Danger Close

by S L Shelton

  I used the map to give me the location of the custom firewall files to test their proficiency.

  What I saw gave me a great deal of encouragement. There were entries from ten to fifteen individuals, often stepping on code from one another. Entire sections were commented out or nullified and even more had been reactivated with notes left to future contributors:

  //DO NOT touch this line of code. It crashes the accounting server without it.

  and

  //Whoever keeps changing this needs to stop. It took 3 days to track down this string.

  There were multiple examples of this sort of inter-code communication—some even had responses. In one instance:

  //This subroutine is required for encrypted communications through the firewall.

  Then the response from a frustrated security specialist:

  //Yeah, idiot. It works because the encryption is switched off. Do NOT re-engage.

  I noted it had, in fact, been re-engaged.

  I concluded I could have free reign over the systems without risk of detection. But just to be safe, I set up a piggyback upload. It was much slower than a direct upload, but well worth the wait for the added guarantee of anonymity.

  I quickly created the file and directory list I was interested in, and sent it off on its meandering way through the multiple proxies. It would be hours before the first records would be ready for viewing.

  Checking my watch, I saw it was after 11:00 p.m. and decided to turn in. As I had done each night for more than a month with the borrowed gun, I made sure there was no round in the chamber of my new baby Glock subcompact 9mm, and then tucked it under my pillow.

  I was sound asleep in moments.

  September 1996—Spotsylvania, Virginia

  HANK WOLFE watched as Roger Gallow moved out of the doorway of the shop and slowly walked closer. “I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, but something has come up at work and we need to have a little chat,” Gallow said with a false smile. “It shouldn’t take long…just a short drive, and we should be able to clear everything up.”

  “Roger. I haven’t had anything to do with GGP for almost five years now,” Hank said, maneuvering himself closer to Gallow while keeping his son behind him.

  “You see. That’s the problem,” he replied. “Mike Nance said you got a dose of the second generation Ambux after you left the company. He said it was the only way to fix the personality fractures from the first generation exposure.”

  “I don’t know why Mike would say that. I haven’t seen him since before I left. My fractures stopped as soon as I detoxed,” Hank lied, smiling genuinely. He moved closer to Gallow. “Look. As you can see, I have my son here. Why don’t I come out to the lab on Monday, and we can sit down with Mike and try to figure out what’s going on.”

  “There are two problems with that suggestion,” Gallow replied, turning his back on Hank. “The first problem is that I suspect that your son has been exposed to Ambux. And the second problem is that Mike can’t answer anyone’s questions anymore. He was involved in a tragic car accident last night.”

  The expression on Hank’s face went from smiling confusion to anger.

  “Scott. Go inside and find your mom,” he said without turning.

  Scott got up to leave, but then paused and looked at his dad.

  “Did you say run?” Scott asked.

  The color dropped from Hank’s face as Gallow smiled at him—the secret had been revealed; Scott had been exposed to the compound that had saved Hank's mind, and now Gallow knew it too.

  “I see the second generation Ambux causes personality fractures as well,” Gallow said before turning to look at Scott. “Do like your dad says. Go on and find your mom.”

  Scott ran out of the workshop, leaving the door open behind him.

  “I don’t have time for this tonight,” Hank said. “And I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. The first generation of Ambux nearly killed me. Do you really think I would give it to my son?”

  Gallow thought about it for a moment before shaking his head. “No…not intentionally, anyway.”

  “I didn’t give it to him at all and I haven’t seen Mike in years,” Hank said, walking for the door. “I have no idea what he told you before his ‘accident’, but either you misunderstood him or he’d been sampling his own product.”

  Hank left the shop, Gallow close on his heels. The sun had just set and it was starting to get dark as he walked across the yard toward the house. He needed to get to his gun…he knew this was going to end badly.

  “Hank,” Gallow called from behind him, jogging to close the distance between them.

  Hank ignored him.

  “Hank,” he said again as he got closer. “Right now, I’m the only one who knows your boy has been exposed. I can keep it that way, but you have to cooperate.”

  “You’re nuts!” Hank exclaimed as he got to the back porch and opened the screen door. “Has everyone at GGP gotten as paranoid as you? You better check the ventilation system. I think you’re all breathing too many fumes.”

  “Hank!” Gallow yelled, grabbing Hank by the arm, stopping him as he entered the kitchen. “There’s no way around this. The funding for the project was tied up with the last administration’s scandals. Things are starting to come undone. GGP has been cut off and its projects are being swept under the rug.”

  “I see,” Hank said with a sneer. “So you're here to sweep me.”

  “Not me,” Gallow said in a whisper. “And there’s no guarantee I won’t get swept as well. I’m here to make sure these bastards don’t hurt your family. But that’s all I can do.”

  Realization of his situation hit him all at once as he looked around the darkening property for signs of others. The expression of anger on Hank's face melted into something more closely resembling acceptance.

  “What do you need me to do?” he asked with resignation.

  “Come with us, and your family will only get a dose of S28,” Gallow said.

  Hank’s eyes flew wide with anger.

