someone knew, work every angle as if no one would find out, and pray that she survived when everything came crashing down.

  Chapter Two

  Lisa had a taxi take her to the address Whisk gave her. Uber wasn’t her thing; she preferred cash transactions and that an app didn’t track her every movement.

  It was convenient this job kept her in the same city. Kept her close to Whisk. She could more easily prove she was doing as assigned, and if this artist—Dexter, according to the business card—wanted drugs or anything else Whisk could provide, Lisa could grovel at the man’s feet. Make him believe she had a need for him.

  It was fortunate she didn’t have to pretend Jabberwock could get her those things. He’d been the ultimate supplier, but not of drugs or illegal goods. Not directly, anyway. He dealt in connections. If someone needed something, Jabberwock could introduce them to the person who provided it.

  Everyone with money and a public persona—politicians, businessmen, athletes, even fucking Instagram influencers and Twitch streamers—went through Jabberwock if they needed to make a connection.

  The car stopped in front of an apartment building, and the driver gave her a total. She needed a bright spot in her day, so she handed him a fifty and told him to keep the change. His grin and genuine thanks were worth it. It was the one thing Lisa had seen eye-to-eye with Sawyer about. Never stiff someone who offered a service. Not because they’d owe her later, but because the world tended to spit on the cogs, and those people deserved better.

  There was no lock on the front of the building, but there were no panhandlers nearby either. Mid-end, then. At least for New York. Dexter was probably paying in rent what a large family in the Midwest paid for their mortgage. Did Whisk pick up the tab for that as well as providing drugs?

  She climbed the stairs to the second floor, needing the walk to redistribute some of her tension, and knocked on the appropriate door.

  The man who answered was several inches taller than her five-foot-nine. His sweat shorts hung off his hips, and tattoos decorated his bare chest. The ink reminded her of the painting in Whisk’s office, with vines of thorns wrapped around the man’s neck and arms, and tightening around a bleeding heart on his torso, over his actual heart. He reminded her of the artwork as well, and her breath caught when she realized why. He was the subject of the painting. Dark hair hung over one eye, and the other pale-hazel eye peered out at her, boring into her soul. He was beautiful.

  “You’re not Bill’s guy.” His voice was rough, strained with exhaustion, but the velvet underneath sent delight racing down her spine.

  Time to get a hold of herself. She held up the business card Whisk gave her between two fingers, a tiny plastic bag sandwiched in her grip. “Dexter? I’m your girl. He sent me.”

  Dexter reached for the pills, and she held them out of reach. “Invite me in,” she said.

  “What are you? A fucking vampire?”

  “No. Just polite.”

  He snorted and turned away. “Okay, then.”

  She stepped inside and kicked the door shut behind her, lingering in the entryway while she assessed the situation. Not that there was much to take in. The studio apartment was as basic as plain got. Kitchenette. Open door to a tiny bathroom on the far end of the room. And in between, a bed in one corner, with a laptop next to it, and a drop-cloth covered floor, hosting an easel and canvases in various states of completion.

  “I have an agreement with Whisk.” Dexter paused near the tiny counter that separated the kitchen from everything else. “If you think you’re going to get money in exchange for those, think again.”

  “You can have the pills as soon as I’ve said my bit.”

  Dexter raised his brows.

  “I have an agreement with Whisk too. I babysit you—his words—and you paint his picture.” Lisa didn’t see any reason to lie about why Bill sent her. She hadn’t been sworn to secrecy, and the
more truths she told, the fewer lies there were to keep track of.

  A wry smirk spread across Dexter’s face, making him even sexier. “Babysitter? I finally get to live out my fantasies of getting high and fucking the nanny?”

  She rolled her eyes. Men and their kinks. Though, the images that flashed through her mind—of requiring his obedience, of having him kneel at her feet—sped through her on a rush of temptation. If this job did involve sex, she might not mind too much. “If that’s what you want. As long as you create in return.”

  “You know I need to call and verify this.” He grabbed a receiver from its mount on the wall.

  Landline. Lisa almost respected the practicality of that. “Of course.”

  Dexter explained why he was calling to the person on the other end. “Nice tits. Short skirt. As icy as the Hudson in January... Yeah, that’s her.”

  It had been years since descriptions like icy bothered her. Now she used the assumptions to her advantage—whatever she needed that to be at the time.

  He hung up the phone and turned back to her, hand outstretched. “Pills.”

  “As long as you paint in the morning.” She was going to feel like a scratched CD, repeating herself over and over, at the end of all of this, wasn’t she?

  “Yes, I get it. Fuck. I heard you the first time.”

  “So tell me you understand it,” Lisa said. “That’s the only condition. I’ll give you whatever you want, as long as I see progress.”

  “I understand the rules, but I don’t think this is going to play out the way you want. You can’t force my muse to act.”

  This was going to be a long few months. “I know how creativity works. You have to make an effort.” Alex had been an artist, before Sawyer killed him. Not on the same level as this guy, but as passionate about it as he was everything else.

  The reminder of her White Rabbit sent a spear of longing through her heart, and she swallowed the abrupt pain. It had been a while since she thought about him. The desire stayed mostly dull these days, but she would never find that kind of connection again.