by Misty Evans
Both were thanks to his ex. Seven months and twenty-eight days—twenty-nine now—since she’d moved out, leaving his heart, and future, in tatters.
The past day had bled into this one, his night spent canvassing the streets for her unsuccessful. She was once again in the wind. He’d stopped every person he’d come across, flashing pictures from his personal collection on his phone. Those individuals who weren’t afraid of him gave him the same response—they hadn’t seen her.
They might have, but with her disguise, they didn’t recognize her from his photos.
He’d visited all the spots street people hung out. Since working as an apprehension agent, he’d grown accustomed to night work, hunting his prey in the shadows. She had to be living on the streets. It was risky to still be in the country, but if she was determined to prove her innocence, she couldn’t do that if she bailed.
He soaped his hair and body and was in the middle of rinsing when he heard a dog bark. Just a couple of yips that immediately put him on alert. He left the water running, wiped his eyes, and threw a towel around his waist. His Beretta was on the counter, and he snatched it up and flipped off the safety.
The condo development was small-scale, with only a dozen units. The landlord didn’t allow animals, and unless the dog was right outside his door, Joe shouldn’t hear it so clearly.
It wasn’t. He listened at the bathroom door, only half closed, and heard someone moving in the kitchen.
On wet but silent feet, he crept from the bathroom, crossed the bedroom floor, and leaned out to look down the hall. A shadow moved near the breakfast bar, and he heard the clink of a cup on the counter.
Shit. There was only one person who would break into his place at six in the morning and make herself coffee.
A new alertness came over him, and at the same time, his shoulders relaxed. Taking a deep breath and reining in the urge to tackle her, he reminded himself this could be a critical turning point. He’d lost her last night, and he wasn’t about to have a repeat.
As he walked down the hall and entered the kitchen, he found the source of the barking—a dirty mutt with crazy hair stood on all fours and curled his lip at him.
Leaning against the counter, Sam looked as tired as Joe felt, her dark eyes watching him over the rim of a cup. The smell of the fresh brewed coffee penetrated his nose, and then his brain, clearing some of the cobwebs. Underneath that aroma, he caught the odor of wet dog.
For a long moment, he simply stood and stared at Sam, taking her in. The morning light filtering through the kitchen window gave him a much better view than he’d had yesterday.
She looked thin, too thin. A tightness set in around her mouth when she finished sipping.
He rubbed his forehead with his free hand, keeping the gun loose in the other next to his side. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“Good morning to you, too,” she replied. “Coffee?”
There wasn’t enough of the stuff in the world to offset the headache beginning to pound between his temples. “Marshals have my place under surveillance, you know.”
She withdrew a second mug from the cabinet, the kitchen as familiar as her own to her. A trip to his side-by-side and she removed the creamer, dumped some into the cup, then poured coffee in. As she slid it across the breakfast bar, she said, “No one saw us.”
The dog continued snarling at him, so he set down the Glock and accepted the coffee. As if sensing the all-clear, the beast wagged its tail ever so slightly.
“The only reason I took this job was to make sure nobody else caught you and brought you in.”
She arched a brow and went back to her drink. Her gaze started at his wet hair, dropped to his jawline, and lowered to his chest. She took in his shoulders, his biceps, his hands—a slow, tantalizing appraisal.
Her focus returned to his chest—a feature she’d always been fascinated with—and he couldn’t resist, expanding his pecs to make sure he gave her a show.
Finally, she lifted her eyes to meet his. “Good to hear you say that, although you’re not bringing me in either.”
He huffed, setting the cup down a bit too hard. The mutt went back to snarling at him. “You want to call off your attack dog?”
“No. And he’s not mine. He doesn’t belong to anyone.”
Kind of like me, her eyes seemed to echo. She covered it up quickly by glancing away.
“This complex doesn’t allow dogs.” It seemed like an inane thing to say at the moment, since she already knew that, but anything to keep her talking and present in his kitchen was worth a try. “Better hope the neighbors don’t call the manager.”
She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “We won’t be here long.”
“Why are you here?”
She was dressed in layers too warm for the day and he wondered if she was packing his stun gun. “I’m going with you to talk to Kyle.”
After getting the okay from Dupé, Joe had reached out to the USC grad student, still in town for summer classes, and was meeting him this morning. “The hell you are. You’re a wanted felon, Sammie. You can’t walk up and start interrogating him. First of all, they’re watching him in case you might do exactly that. You said so yourself. Secondly, you’d scare the shit out of him and he wouldn’t tell you a damn thing.”
“I’ll stay out of sight, but you need me running backup.”
“Bullshit. If I needed backup, I’d call Harris, which I don’t, by the way.”
Pleading eyes locked on his. She had a sweet, innocent air about her when she wanted to, and men were suckers for those big brown eyes, like fish going after a worm on a hook.
At his silence, she pressed her lips together and sighed. “I can handle it.”
“You’re not going anywhere near this kid.”
“Always so bossy.” The dog moved closer, no longer showing his fangs, and sniffed at Joe. The tail wagged a little.
“I need to coach you.” She switched gears. “You don’t even know what to ask.”
