The Shadow File (An Alex Vane Media Thriller, Book 4)

by A. C. Fuller

  "I'm not mad at you. It's not like we didn't know how diabolical these guys are. They tortured you. I just want to stab Amand through the face with an ice pick."

  She said the words "ice pick" with a venom I'd never heard from her, a venom that made me realize how hard I'd been working to keep calm. I'd slowed and deepened my breathing without even noticing, trying to cope with the fact that we were stuck on an airplane thirty thousand feet off the ground, while Innerva was back in Cuba. By now, her feet might be halfway into that stove.

  The deeper I breathed, the more I became aware of a red-hot rage burning in my chest, like decades of pent-up anger were all hitting me at the same moment. Legs bent under the seat in front of me, seatbelt low and tight across my waist, I felt like a caged animal.

  "What do you think he's doing?" Greta asked.

  "Screwing with me. If you ever met this guy, you'd want to run in the other direction. He's like a sleazy used car salesman who can threaten to kill you if you don't buy a car."

  "But the pictures," she said, turning toward me in the seat, "why would he send them?"

  "It's a threat."

  "But why?"

  In my mind, Amand didn't need a reason to do something like this, but he probably had one. "I don't know."

  Greta's eyes were closed and her forehead was wrinkled, which meant she was thinking hard. "Okay, let me just talk this out," she said. "They shoot Innerva and she collapses in the yard. We escape and the two SUVs chase us. We lose the first one at the farmhouse, then your ex-pals TJ and Dex at the bridge. Meanwhile, someone takes Innerva to wherever she is in that photo. So maybe there was a third car there. Or maybe one of those SUVs had her in the back or something. Doesn't really matter. The first two guys probably checked in at the farmhouse once they realized their car was busted. So maybe they've got Grandma Martinez, as well."

  "Probably," I said. "By now they might have figured out her connection to Innerva. Hell, they could have found her husband on his travels and have him tied up in the back of a van."

  "Right. But why not just finish off Innerva? Why send you this photo? Amand must know that the hack hasn't happened. And now that he has Innerva, he'd believe that he can kill her and the hack will never go forward."

  "But he probably wants to keep her alive to make sure she didn't set up a dead man's switch. If I'm Amand, I want to make sure she didn't set it up for the hack to occur even if she was captured. That's exactly what she accomplished by giving us the USB drive."

  I paused and looked at my lap. Images of Innerva being shoved feet first into the wood stove filled my mind. I tapped on Greta's phone. "And the wood stove is how he's going to get her to tell him."

  "Or maybe she already did tell him. Think about it, if he didn't know that we had a USB drive, what motivation could he possibly have to text me? To create a digital trail linking Innerva to a phone? His phone. He's too smart to do that."

  "I'm sure the phone isn't his personal cell," I said.

  "But still, why create any trail if he didn't know about the USB drive? Amand would have tortured Innerva until he was confident that either a) she had no backup plan and the hack would never be executed, or b) he found out that she did have a backup plan. And if Innerva told him that we were the backup plan, what would he do next?"

  "He'd try to threaten us into silence because—"

  "Because he knows he can't stop it." Greta was smiling an odd, violent smile. A smile of relish mixed with pain and anger.

  But I wasn't sure about her theory. "So you're saying that he already tortured Innerva, got her to tell him about us having the drive, and now is threatening us, thinking it'll keep us from plugging it in?"

  "It's the only thing that makes sense because he knows that, if he has Innerva and she had no backup plan, the hack is over. The whole thing is over. He'd have no reason to contact us."

  "We could still go to the police, or write a story that—"

  "No! Alex, c'mon."

  I knew Greta was right. The territory we were in was far beyond the reach of the police, and there was no story that could be published about Amand that would change things. Not with the information I had anyway.

  I said, "So Amand knows we have the USB drive?"

  "And there's only one thing to do now."

  "What?"

  She looked at me hard, but didn't speak. It was as if she didn't want to say it out loud.

  I thought for a moment, then said, "If he knows we have it, you can bet that he's sending people to the airport to meet us. All he would have needed to do was get to the airport in Cuba and get our flight records. Come to think of it, we're lucky to have even gotten out of Cuba."

  "I was thinking that, too. Maybe he was out of men once Dex and TJ disappeared."

  I glanced at the flight tracker on the screen on the back of the seat in front of me. "Amand could be tracking your cell phone, too. He could know our exact location."

  "Which means we need to plug the USB drive in as soon as possible."

  I stood up and scanned the plane for people with laptops. I could see at least half a dozen from where I was, most playing movies. I began concocting a story to get someone to loan me their computer for a few minutes.

  But something wasn't right. "If we ask someone to use their laptop," I said, sitting down, "if we plug that drive in, and if the program does what Innerva said, it will be traceable. Even if we take the blame, even if they can deny that they did it, we might be sentencing them to death."

  Greta nodded. We both knew we couldn't do it.

  "You're right," she said. "We can't involve anyone else in this."

  "We can't. But I know one person who might want to be involved."

  33

  Lance Brickman.

  I was about to text him when Greta's phone dinged with a new text message.