  “I know what you are thinking, but it’s been fixed. S28 doesn’t have any of the nasty side effects 22 and 25 had,” Gallow said, trying to calm Hank. “It is short-term amnesia only.”

  “You’re going to fry my family’s brains, and you want me to just cooperate?” Hank asked.

  Just then he heard his wife, Patricia, screaming upstairs.

  Hank turned and ran around the corner of the wooden banister at the base of the stairs and then stomped up to the second floor. When he reached the bedroom, his wife was slumped against the closet door; a man in black military fatigues stood over her with a syringe. Her limp form was splayed out, protectively shielding their daughter and son who were in the closet.

  Hank's eyes met Scott's in a silent message of both apology and warning of what his son was about to witness.

  five

  Wednesday, September 1st

  7:00 a.m.—Home, Fairfax Virginia

  My alarm went off, and I slowly got out of bed, wiping the sleep from my eyes. But I quickly thought of my looming altered morning routine and hopped out of bed, energized.

  I went into the kitchen immediately and started the coffee brewing, getting that out of the way so that I could focus on my wardrobe—I hadn’t been this excited to get dressed in the morning for years. Staring at my wardrobe for a few moments, it took a little effort to talk myself into putting on a jacket. Once I braced myself properly, I decided to try the khakis and sport jacket look Nick had recommended.

  I looked like a total nerd—especially with the five days of beard growth—a high school math teacher maybe?

  A drastic change of attire was called for. I stripped before pulling a long-sleeved Henley over my head, followed by a pair of stonewashed jeans. My hand hovered over my other jacket options before grabbing a more youthful-looking blue-gray summer-weight blazer from its hanger. I tossed it on the bed before strapping on my shoulder holster.

  As soon as the blazer
went on, my mood changed—I was very pleased with the concealment it provided for my Glock and the cut of my new look—it was very GQ.

  I wrapped the neoprene ankle holster around my leg and slipped the little Glock 26 into it. It took some adjusting to keep it from bulging through my pant leg, but I finally managed to get it mostly concealed. You’d have to be looking for it to see it.

  I checked the time and realized that dealing with my new fashion accessories had set me behind so I poured the coffee into my travel cup, grabbed my shoulder bag, and headed out the door. The extra weight on my right leg made me self-conscious of my walk, and I’m certain I was over compensating while trying to move normally.

  “You’ve got to go,” I muttered to the ankle holster as I got in the car and adjusted the strap before starting the engine. When I sat up again, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye behind the gate near the dumpster for my court. The hairs went up on the back of my neck. But I didn’t hear the other voice warning me, so I started the car and pulled out onto Monument Avenue.

  I was about halfway to the Fairfax County Parkway, wondering if I should be relying on my hitchhiking other voice to begin with, when it finally chimed in.

  Don’t stop, it said.

  “What the hell does that mean?” I asked as I looked up into the rearview mirror.

  Behind me by about forty yards was a motorcycle. I saw the Fairfax County emblem on the front just as the flashing lights started up.

  “How am I supposed to not stop for a cop?” I asked aloud, hoping to start a conversation with my other voice.

  Nothing.

  “Shit,” I swore to myself.

  I knew I hadn’t been speeding because that stretch was patrolled, and I was always careful.

  What if a light is out, or my tags are expired? I thought to myself.

  Don’t stop, my other voice repeated.

  Just then, the siren came on. I had waited too long, and the cop had gotten impatient. I had to pull over.

  Don’t stop, the voice warned again—this time with a little agitation.

  That’s new.

  “Why?” I asked aloud. “Why should I not stop?”

  My eyes drifted back up to the rearview mirror as I slowed down and pulled to the shoulder. I watched carefully as the motorcycle came to a stop behind me and the cop dismounted. My flowchart was cramming every detail about the scene into the foreground of my mind.

  The helmet, the jacket, the belt, the gun, the glasses, the pants—.

  The pants! I thought.

  They were too baggy for the officer wearing them, but that was not enough to justify running.

  What could my broke ass schizophrenic other voice possibly know if I hadn’t seen it?—unless the voice was something more than just schizophrenia.

  Paranoia level—epic.

  I continued scanning the rear view as he approached, hand on his side arm. I caught a flash of motion behind him. About a hundred yards to his rear was a beige van, moving toward us. When it was close enough, I saw it had no license plate on the front.

  I looked down to my side-view mirror as the cop approached the rear of my car. I suddenly realized he was wearing black and orange hiking boots.

  Okay, I thought to my hitchhiker. You win.

  I stepped on the gas and took off. The cop—or the guy in the cop clothes—began firing at me immediately. The back of my window exploded into a million pieces of green-tinted gravel.

  Traffic cops don’t do that.

  I ducked down low and pushed the gas further, hoping I had a good indication of where I was on the road. I popped my head up long enough to get my bearings, just barely missing a silver Honda as I accelerated down Monument Avenue toward the Parkway.

  I looked in my mirror as the van passed the motorcycle cop, who was in the process of remounting his ride. The van was coming fast.

  As I approached the turn onto the Parkway, the light had just turned red. It was going to be tight—the traffic had already started to move, but I gunned the engine and turned onto the Parkway, cutting off a silver BMW SUV. He slammed down on the horn to let me know his feelings on the matter.