“Look, you could use a shower and a decent meal. My offer stands. Clean yourself up, I’ll make breakfast, then you can write down your questions. I’m going to his place at ten-thirty.”
She gave him a benevolent smile. “Nice try. I need to be there since I may have to steer the conversation, based on the replies he gives you. You don’t know enough about the undercover work and his software’s role in what I was doing.”
He leaned on the counter, placing both hands on the cool surface in order to keep from shaking sense into her. Clearing his throat, he attempted to keep the exasperation from his voice. Failed. “Coach me right here. Explain it all so I understand.”
The dog backed off again, sensing his irritation and went to stand by Sam, putting his thirty-pound body in front of her as if to protect her.
She patted him, scratching between his ears. “I’m not even sure I understand what all the software can do, and it would take too much time to explain all the ins and outs of it. That’s why we need to talk to Kyle. Together.”
Joe straightened, put his hands on his hips, and took a small amount of pride when her eyes dropped to his chest again. “If you want me to get to the bottom of this, you have to trust me. Like I said, you can give me the fundamentals over breakfast, and if anything raises a flag when I talk to him, I’ll text you. I assume you have a cell.”
“If they’re surveilling your place, they’re also keeping tabs on your phones—landline and cell. I suppose we could get a burner for you…” She stopped, seeming to think it over, and shook her head. Snapped her fingers. “A listening device. Earbuds. I can hear what he’s saying and I’ll coach you through them.”
She wasn’t gonna let this go. “You’ll still have to be closer than I want for that to work.”
Returning the creamer, she snagged a loaf of bread. Two slices went in the toaster and she refilled her cup. “I suggest you get dressed. We have a lot to talk about before we go.”
The dog sat next to the stove, his eyes
on Joe. “Scramble some eggs for you and the dog,” he said, picking up his gun and coffee. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Any sane man would call Harris or Walsh.
Instead, he found himself in his office. There, he rummaged through his stock of equipment, gathering a body mic and a set of earbuds.
5
Kyle Dunmire lived three blocks from the college in a neighborhood designated for off-campus housing. Shabby couches decorated front porches of two-story homes converted to apartments. Red plastic cups and beer bottles, casually tossed aside after a night of drinking, decorated front lawns and steps.
Kyle’s apartment was on the upper floor of such a house in a nicer area. His downstairs neighbor was gone for the summer, leaving the apartment vacant. Sam had driven by it before, considering the idea of confronting him, or sneaking in to inspect his software.
It wasn’t like she could sit down and have a cup of coffee with the guy. Even with a disguise, her pointed questions would reveal her true identity in minutes.
Breaking in while he was gone and having a look at his computer—most likely provided by the government—wouldn’t do much good either. She could search his software and databases all day and not understand exactly how either worked. Nor would that help her figure out who was behind the bombing.
Someone on the Quiet Streets Taskforce? Or higher up? The list of names—people she’d put her life on the line for—burned in her back pocket.
A single Marshal kept watch over Kyle’s place and Sam made sure to stay out of sight of the unmarked car. She’d avoided the one watching Joe’s this morning, the guy asleep when she snuck in to surprise her former lover.
After convincing Joe to allow her to shadow him, a wire in place on his gorgeous chest so she could listen to the conversation, she’d spotted the Marshal leaving his spot to venture to the Quik-Mart down the road. She’s been watching him for three days, and he’d done the same thing the previous two mornings, using the restroom and grabbing a donut and coffee.
If she were still an active agent, she would have turned him in to Olivia for being so sloppy, but he probably hated this assignment and doubted she would show up at Joe’s so early in the morning. He was wrong on that account.
Excited about the plan, and the fact Joe had finally relented to her tagging along, Sam had slipped and given him a quick kiss out of habit. He’d looked as startled as she’d felt at her gaffe, but knew better than to say anything.
Her lips still tingled from the kiss. It had been totally spontaneous, catching both of them off guard. For one awkward moment, she’d nearly laughed. But before Joe could say anything, or the sexual magnetism between them could fully explode, she’d bailed, leaving Jack-Jack safe in the condo.
Could she be held responsible for losing her head for a moment after what she’d been through in the past few weeks?
No, but she couldn’t excuse the fact she wanted to kiss him again.
Tightening her grip on her binoculars, she shoved the thought away, and focused on Kyle’s place across the street. Time to get her head back in the game.
She’d prepped Joe as much as she could and hoped it’d be enough. Computer programming was above her pay grade—she needed answers to questions, not a coding lesson. She sure hoped Joe could get them.
While he was in the shower, she’d helped herself to several of the toys he kept stashed in his office. She hadn’t let him know she planned to sneak in and leave a few bugs in Kyle’s apartment while Joe kept him busy. Maybe even a camera or two. It was a long shot as far as unraveling what had happened to her, but one she needed to start with in order to follow a trail…one that so far had eluded her.
Of course, she’d been just a tad busy avoiding the police, FBI, Homeland, the Marshals, and a host of general citizens determined to find her and turn her in.
There had to be a trail. Nobody could orchestrate this type of operation without leaving fingerprints or breadcrumbs along the way. If she could keep Joe on her side chasing the mystery with her, she might be able to figure it out.