  It was from noreply@texturbuds.com, a free texting service that allows users to send texts from a computer instead of a phone. I'd received just one text from the service before, and I knew this one must be from Quinn Rivers.

  Alex-

  I was wondering when I'd hear from you. Sorry I had to bail on your lawyer. She was great. Really. But I couldn't wait around for justice to run its course, especially because the best justice was going to give me was six to ten months in prison.

  I stopped reading and held up the phone to Greta. "Just read the first paragraph."

  "What is she talking about?"

  "I don't know, but it sounds like…like she...escaped."

  "We would have heard about that."

  "Not if it happened in the last few days."

  "Holy hell!"

  "It would make sense with what my lawyer said about needing to talk to me." As screwed up as our situation was, I couldn't help but smile at the thought of Quinn Rivers on the loose again.

  Greta leaned over and we read the rest of the note together.

  I could tell from your message that you were talking about something other than what you were talking about. Honestly, it was pretty lame code. If anyone was reading it, you didn't fool them.

  But I think I know what you meant.

  Our friend from Bangalore has been busy. I heard about it after I escaped. If I know Innerva, the USB drive was set up to run a script that would activate a series of scripts on servers around the world. It sounds like she could have put two versions of the script on the USB drive. If so, holding down command-2 would just force the second script to run, rather than the first.

  If this has anything to do with the stuff I saw in the Tech Triune, my guess is that she created two different versions of the hack, and that she's asking you to run the second one.

  By the way, in case you're wondering, I'm somewhere safe, and this message is untraceable. You won't be able to respond to it, but I might contact you again once I can set up a permanent means of communication.

  -Smedley Vegas

  After we'd read the note twice, I said, "So, that just confirms what we already thought. I
think the real question is exactly what will happen when we plug the thing in."

  Greta thought for a moment, crinkling her forehead then smoothing it out with her hand. She spoke slowly. "My sense of her is that she's always been conflicted. White hat hacker. Black hat hacker. Trying to make the world more fair, more democratic, but doing it using wildly illegal methods. Dangerous methods. When she hooked up with James, he tempered some of her extreme tendencies. For years she was like a Robin Hood of hackers. At least, that's how she saw herself."

  She paused and I was about to say something when she held up a finger to my lips. "After James died," she continued, "she wanted revenge. So would I, in her shoes. But, while getting revenge, she hatched a plan that would take out thousands of innocents. Put the security of the whole country at risk. But she made another version, and she decided to tell you about it."

  "But when she first told me about it, she didn't say anything about 'Command' and 'Two.'"

  "So what could have changed in those few hours? Why do you think she chose to give you the added information only after being shot?"

  Of course, I'd been wondering the same thing. "Not sure. I'd imagine that getting shot changes one's priorities. But...what? I mean what do you think happened? Like she saw James's spirit and he told her to tell me to use the less destructive version of the hack? One that we're not sure exists? One that—"

  "Alex—"

  "No, your turn to let me finish. What if there are two versions of the hack, but one of them is just a much worse version of the one she told me about? The one she threatened to unleash. What if she is using us? Like, one version will take out the whole private security apparatus of the United States, but the other will also leak the nuclear launch codes to Syria, or activate the self-destruct codes of all American warships?"

  "I don't think that last one is possible."

  "No, probably not, but you see what I mean, right? I'd love to believe Innerva, but we really have no idea."

  Greta shook her head slowly. "We can't know for sure. But Innerva is the closest thing to a person we can trust in this entire mess, so we have to trust her. And honestly, I don't care what she blows up. These people have kidnapped us both, tortured you, tortured Innerva, killed James and who knows how many other people, and they tried to murder us this morning. If they're afraid of what's on this drive, I say good. They should be."

  In journalism school, they teach you to try to see both sides of an issue, even while acknowledging that it's impossible to overcome all your internal biases. And from early on in life, I'd known that doing so was just my style. My dad once told me that I was doing the family name proud because I was like a weather vane. I could be blown in any direction, even by a slight wind.

  So when Greta finished making her case, I wanted to argue. I wanted to come up with alternatives. I wanted to think through the other side.

  But I was just looking for a way out. A way to avoid making a difficult decision. A decision I hadn't asked for and didn't want to make, but was mine to make nonetheless.

  Then an image came to me. A vision of Innerva tied to a board, two men shoving her into a wood-burning stove, feet first. And Amand, standing next to her in a two-thousand dollar camel hair jacket, grinning like he was doing her a favor.

  "Let's nail these bastards," I said. "Gimme your phone and I'll write to Lance."

  34

  Lance Brickman hated technology. Back in 2004, James and I had forced him to get a cell phone and, though he'd upgraded over the years and gradually adjusted to texting, I knew he still preferred a good old-fashioned phone call.

  But since I couldn't make a phone call on a plane, I used Greta's phone to text him.

  It's Alex, texting from Greta's phone, and I need your help.

  Landing at JFK in three hours.

  Buy a ticket that leaves from the same terminal where my flight arrives—JetBlue from Havana, due in at five p.m.

  Then find my gate. When the plane arrives, stand right beside the exit door. I won't speak to you or look directly at you.

