Mindjacker
C.A. Hartman
Mindjacker
Copyright © 2018 by C.A. Hartman
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Thank You
Also by C.A. Hartman
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
There was nothing quite like invading someone else’s mind.
Especially when it was done right, done ethically, and, most important of all, when that someone deserved it. For example, when the target was Jonathan Stilwell III, some rich asshole who’d betrayed those who trusted him just so he could get even richer.
Of course, Quinn Hartley didn’t know if Stilwell was actually guilty. Not yet, not until she got the necessary data from his mind. But he was. They always were.
It would be one thing if the guy was stone broke, but he wasn’t. Quinn could easily tell by Stilwell’s tailored suit, his fine leather briefcase, and his perfect haircut. She sat next to him on the subway, his eyes closed and her tiny nodes attached to the base of his skull, noticeable only if you knew to look for them. Quinn sat patiently, pretending to read while Stilwell’s memories downloaded to her handy device, hidden in the inner flap of her jacket. She had no purse or bag. Such things only slowed her down, and where she came from, they were nothing more than fodder for thieves.
Her long dark hair tickled her face again. She brushed it back, knowing it would do the same thing a minute later.
She peeked into her jacket and checked her device. Just another minute or two and she would have the data she needed, and she could detach the nodes and let Mr. Stilwell enjoy what was left of his brief nap, the one Quinn had induced. It was much easier to access someone’s thoughts while they slept. The human mind—a massive jumble of neural signals—was more accessible then, not to mention that the target was defenseless and, best of all, unable to dime her.
No mindjacker could afford to get dimed. Not by targets, not by cops, not by anyone. Getting dimed meant getting kicked out of the Protectorate. For good.
Quinn checked her compact device one more time. The data numbers were getting there, including those from the hippocampus and amygdala, the brain regions responsible for the encoding and storage of the kinds of memories that were useful to Quinn and others of her kind. Memories of events, and those with emotions attached to them.
Just a few more minutes and Quinn would be gone.
The train stopped, and another load of commuters got on the already-crowded train, where it was standing room only. All business suits, of course. They were still in Midtown. The suits came from jobs in the financial district and were heading north to their sparkling neighborhoods and fine residences, the ones Quinn couldn’t see out the windows because the train was underground.
But she knew what they looked like. Clean streets. Quiet. Gorgeous restored brick and stone apartment buildings, sleek glass high-rises, and, if in a really nice area, even a few flowers and arid-tolerant plants. And safe—you could stroll through such neighborhoods without looking over your shoulder or walking in a wide berth every time you passed those narrow alleyways between buildings.
Quinn’s heart began to race a little at the intense crowding on the train. She wasn’t claustrophobic or even people-phobic, and at least the trains had air conditioning. But crowds meant more potential witnesses if the job went bad, and more people blocking her path if she needed to make a speedy escape.
Sometimes she needed that speedy escape. Not often, but sometimes. And it was always when she least expected it.
Quinn glanced around, spotting a man in a navy pinstriped suit, a smile and a gleam of playfulness in his eye. She realized his eyes were aimed right at her sleeping target.
The smiling man squeezed through the crowd, heading their way. Quinn cursed under her breath. Pinstripes recognized Stilwell, and was about three seconds from kicking him awake, which meant her mindjacking operation would be exposed and escape nearly impossible.
Abort. Right now.
But he was coming. It was all happening so fast and she couldn’t detach her nodes in time before the target woke up and realized he was being mindjacked.
Do something!
“Hey!” Quinn called out to the grinning businessman, ready to block him from accessing her target if necessary.
He halted, his semi-handsome and clean-shaven face looking down at her.
“I know you, don’t I?” Quinn chirped in a tone that conveyed an almost-natural enthusiasm.
Pinstripes watched her, his eyes searching for some semblance of recognition and finding none at all. There was just a hint of mockery in his eyes, like he would never know someone like her. And he wouldn’t. Men who worked in Midtown, especially the financial district, didn’t associate with Downtownies. And in El Diablo, it was easy to tell the difference.
“I don’t think so,” he said, quickly shifting his now-bored expression away from her and back to her target. The smile returned as he squeezed past the last person in his way.
In desperation, she stuck out her leg to block him, her heart pounding as sweat built up in her armpits. “Are you sure?” she said, ignoring the annoyed look on his face. “Don’t you work with that guy over there?” she added, pointing behind him.
Then she heard it. The squeal of the train’s brakes. The sound that, until that moment, had always irritated her.
