I check in my rearview mirror to make sure I’m not being followed before pulling up in front of a small house I rent in an older neighborhood in Atlanta. The house sits at the end of the block and is hidden from the street by a line of tall overgrown shrubs. Any other tenant would complain about the lack of upkeep on the house. For me and my purposes, it’s perfect.

The owner and I have an arrangement that suits us both. I pre-pay six months of rent in cash at a time and hand-deliver the utility payments to her every month. In return, she stays out of my way and doesn’t enter the house unless I’m there.

The house is untraceable back to me on paper, and that’s why I like it.

As far as my co-workers at the ATF know, I live in a cheerful one-bedroom apartment two blocks from the downtown Atlanta office where I work. When I moved in, I furnished the apartment with all of the latest millennial accessories in case anyone decided to drop by unannounced.

A shiny espresso machine with matching red cups sits on the counter. Photos are scattered around the room of me and nonexistent friends doing fun activities, like hiking in the Sierras and white water rafting. It was easy to pull the photos off the Internet and Photoshop my face onto someone else’s. If anyone visited my apartment, they would assume I live a normal life.

That’s why I rented a second, secret place.

The house is the only place where I feel comfortable. I converted one of the large bedrooms into an office and filled it full of hacking gear. I’m a sucker for tech gadgets.

The room is my sanctuary.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s nobody’s business what I do in my free time even if it is illegal.

I don’t hurt anyone and I only hack for fun.

There’s something about the thrill of breaking into a computer system that I can’t replicate, even with dangerous undercover work.

I tried to stop years ago. It didn’t work.

So now I do it quietly and all alone in a dark, old house at the end of a run-down street.

Unfortunately, this time I can’t work alone.

I desperately need help.

I unload the boxes of evidence against the Steel Infidels into the house and put them on the table. After picking up and putting down my cell phone a dozen times, I finally gather the courage to dial a number I haven’t called in a very long time.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Erik?” I say. “It’s Delilah.”

There is dead silence on the other end, and I wonder if I’ve dialed the wrong number. It’s been a long time since we last spoke to each other.