Unholy Code (A Lana Elkins Thriller) by Thomas Waite Read Free Book Online Page A

And it was I who made sure she got her second jack. I’d have happily dealt her a third, if she’d needed it.
    I’m luring her in much the same way I lured Vinko, by playing to what might prove her greatest weakness. Her $137 win will twitch in the back of her mind. That’s the seductive nature of addiction. The desire burns softly, invisibly, until it bursts into flame with the sudden onslaught of irrepressible need. Elkins and those like her can turn the flame back down, but the memory of pleasure doesn’t die quickly; its dissolution is slow and inversely related to the speed of a quickening pulse.
    So the heat lingers for the Lanas of the world, wrapping them in temptation until they succumb, blinding themselves to everything but pure want. Until that delicious tipping point comes, Lana will tell herself that she can beat her addiction, but I will do my best not to let that happen. I’ll replace the ads on her phone with ever more enticing ones. Cards will appear on her screen with jingle-jangle casino sounds, and when she sees them landing on green felt they’ll whisper of the silent thrills she’s known so many times before.
    She’ll submit.
    But … if she manages somehow not to compromise herself with gaming, then in all likelihood she’ll be at those Gamblers Anonymous meetings to rendezvous with others who share her weakness, a move that will expose her mercilessly.
    Fascinating, the way the holders of the nation’s secrets unburden themselves to complete strangers in a church or civic meeting hall. Not everyone who attends those sessions is of good will. That was how I observed Lana firsthand. Once I even sat next to her. We exchanged knowing, empathic nods when a man spoke of emptying his family’s nest egg to bet on the “ponies,” as he referred to them affectionately. When he finished, Elkins rose to admit that she had also squandered unconscionable sums. I nodded at her again, lying once more. Gaming does not appeal to me in the least, not when I double down on my life every day. But my hatred of Lana Elkins is so strong I could kill her.
    But I might not have to. Vinko has made it demonstrably clear that he wants her dead, too, now that I’ve linked Elkins to the hacking of his site.
    He and I share so much more than our dislike of that woman. We both despise moderate Muslims. Vinko’s absolutely correct when he says they are really wolves in sheep’s clothing. He must be greatly encouraged right now because federal authorities blamed his previous provocations for vicious attacks on Muslims in St. Paul, Dearborn, Oakland, Omaha, even in the liberal bastion of Cambridge, Massachusetts. The FBI is asking anyone who might know his real identity to step forward. Fat chance. Vinko’s secrets are safe with me. A few dead here, a few maimed there … the list of attacks will only grow longer and more welcome.
    And I will make sure Vinko’s fire burns brighter.

LANA DIDN’T SLEEP WELL. Too much unfinished business loomed in the darkness. Emma had stormed upstairs last night, more upset over Tahir’s threat to her relationship with Sufyan than a neo-Nazi’s online threat to her life. Steel Fist isn’t real to her , but her boyfriend’s uncle is , Lana thought, swinging her feet out from under the covers and easing on her slippers.
    Don lay on his back, still sleeping, arms flung wide. She let him grab a few extra winks and headed downstairs, knowing she’d have to drive home the gravity of Steel Fist’s words to Emma before she went to school. Lana wished she could just lock the girl up for the duration. Of what? Lana asked herself immediately. Because this is our life now .
    She pushed a button on the automatic espresso machine and heard the grinder go to work. Sitting on a stool, she glanced at a wall clock: 6:36 a.m.
    The steam hissed and the beans gave off their enticing aroma. The last drips dimpled the dark surface.
    Lana cradled the cup, blowing softly over the steamy brew. She