Rich (Benson Security #5) - Janet Elizabeth Henderson Page 0,38

of seconds. Hiccups that you’d barely notice, Francesca.”

“Oh, I noticed.” She frowned. “I also complained about the Wi-Fi in here several times over the years. I told them it glitches sometimes. The last time it happened, the head of security and IT, Terrance, came over himself to tell me it was all in my mind. I’ve never liked that man.”

“Yeah, well,” Harvard said. “It definitely wasn’t your imagination. Elle? Is that thing battery powered?”

She turned it over to look. “Yep. Rechargeable. Judging by its size, I’d say they’d be lucky to get two or three hours out of it before it needed charging again.”

“But they’d only use those hours in intermittent bursts of just a few seconds, right?” Rachel said.

“Right.” Elle looked at the box in disgust. “Depending on how often they used it, it could go for months without needing a recharge. Even then, all they’d need to do is plug it into any micro USB port to do it. It’s probably never left this room. If it were me, I’d have charged it here.”

“How much memory does it hold?” Harvard asked.

“Total capacity’s five hundred and twelve gigabytes.” She looked up at him. “That’s more than enough space to download the files our thief needs. Hell, you could save all of the Lord of the Rings movies onto these—twice.”

Harvard turned his attention to Francesca. “During the time Samantha was in here, was she out of your sight at any point?”

“No, not at all. She’d only been here a few minutes before you arrived, and we spent it chatting about the wedding.”

“Did she touch your desk or computer?”

Francesca shook her head. “Definitely not.”

Rachel looked up at him with an openness he hadn’t seen from her before. “What do we do with it?”

Elle’s head almost shot off her shoulders as she swiftly looked from one of them to the other, appearing shocked that Rachel had deferred to him.

“We dust for prints and swab it for DNA, and then we have Elle replace all of the files with copies she’s edited to make them useless, just in case we lose control of the data.” He looked at Elle. “Make sure you check anything you find against Samantha’s prints first.”

“And what about after all that’s done?” Rachel pressed.

“After that, we set up cameras and wait for the thief to return.”

Francesca almost fell out of her chair with excitement. “I’m going to be part of a sting.”

“You need to carry on as usual,” Harvard warned. “You can’t do anything that will draw attention to yourself.”

“I can absolutely do that. My acting is superb. Isn’t it, Rachel?”

Rachel groaned, and Harvard decided it would be wise to keep his amusement to himself. He was about to wind up their time in Francesca’s office, when Ryan’s voice came over his comm unit. “Harvard? You read me?”

“Go ahead,” Harvard said, drawing the attention of the women in the room.

“We’ve got another problem,” Ryan said.

Chapter Eleven

“This is ludicrous,” Rachel complained for the twentieth time since Harvard had explained to her that she was the new problem the team faced. “We announced we’re getting married. So what if people are gossiping about us and saying our relationship is fake?”

“Because,” Harvard said in that same patient tone he’d used since Ryan stuck his oar in, “if people don’t believe we’re in a real relationship, they’ll watch us more carefully, and the chances of our cover being blown become a whole lot higher.”

Rachel glared out of the window of the taxi, into the night, as they sped through London’s streets. Going who knows where, because Harvard had said it was a surprise. An activity that would help them. If it was couples counseling for their fake relationship, she would smack him silly.

“We’re here,” he said as the taxi pulled over.

Rachel let out a groan. He’d brought her to Brixton, of all places. At night. In the dark. And it wasn’t even a good part of Brixton—if there was such a thing—it was a backstreet behind the train station.

“Come on,” he said, climbing out of the taxi and holding the door for her.

“I’d rather not.” Rachel stayed put.

From what she could see, graffiti covered every wall around her, and it wasn’t Banksy. No, this wasn’t art of any kind. It looked like a three-year-old had just learned to spell their name and decided to scrawl it everywhere.

“You’re being pathetic,” he said with a grin.

“Are you getting out or not?” the driver demanded.

With a huff, she climbed out of the car and watched it