Turn around, Pinstripes!
He turned and looked behind him. The squealing got louder and the train slowed, pushing Quinn toward her target and allowing her to easily remove the nodes from the back of his head. She stood up, quickly shoving them into her pocket.
The businessman turned back to her, looking confused and even more annoyed. “What guy?”
Quinn shook her head, feigning impatience. “Never mind. You suits all look alike.” She quickly squeezed through the throng of commuters, her fists—and other defensive tools—at the ready if she needed them.
The train jerked to a stop and Quinn leaped off the train.
She glanced behind her. The train doors shut, its remaining passengers reading their devices like nothing happened. The sleek metal train disappeared into the dark tunnel, where Stilwell was about two minutes from waking on his own, unless Pinstripes had his way.
Quinn hurried away to find her own train, the one that would
take her south, to where she came from. To a place where nobody wore a suit.
Chapter 2
Quinn took an escalator deeper into the ground, passing others as she hurried down the steps. She walked through a holding area with benches and a mini-store that sold snacks, drinks, and storage devices filled with music or movies, whatever your commute required. On the benches sat teenagers with neatly cut hair, playing games on their tablets as a slew of semi-respectable-looking street folk lounged nearby. All killing time and avoiding the afternoon heat.
How much nicer the Midtown subway stations were.
Quinn found the women’s restroom and lockers, opening one and taking out her just-in-case bag. She yanked off her dark-haired wig, giving her tousled, chin-length blonde hair a shake. How much better she felt without that damned wig making her head sweat worse than it already was, not to mention all that hair tickling her face and getting caught in the zipper of her leather jacket.
Finally, bag in hand, Quinn let herself take a couple of deep breaths.
“That was close,” she muttered under her breath.
“Yeah. Too close,” came a voice in her ear.
Quinn jumped. She’d forgotten about Daria. That Daria was monitoring the job remotely and could hear everything she did. She patted her ear, recalling the little device hidden inside it, the one she’d picked up so her partner could assist her without actually having to be in the field.
“Don’t sweat it. Everything’s fine,” Quinn said in a casual tone that she hoped would reassure Daria. It worked most of the time.
“You’re lying. I could hear your breathing. It was shallow and rapid, like you were freaked out.”
Quinn took another deep breath. “Shallow, rapid breath is a sign of excitement, too, and that was exciting.”
The line between exciting and nerve-racking was pretty thin, but Quinn had always liked walking that line. Daria, not so much.
“You’re getting out of there, right?”
Quinn clamored up another set of escalators, passing people. “Yes. I’m almost to the C train. I should be there soon. Maybe I’ll pick up some Chubby’s on the way,” Quinn added. Daria loved Chubby’s, the burrito chain that dotted Downtown.
“I don’t need Chubby’s,” she said impatiently. “Just send the data.”
Quinn sighed at Daria’s tone. “Give me a second.” She stepped away from the crowds and engaged her secure network, sending Daria the raw data she’d extracted from Jonathan Stilwell. She then sent the Protectorate a quick message:
Job done. Data safe.
“I just sent it,” Quinn said. “I’ll be there soon.”
“Quinn—”
A beep sounded. Someone else was calling. It was Yolanda. “Dar, it’s Yolanda. I’ll see you soon.” She hung up, taking another deep breath before she clicked over to her boss.
“Hi Yolanda,” she said, trying to sound confident.
“We need to talk,” Yolanda said, her voice more clipped and businesslike than usual.
We need to talk. Probably the worst four-word sentence ever.
“Okay…” Quinn said.
“I have reports that Daria wasn’t in the field on this operation, or the last one. That violates Protectorate rules.”
Quinn closed her eyes. Shit. Special ops had caught them. Sometimes the Protectorate tracked their agents on the job if they suspected trouble. “It’s not what you think. Daria wasn’t with me on those jobs because she got injured after a run-in with a motorcycle. You know how people drive Downtown. And they were easy jobs. I didn’t need her.”
Quinn gritted her teeth. She hated lying. Hated it. But she had too much at stake to face inquiry now. And Daria was someone she would always protect.
Yolanda paused for a moment. “If a team member is injured, you wait it out. You don’t risk the job by splitting up.”
“I know. It’s just… I’m so close to where I want to be, Yolanda. I guess I got a little ambitious. You know me.” That wasn’t a lie.
“I do. But you can’t afford mistakes now, Quinn. Assuming the data pan out for this job and the client pays, you’re now one job away from being eligible to advance to Tier One. Many agents never even make it that far.”
