Free Terrorbyte by Cat Connor Page B

it then he was bound to have all the information.
    â€œTime to get moving,” Mac said.
    We stood and headed for the door but something made me pause. I turned back to Caine and asked, “Unless there was anything else?”
    â€œJust one thing,” Caine said. He stood and came out from behind his desk. “On behalf of the Bureau I would like to congratulate you on the formation of The Butterfly Foundation.” He reached down to his desk and picked up an envelope, which he handed to me. “This is from the division.”
    I opened the envelope expecting to see a check for fifty bucks or so. Mac peered into it as I pulled out a personal check from Executive Assistant Director Owen. Our mouths fell open at the sight of the amount. Words seemed trapped as I tried to get my head around this incredible act of generosity.
    Mac found his tongue before I did. “Owen wrote this check?”
    Caine’s face cracked, his lip curled, teeth showed: it was shockingly close to a real smile. “Yes, Mac. She’s not all bad, you know.”
    â€œWow.”
    Wow indeed.  Hard-assed Owen had a heart. I slid the check back into the envelope. “We’ll thank her later, then have the chairman do it officially.”
    I took the check out again and reread the amount: fifteen thousand dollars. With that and the funds raised at the dinner, we could set up many more school programs than originally planned.
    I looked at Caine. He still bore the alarmingly real smile upon his face. “I suspect you had more than a little to do with this. Thank you.”
    Caine hugged me quickly then kissed my cheek. Over all the years we had worked together, Caine had once before surprised me with fatherly affection. It was unnerving, and yet not.
    His scary smile faded back to a more acceptable grim facial expression. “It’s a good thing you’ve done.”
    For the first time it felt like we’d made a difference. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the paper evidence bags on Caine’s desk. Suddenly making a difference wasn’t enough.
    Our next stop was the Butterfly Foundation offices. With a degree of relief, I realized my earlier thoughts of flipping switches were validated.
    Something did need flipping; it wasn’t just something I’d conjured earlier in my head.
    ***
    The ceremonial turning on of the Foundation servers that house the entire Foundation computer system took place in front of numerous journalists, amidst flashes of blinding light from cameras. Just what I didn’t need: more blinding lights.
    Afterwards I took dad aside. “I need to speak with you out of the limelight.”
    â€œMy office?”
    â€œPerfect.”
    Dad linked his arm through mine and mid-smile announced to the media throng that he was having a quiet word with his daughter and would return soon for questions.
    He opened the door for me. “Do we need to sit?”
    I smiled. “No, Dad, I just want to give you something from the Bureau.”
    I handed him the check. “But you might need to sit down before you look at the signature,” I told him. “Owen wrote it.”
    He took it from my hand and read the print. “Owen the ballbuster wrote us a check?”
    â€œStunning, isn’t it?” I said. “Best get that in the bank before she changes her mind.”
    He nodded. “I’ll show Bob then we’ll go to the bank.”
    â€œGood idea. By the way, I like your office.”
    I hadn’t been in his new office before. It was spacious, wood paneled and highly polished. My mother would’ve loved it. He had a large leather sofa and a small coffee table in one corner. Directly in front of the door stood his antique mahogany desk. He’d had it moved up from Richmond. On the wall behind his desk hung a family portrait, our combined family: dad, me, Aidan, Mac, Beatrice and Bob. We’d had the photograph taken at Christmas time. Notably