The heavy glass doors of the Palo Alto Public Library hissed shut behind them, cutting off the sterile, quiet air of the archives. Grayson and Toby stepped out into the blinding California afternoon. The heat was dry and oppressive.
Toby immediately started pacing the concrete courtyard, running both hands through his shaggy hair.
"Okay. Okay," Toby muttered, his breath coming in short, nervous bursts. "We just spoofed a commodity market. We just tanked a regional cement supplier. We just vaporized Chad Harrington's trust fund. Tell me again how nobody tracks this? Tell me again how the FBI isn't going to kick down our hotel door tonight?"
"Because it’s 1992, Toby," Grayson said calmly, adjusting his sunglasses. "The FBI barely understands email. The concept of high-frequency algorithmi