And if she could, she had the feeling it would lead to another, even bigger unraveling that was going to be all kinds of ugly. She’d been circling that for over a year, trying to get Frank to let her dig deeper. He’d shut her down every time, saying she had no concrete evidence, and when she’d threatened to go up the chain-of-command, she’d nearly gotten fired for insubordination. Frank adored her, but could only be pushed so far.
Joe arrived a few minutes after she was in position down the street on the top floor of a similar house-turned-apartment with her binoculars. This particular living quarters was vacant as well, thanks to it being summer, and she had a view of the Marshal watching Kyle’s, as well as the panorama up and down the street.
An overgrown hedge and a dilapidated garage hid the back entry to Kyle’s. The neighbors were also college grads who did a lot of partying and had a vampire-ish schedule—staying up all night and sleeping through the day.
Joe parked on the street. “Just got word from Dupé he cleared this conversation with our subject,” he said to her via the earbud. “This software must be top secret.”
“I told you.” She’d forced him to contact the West Coast Director to make sure Kyle didn’t put up resistance to the questions Joe was about to hit him with.
As Joe got out of his vehicle, he scanned the area. She was sure he’d already noticed the unmarked car down the block, but she alerted him anyway. “The Marshal is twenty yards west. He’ll be running your plates before you’re in the front door.”
Joe headed up the sidewalk and swung around to the side where stairs went to the second level. “Let me know if our friend makes a move to join us.”
“Roger that.”.
It felt good to be working with someone again, Joe specifically. During their FBI days, they’d rarely crossed paths, since he specialized in kidnappings and she was in counterterrorism.
But when she surfaced after each undercover op, the Bureau insisted she decompress in the office—i.e. sending her to a shrink to make sure her head was still on straight—and a couple of times, she’d assisted Joe’s team with missing persons.
Unfortunately, she hated every minute of those cases, except when working directly with him. He could outthink most kidnappers in no time, and it was a thing of beauty to watch him in action.
Kyle answered the door. He and Joe exchanged pleasantries and Kyle informed him Dupé had already called granted him permission to discuss Operation Quiet Streets.
She heard the sounds of Joe following Kyle inside, kitchen sounds alerting her to the kid pulling something from the fridge, getting a glass from a cupboard.
“Energy drink?” Kyle asked.
“No thanks,” Joe replied. “This shouldn’t take long.”
“Dupé said you’re chasing a criminal and had questions about my program. Like, if it could help you catch him?”
Sam wasn’t surprised the director hadn’t shared details about Joe’s target.
“Word is it’s highly effective at pointing out terrorists before they even commit a crime. Could it do that with other criminals as well?”
“It’s still in beta,” Kyle said, but she could hear the pride in his voice, “but we’ve had a lot of success so far. The more data we retrieve, the better the predictive abilities get, so yeah, it’s possible.”
“I’m not sure I understand exactly how something like this works. I’m not a computer” – he stopped and Sam read his mind, automatically filling in the word geek— “expert, like you are, so you’ll have to speak English, okay?”
“Sure, man. You’re familiar with the basic sources to detect terrorist networks, right? Open source intelligence, terrorist websites, intelligence records, email, phone signals, that kind of thing?” Joe must have nodded because Kyle went on. “The U.S. considers preemptive attacks a legitimate strategy. My software takes those basic sources and goes farther. We call it Quiet Streets. You’ve probably heard
of Quiet Skies?”
“The thing with the airlines?”
Shuffling, the clink of glass. “Similar, except mine is much more sophisticated.” Again a note of pride. “That program specifically targets travelers who are not necessarily on watchlists, or under investigation by any agency per se, but have flags in their personal history, or the places they’re traveling are known terrorist hotspots.”
“They’re profiling unsuspecting Americans,” Joe said. “Thousands are being subjected to targeted airport and in-flight surveillance by undercover Air Marshals.”
She heard Kyle’s return to the fridge, and he sounded unfazed by Joe’s disgust. “Your neighborhood is where the battle is these days, dude. I mean, people have a public life, a private life, and a secret life. The latter might include innocuous things like gambling, or something a lot more extreme such as planning a dirty bomb.” The ice maker went off, fell silent, as he got a drink. “Even the people close to them may not realize their son or friend is unraveling.”
“And your program does that how?”
A drawer rattled. “It narrows in on specific soft spot targets where there are large, unsecured crowds. Specific neighborhoods with a high-risk index.” Excitement laced his voice. He probably didn’t get to talk about his pride and joy that often. “I can cluster potential threats, using sociocultural, political, economic, and demographic factors. Hell, it even considers voting patterns.”
“For what exactly?”
“All those factors enhance the predictive ability. I can identify those most likely, if they have the resources, to become suicide bombers or gunmen. The top one hundred subjects are sent to the QS team and they decide who to target with surveillance.” Silverware clanked against a plate before he continued. “If a suspect moves to the top ten, undercover agents make friends with them, offer resources to see if they’ll take the carrot. They gain more data on the subjects, which I add to the software’s analytical database. It continues to refine the attack probability factors and spits out an accuracy number. If that percentage gets high enough, the UCs give the suspect enough rope to hang him- or herself.”