  When I walk out, I'll drop a USB drive on the ground.

  Pick it up, plug it into a computer at an Internet cafe, then double click the file while holding down the "Command" key and the number "2."

  Don't respond to anything that happens to me or to Greta when we get off the plane. Just follow these instructions exactly.

  I was betting on the fact that Amand and his guys would wait until I got off the plane to grab me, rather than walking onto the plane before everyone got off, like an Air Marshal would. My thinking was that, even though Amand might have the influence to get the airline to let him on, he probably wouldn't use it. One thing about running a massive, mostly-secret and only semi-legal security system within the United States is that you'd prefer people not even know it exists. You'd prefer not to make a scene.

  Greta read over the text and, when she'd finished, I asked, "You sure we should do this?"

  "I guess if they're reading my texts in real time, we're screwed. But no more than we already are. I don't see a better option."

  "Neither do I."

  She looked at me searchingly. I smiled, and she pressed "Send."

  "We should warn him, though," Greta said. "Give him a choice."

  "You're right," I said, reaching for the phone. But Greta was already tapping out another text to Lance.

  It's Greta now. I'm on the plane with Alex. When we met a few days ago, you seemed to want revenge for Innerva. We can't be certain what will happen if you follow the instructions in the previous message. You could get in a lot of trouble, as we already are. But we know that it's what Innerva wanted.

  "You think he'll show up?" Greta said after sending the message.

  "Lance has a lot of time on his hands these days. I'd say there's an eighty percent chance he gets the message, an eighty percent chance that, if he gets the message, he'll try to come to the airport, and an eighty percent chance that, if he leaves for the airport, he'll make it in time. If my math is right, that gives us roughly a fifty-fifty chance."

  We were both quiet for a moment.

  "I'll drink to a fifty-fifty chance," Greta said, pressing the call button above her seat. "I had a client once who was in and out of rehab for twenty years. When he finally got his life together, he told me that, back when he drank, he never went to rehab sober. When he made the decision to go to rehab, he'd be sure to tie one on beforehand. Assuming we're going to get nabbed by Amand when we get off the plane, and assuming Lance shows up, I'd prefer not to be sober."

  We had a few hours at thirty thousand feet, and that's what we did. Greta isn't much of a drinker, but she sipped two beers over the remaining time, which was enough to get her tipsy. I drank three beers, but they didn't have much of an effect on me.

  I was too wired.

  When the plane landed, part of me wanted to stay on board forever. But after fifteen minutes, after every other row had deplaned, we made our way up the aisle. Leaning in to whisper in Greta's ear, I said, "Whatever happens, just stay close to me. If they're there, I doubt they'll want to make a scene."

  Emerging from the plane and into the brightly lit airport, I did a quick scan. I didn't see anyone who looked threatening. And, at first, I didn't see Lance.

  "Alex," Greta said quietly. "Back and to your right."

  I looked over my shoulder casually, where Lance was standing in his old brown jacket, arms folded like he was still overworked and in a crummy mood, even in retirement.

  Without making eye contact, I stepped off to the side as Greta sat in the waiting area, pretending to look for something in her bag. I knelt to tie my shoe, which I'd untied just before deplaning, and scanned the terminal again, looking for the types of guys Amand would have sent.

  I saw a lot of people—kids staring at iPads, adults staring at phones, an old lady rummaging in an oversized purse, a couple backpackers who reminded me of Richard and Ursula from the colectivo. But no one who looked like they'd been sen
t by Amand.

  Inside, I was making a calculation.

  What I wanted to do was to talk to Lance, explain the situation, follow him out and stick the USB drive in a port together. But I also knew that Amand's men could be anywhere in the airport. Maybe they were on the other side of the security checkpoint. Or maybe they were watching me right now, waiting for me to make a move. Hell, Amand could have hired a guy off the street to murder me. The old woman could be rummaging in her purse for a grenade for all I knew.

  As badly as I wanted to talk to Lance, I couldn't risk it. Our plan had little hope of working as it was, and if I blew Lance's cover, the chances would drop even further.

  I tied my shoe, then untied it, then tied it again. Just before I stood, I slid the USB drive along the floor in Lance's direction.

  Greta and I sauntered toward the row of screens displaying flight information and, glancing back for a split second, I saw Lance drop to a knee and pick up the USB drive.

  We stood, staring up at the screens, my heart racing. I could barely read the information about our connecting flight.

  "Did you do it?" Greta asked.

  "I did it."

  "Did he see it?"

  "He picked it up."

  She looked around the terminal casually. "They're not here."

  "It appears not."

  She squeezed my hand, which was hot and sweaty. "Do you think they couldn't get in? Past the security checkpoint, I mean."

  "I guess not."

  We stared at the screens, neither of us knowing what to do. We'd been so sure there would be men waiting for us at the gate, we were frozen in indecision. I felt like a man scheduled for electrocution who'd just learned about a statewide power outage.

  "So what do we do?" Greta asked, still staring up at the screen. "We have an hour until the flight back to Seattle."

  "They may be waiting there."

  "Yeah, but maybe Lance will have already plugged in the drive. Maybe all hell will be breaking loose."