“Four dead,” she said, then looked sideways at a pair of swinging doors. “And one...”
Someone banged through the doors as if on cue, grabbing a machine in my room and pulling it back through into the other trauma room. As the doors swung shut, I caught a flash of the patient, with tubes sticking out of his mouth and nose–
“Holloway,” I whispered.
“Hey, stop!” the nurse leapt forward as I started to pull electrical leads off my skin. I ripped out my IV line and then crashed to the ground, unprepared to stand and walk yet.
“That's my partner in there,” I said, trying to shove myself back to my feet. Pain shot through me, and a gnawing, nervous sensation chewed at my guts. I failed to stand.
Holloway was in the next room, dying.
I'd failed at a lot more than standing.
“Good luck getting to him in your current condition,” she said dryly, making no move to help me up.
“Please,” I said, turning my head to give her a beseeching look. “I just...I need to know if he's going to be all right.”
Something in my voice must have sold her, because her eyes softened. She didn't say anything, but she did step over to the swinging doors and pulled one open, propping it with her body.
I couldn't hear very well, I realized. There was a faint ringing in my ears that muted conversations in a way that I normally didn't experience. I could hear rooms away under regular conditions; now that she had opened the door, I could hear the frantic talk in the trauma room, but only barely, and undergirded by the ringing all the while.
“Charge to 300,” one of the doctors said.
My heart fell.
“Clear.”
The sound of a defibrillator rang out, and the part of Holloway I could see from my perch on the floor, cheek pressed against the cool, dirty tile, leapt up an inch or two at the shock of electricity.
“No response.”
“No, no, no,” I muttered under my breath. My chest felt tight. His skin was so pale, even under the spray tan.
“Charging.”
“Clear!”
They hit him again. He jerked languidly, then settled back.
A silence followed.
“Nothing.”
“Charge to – aw, never mind. I'm calling it.”
No. No.
The longest pause came after that, then:
“Time of death: 1432.”
Holloway was dead.
Because of me.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Chapman
Jaime was on a late lunch when the call came through – urgent. Desperate. It wasn't phrased that way, but the way it came through made it clear.
“How did this get on the schedule today?” Jaime asked the assistant that was in with him. New guy. Jaime didn't learn their names anymore, because these people rotated often, thus memorizing a name was a waste of time.
“They called and got themselves added,” the assistant said. “There was a concern – they're bringing a rep from legal, too. Something about exposure.”
Chapman's face automatically crinkled. Anything that required lawyers to be present was not good. “And this is now?”
“Right now, yes, sir,” the assistant said, just as the phone buzzed.
“Great, thanks for the warning.” Chapman hit the button on the phone. “Send 'em in.”
“Yes, sir.”
Two men came in, one grim faced, in a suit – lawyer, he knew immediately – the other in a sweater-vest with slacks and skinny beyond healthy levels. Stick figure, Jaime thought of him, probably a little uncharitably. But whatever news they were bringing, he already knew it was not good. They introduced themselves – well, the lawyer did, anyway – and Jaime immediately forgot his name. The other, he knew, vaguely. It was Connor Lawsom, the acting CEO of Lineage.
“We have...some potential exposure,” Connor said once the ten seconds Jaime had allotted to initial pleasantries passed.
Jaime looked at the lawyer. He revealed nothing, sitting there, staid, like a rock. “What kind?”
“As you know, at Lineage,” Connor said, fiddling with his pants leg, crossing over his knee, “we handle DNA profiling. As well as–”
“I knew what you did when I bought the company,” Jaime said, feeling his patience, like sands running through an hourglass, starting to wane. “How do we have exposure?”
Connor fiddled with his pants leg again. “Someone...accessed our DNA profile database.”
Jaime blinked, then nodded. “A breach, then? Those are commonplace. We can explain it away. It's not as though we have immense amounts of credit card information or social security numbers in that business.” He chuckled. “Exposure? This is just a cost of doing business.”
“Yes, but...” Connor smoothed that pants leg again. Jaime wanted to hand him an iron so he could get on with fixing it. “That's not...exactly...the kind of exposure we're talking about. This was...internal.”
Jaime straightened. “Internal?” He didn't need an answer to that, was merely verbalizing his surprise, and he disregarded their reactions and answers because he simply didn't care. “What kind of data?”
“The genetic data,” Connor said. “The ancestry data. Family lines...and such.”
“Wait, not even credit cards?” Jaime asked. A shake of the head from Connor. “Personal–”
“Some,” Connor said. “Names and addresses, mostly. But the majority...it was the ancestral data.”
Jaime took a deep breath. “And you're sure it wasn't an external breach?” A nod. “Well, we need to start an investigation. This isn't as serious as other data breaches, without the financial component, but we need to take it seriously.”
“We already know who did it,” the lawyer said. “They didn't even try and cover their tracks.”
Jaime chuckled. “Well, all right, then. That makes it simpler. Who was it?”
“Qiu Yeung,” Connor said.
Jaime frowned. Why did that name sound familiar?
“I'm afraid that's one of the people Mr. Huang added to our team upon execution of the merger,” Connor said. At least he'd stopped fiddling with his damned pants leg.