A flood of excitement ran through Quinn at hearing Yolanda confirm what she’d been hoping for. After all these years, she was so close. “Whenever that job comes down the pipe, we’ll get it done, Yolanda. You can count on me.”
“Send the Stilwell data as soon as you can.”
“Will do.”
After she hung up, Quinn breathed a sigh of relief and got on the C train.
As the train headed Downtown, she thought about Yolanda’s warning. Quinn and Daria had grown up together in Westgate, a rough neighborhood that was even rougher now. Daria was her best friend and her partner in crime. Literally. Mindjackers worked in teams, and she and Daria had worked together for the five years they’d been with the Protectorate, an organized group that deployed trained agents to undergo mindjacking jobs. The work was illegal and it had its risks, but the Protectorate’s mission was for public benefit. The pay was decent, or would be once she became a Tier One agent. And when she did, she would share the big pay bump and all the perks with Daria.
Yolanda was right, though. Daria should have been in the field with Quinn, ready to diffuse any problems or protect Quinn if anything went wrong. But Daria had struggled with the job lately. Burnout was a thing in their work. The Protectorate taught them signs of burnout and they were supposed to take time off. But unlike most of the other agents, Quinn and Daria needed the income just to get by, and Quinn was so close to making status that taking time off seemed crazy. And Daria swore she wasn’t burned out. The truth was, Daria had always been prone to ups and downs, and sometimes the downs lasted a while. To be on the safe side, Quinn had kept Daria out of the field on the last two jobs, letting her monitor remotely. A subway job with a guy like Stilwell was easy enough to handle on her own.
A mindjacker was nothing without her tech partner. Jacker and tech worked as a team, relying on each other like wives and husbands (in good marriages, at least), or members of a military Special Forces unit. Daria had her quirks, but they’d made a great team all these years. More importantly, Quinn trusted her completely. Given that Quinn trusted almost nobody, that was everything to her.
Becoming a Tier One agent had been Quinn’s goal from the get-go. It would change everything for her and for Daria.
And she would let nothing—not men in fancy suits, the jacker police, or even Daria’s recent difficulties—get in the way of that goal.
Chapter 3
Once she arrived at the Southgate station Downtown, Quinn hopped off the subway. Immediately, the smell hit her—a mixture of body odor, rotting garbage, and dust, sprinkled with a little skunky cannabis for good measure. It was a collection of odors she’d smelled all her life but had somehow never gotten used to… and one she wouldn’t miss once she made Tier One and got the hell out of Downtown.
The warm temperature in the subway station hit her and she broke into a sweat, finally feeling safe enough to take off her light leather jacket. Downtown subway stations had weaker air conditioning, and they got even hotter because they were far more crowded. Street folk gathered in those cavernous stations, looking to escape the sweltering heat of summer. So did regular citizens when their AC units crapped out on them and they needed to save up to pay for the inflated cost of repairs or, worse, a new unit.
When she emerged onto the city streets, the glare of the bright western sun hit her first, followed by an intense, oven-like heat. The news said the temperature would hit 130 degrees that day and Quinn could tell they hadn’t been wrong. The hot air hit her nostrils, drying out her nasal passages. Scientists had predicted this would be the hottest and driest summer yet since the drought came. Since everything changed.
Quinn walked briskly toward home, taking in new but less offensive smells. Charred meat from local stands, rotting garbage
from nearby alley dumpsters, exhaust from old cars with internal combustion engines since most Downtownies couldn’t afford electric cars. Quinn walked in the city noise, cars and buses cruising by, honking now and again. There were fewer people out than usual, though, thanks to the heat, which meant she could pass by stoops and businesses without being harassed or leered at.
It was a typical weekday afternoon in Downtown, in the metropolis of El Diablo.
Quinn strolled past midsize buildings with crumbling mortar between the bricks and concrete towers that looked more functional than they should for residences, their rattling AC units perched unglamorously in the windows and creating a dull hum that never ended. And not a plant, tree, patch of grass, or even a sneaky weed to be seen. The drought had killed off even the most drought-tolerant trees and plants, and only the moneyed could afford the water to keep theirs alive.
God, she couldn’t wait to get out of Downtown.
When she passed by a liquor store with the news on, the headline stopped her in her tracks.
“El Diablo Police arrest two men for mindjacking.”
Quinn went in to listen, hoping the owner wouldn’t yell at her for not buying anything. But he was too focused on the TV to notice her.
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