  I looked in the rearview as I accelerated again and saw the van being forced out of the lane to avoid slamming into the moving traffic. But it was still speeding toward me on the paved shoulder.

  I took the short respite as an opportunity to pull out my phone and dial John's cell phone, putting it on speaker and then dropping it on the front seat as soon as it started ringing. After three rings it went to voice mail.

  “Shit!” I yelled at my phone as I reached over and hit redial.

  I looked in the rearview mirror as the phone started ringing again only to see the van barreling toward me.

  “You've reached John Temple—” his voice mail answered again.

  “Son-of-a—”

  I glance up and saw the motorcycle approaching the intersection on the parkway, the van was slowly closing on me as I sped north. I reached over and hit redial once again.

  “Temple,” John said, answering the phone after two rings.

  “Hi, Mom. I’ve got a beige van with no plates and a Fairfax County police motorcycle chasing me down the Fairfax County Parkway,” I said in a slightly elevated voice.

  “Calm down,” he replied, a hint of agitation in his tone. “Is there a reason for a cop to be after you? Did you run a red light or get caught speeding?”

  “The cop is wearing pants two sizes too large and orange hiking boots,” I replied calmly, though my heart was pounding. “Oh yeah…and he shot my back window out.”

  “Hold on,” he replied with a new sense of urgency to his voice.

  I looked in the rearview and saw the police motorcycle had made the turn onto the Parkway and was accelerating toward me. The van was attempting to catch up, but I was keeping my distance, using slower moving traffic as a rolling road block. It was a few moments before John came back.

  “Fairfax has been notified that they're chasing a federal operative. If he’s a real cop, he should break off,” John said.

  I watched for another quarter-mile; there was no change except that he got closer.

  “He’s still coming, and that van is even closer and gaining fast,” I said after a moment. “I’ve got two traffic lights coming up soon. I need to do something, or they’re going to catch up. Any suggestions?”

  “Do you know the area?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Find a cut through with no dead end. Get off the Parkway,” he said.

  I was halfway through the intersection on Tuckaway Drive when I slammed on the brakes and turned hard to the right, my tires screaming in protest against the asphalt.

  “I’m on Tuckaway headed for West Ox,” I said, skidding around the turn.

  The van slowed to make the cut, allowing the motorcycle to pass him, taking the right with a slight skid. As soon as he straightened out, he accelerated toward me again.

  “They’re on me,” I said.

  “Who’s closest?” he asked.

  “The motorcycle.”

  “Let him get closer without letting him know you are doing it,” he said. “When he’s close enough, slam on your brakes. Your car can take the hit from a bike.”

  “Okay. Hold on.”

  My heart was beating fast, but I was amused by how calm my mind was. It blew me away that I actually experienced a brief moment of joy from the thrill of the pursuit.

  “Are you carrying?” John asked.

  “Yes,” I replied—another jolt of excitement coursed through me. I was getting real-time telephone tech support from a trained CIA Agent.

  How friggin’ cool is that?!

  I approached the turn for Franklin Farm road, the last turn before West Ox, and had to slow down to make it. There were cars stopped in front of me, so I had to take the turn on the shoulder, sending a spray of gravel into the air.

  I tensed as a minivan lurched out of its lane and onto the shoulder—some do-go
oder thinking he was helping the police by nosing out to stop my exit.

  Smash went his front fender.

  “Good work buddy,” I said as I plowed though the passenger quarter panel of his car.

  “What was that?” John asked.

  “A good Samaritan trying to help the police,” I replied with frustration.

  The sound of my fender dragging the ground on the driver’s side became a new distraction I didn’t need. I looked up at the rearview as I tried to refocus, and saw the motorcycle nearly wipe out trying to get around the disabled vehicle I had smashed into. In only seconds, its wheels were firmly back on the blacktop and he was speeding after me again.

  Ahead, I could see the traffic light coming up at West Ox. The motorcycle was still accelerating and had pulled to within twenty feet of me, trying to get into the other lane as he dropped his hand to his sidearm. From the other direction, an SUV was just starting to pull to the side to let the motorcycle pass, so I took the opportunity to slam on my brakes and swerve into the oncoming lane, abruptly cutting off my pursuer.

  The motorcycle smashed into my trunk, sending the rider flying over the handlebars and then sideways to the pavement on the side of the road. The driver of the SUV had not yet stopped moving and didn’t get to the brake fast enough—he hit the fake cop with his front tire, dragging the attacker’s body as he folded up and rolled underneath.

  “The motorcycle is down,” I said calmly, once again astounding myself with the glass-like quality of my voice despite the adrenaline pumping through me. “The van is still coming.”

  “Help is on the way, but it’ll be a while,” he said. “Where are you?”

  “Turning onto West Ox,” I replied as I prepared to turn left at the light. “Which way is the help coming from?”

  “He’ll be coming down 66,” John replied.

  In the middle of my turn, I changed directions, turning right instead of the planned left. The sudden change of direction sent the rear of my Toyota sliding sideways, clipping a delivery van that was in the intersection waiting to make a turn. The impact actually allowed me to resume more quickly.