Jaime just sat there in silence. Huang had pushed for him to be added to Lineage.
“We believe he also downloaded the entire back end of the website,” the lawyer said. “The interface, all the algorithms.”
Jaime stared, disbelieving.
Huang had stolen the information right out of that company.
And it had to be Huang. Huang had put this guy in place, had gotten him right there – right where he could download everything. Then this Qiu did, and brought that information – the DNA and family ancestry database, along with their entire site – to...whom?
Huang? Maybe. But why? They were going to roll it out in China together, eventually. It wasn't exactly highest priority, this silly little DNA and genealogy site. It wasn't exactly the most lucrative part of the business. Hell, it wasn't lucrative at all, it was running at just above break-even. There were a lot more valuable things Huang could have stolen.
“I need you,” Chapman said quietly, “to make inquiries. See if any other of Huang's people have done anything similar at our other subsidiaries.” He pursed his lips. Huang didn't really have anyone in Socialite, Instaphoto, Cash-Fer, or FindIt, though some were slated to come in. He'd wanted to start small, hence the addition to Lineage, as well as a couple of the smaller companies. “Start preparing a report on this. We'll have to release it to the board, and...” He looked at the lawyer. “I'm assuming it's going to have to go public at some point.”
The lawyer nodded. “As data breaches go, this one is not among the top tier. That said, I'm not in PR, but if you don't inform people that their data and genetic information has been stolen, your liability will be significant.”
“Agreed, no, we'll make it public,” Chapman said, nodding along. The problem was how transparent he wanted to be about it. Could he burn this Qiu with
out the blowback hitting Huang? “Make sure you center your investigation on Mr. Yeung, though. I want to know what he was up to. Hell, I want the cops to arrest him.”
“That...would be difficult,” Connor said, back to tugging on that damned pants leg. He really needed to find some wrinkle-free pants. He squirmed in his seat but finally blurted out, “He left to go back to China two weeks ago. We made some inquiries before bringing this to you and China's saying...” He squirmed. “...Well they're saying no such person from their country ever traveled here.”
The lawyer nodded. “It's like he straight-up disappeared. Like he never even existed.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Sienna
“Hey.”
Bilson found me sitting in the waiting area of the ER wearing a hospital gown over my bloody jeans, the only article of clothing they hadn't cut off me by the time I'd woken and fought them off. My weapons must have been held by the investigators at the scene, because the only personal effects the nurse had handed me before sending me on my way was my cracked cell phone and my little wallet.
I looked up to find him staring down at me, eyes rimmed with concern beneath his wire-frame glasses. He kept a respectful distance, but looked like he wanted to reach over and put a hand on my shoulder. He didn't though. I was completely shut down, barely registering any surprise at him appearing out of the blue. Which was unexpected.
He must have taken the cue from me staring up at him, blinking, because he said, “I heard about what happened on the news. And when I checked with my local contacts, they said you were taken here.”
I nodded slowly, then looked around. The ER waiting room was a study in quiet despair, and I blended in perfectly. No one was even looking at me, nor daring to sit close to me. Probably because my hair was mussed beyond belief, my jeans were bloody, and the hospital gown was not a great look. I doubted it was doing a great job of covering my back, but who cared? Let the world see my shoulder blades if they wanted. They were probably caked in dried blood anyway.
“I know you're probably feeling pretty raw right now,” Bilson said, offering a hand. “Let's get you out of here, huh?”
I stared at his hand for a moment, then nodded, and stood under my own power.
He smiled weakly, clearly pained for me, and waited for me to get my feet underneath me. It was a bit of a struggle. My legs were still uncomfortably weak, and I almost stumbled a couple times. I was pretty sure I had a break somewhere south of my knee, but there wasn't much I could do about it except stay off it until it healed. “You want me to get you a wheelchair?”
“I'll be fine,” I said.
We made it out to the parking lot and Bilson's Maserati was there waiting. To his credit – again – he didn't fidget or fuss over me sitting my bloody jeans on his leather upholstery. He just held the door for me and offered help – which I didn't take – to get in. Then closed it gently behind me before getting in and starting the car.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“Yes,” I whispered, thinking of how Holloway had asked me to get lunch and coffee hours ago. I had been wondering, for quite a while, if I'd been my usual stubborn asshole self and made him go, or ordered in, if this whole thing wouldn't have happened.
Basically, I wondered if I had gotten Holloway killed. But I was past that now. I was certain.
I'd definitely gotten him killed.
“I'm sure we can find a drive-thru,” Bilson said. “Unless you want to get out and eat in a restaurant...?”
I looked down at my hospital gown. No self-respecting restaurant would want me as a patron in their dining room right now. “Drive-thru is fine. Or if you want to drop me at home, I can order delivery when I get there.”
“No, I'll go with you. We'll get you something. What are you in the mood for? Burgers? Chicken? Tacos?”
“I don't care,” I said numbly. Everything was numb for me right now. This was the second time since I'd joined the FBI that I'd had one of my partners die. But the first one I'd felt actually responsible for. Georgia West had been with me when we'd taken on Grendel, and that had just been a fight that was over my head at the time.
Holloway, though...
FBI investigators had caught up to me in the trauma room just after Holloway had died. They'd hit me with the questions. The same ones I'd have asked if it had been me. What did you see? What happened? What do you remember?
The answers, in order, were, Not much, I don't exactly know, and Relatively little.
I remembered the car coming at me, being ready to face it down. I remembered getting hit by the sonic weapon.
Then...
Boom. And that was it, other than four long shadows with rifles moving up to fire on me.
After that? Nada.
They had footage of the attack, they said, so they didn't push me too hard. I didn't even realize until later, when the nurse that was watching over me told me I had a white strip of skull peeking out from beneath my hairline the whole time they were talking to me. Which explained the effort they'd seemed to put into hiding their revulsion.
“I'm sorry about your partner,” Bilson said softly. “I know he was with the bureau for quite some time.”
“He was a prick sometimes,” I said, drawing a sharp intake of breath from Bilson, “but he was a good agent.”
Bilson seemed unsure of what to do with my mixed assessment. It shouldn't have surprised me that he was the sort that bought into the idea of canonizing the dead. To hell with that; Holloway was a man with deep flaws. Alcoholism he refused to take seriously, womanizing, grabby hands that he'd drunkenly applied to me once – and only once – before he learned his lesson. A soul-deep cynicism from seeing a little too much war and a little too much law enforcement. It had left him hobbled in his ability to believe there was good in people. I'd seen it in lots of long-service cops, the kind that forget that ordinary people aren't all criminals.
But dammit...when those bastards ambushed me on the street, he'd charged out into the middle of it and taken a half dozen rounds for the trouble.
“Did he have family?” Bilson asked.
“An ex-wife,” I said. “Kids. The bureau's talking to them. They weren't...close.” The last word was like a whisper, fading away, some stupid shit I'd probably be telling myself for years to console myself at his loss. Hey, he died saving my life, but at least nobody's really going to miss him.
I choked down a rancid hunk of feels, my eyes suddenly threatening to fill right there in Bilson's car, and felt generally terrible about myself and this state of affairs.
We stopped in at a Burger King and I ordered one of their vegetarian burgers because I wanted to feel worse. It worked.
Bilson drove me home and followed behind me as I limped up the stairs on my bum leg. I thudded against the wall next to my door, looking for my keys. I tried to remember if I had gotten them back at the hospital, then wondered if maybe they'd been lost either during the attack or after.
“I can call a locksmith if you'd like,” Bilson said. So helpful.
“Don't bother,” I said, and broke the guts of the lock out, then turned the knob and forced entry.
“Maybe I should get one anyway,” he offered, standing outside in the hall. “Get that repaired for you.”
I took a few hobbling steps and collapsed in the chair nearest the door. It was soft, well-worn, used furniture procured by the FBI when I moved in and never replaced by a tenant who just didn't give a damn about where she lived at this point.
Bilson seemed to wake up to this fact as he lingered at the door, looking around. He'd been here only yesterday, but now it seemed like he was finally realizing my apartment was an empty shell, like a set dressed for a film with only the barest effort put into it. “Do you...do you want me to–”
“You can come in,” I said, leaning my head against the soft cloth. “No need to hang out in the hallway.”
He eased inside and closed the door, messing with the busted lock like he didn't
know quite what to do with it. Finally he got it closed enough and stopped fiddling. Then he looked around the darkened place, hesitated, and asked, “Do you want me to turn some lights on? Or...?”
“I don't care.”
His voice was quiet when next he spoke. “You want me to leave you alone...?”
“They came after me because of the investigation, you know.” I said it firmly. “I wasn't quitting it. After what we found yesterday. I know you wanted me to drop it. Chalke wanted me to drop it. Case closed, she said. I'm sure the White House wanted this over, but I just...” I shook my head.
Bilson was quiet for a minute. “You don't think it could have been something else?”
“No,” I said. “No, I don't.”
He nodded slowly. “I don't think so, either.” He took a long, deep breath. “I think you're onto something here that has a lot of people scared.”
I leaned my head against the chair, watching Bilson. “What is it that has them so scared?”
He seemed to think about this. “Forgive me for answering slowly. I'm not trying to put you off, it's just...there's a paradigm shift occurring. I'm changing my mind about something, and it's...painful, in its way. See, I've had this long assumption in my political dealings that China, for whatever faults they have, is a key partner for the future. I mean, a billion and a half people – it's not like you can just ignore them, right?” He laughed weakly. “Politicians. Business leaders. Industry analysts. We have an established 'Washington Consensus' about China. How to treat them. What to do with them.”
Bilson pursed his lips, pale skin almost blue in the darkness of my apartment. “And I think we've been wrong all this time.”
I waited for something more than that. “You finally seeing the PRC government for what they are? Because of this?”
He nodded slowly. “They have never done – to my knowledge – anything this bold before.”
I chuckled quietly. “They've been doing things for a while.”
Dragon: Out of the Box (The Girl in the Box Book 37) Page 27