Thirst of Steel

by Ronie Kendig

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re hopeless.”

  She shrugged. “This is true.”

  “Okay,” he said, hooking his arms over the divider as he homed in on her. “Seriously. Give it to me straight. Why won’t you go out with me?”

  She held up her pointer finger. “One, never date a co-worker. Things go bad, then they make your life and job unbearable.” She held up her second finger. “And two—well, nothing personal, Henry, but you guys are way too much work. And I’m not into becoming a breeding farm.”

  He nearly choked. “Breeding farm? It’d be one date!”

  “That’s what y’all always say. But then it’s two, then you start applying tags—girlfriend, mine, taken, hands-off. From there, life gets dull, and guys get fat.”

  “Good grief, Mercy! Who jaded you toward males?”

  Though her heart skipped a beat, remembering those green eyes, she ignored it. “All of you.” There’d been exactly one guy. He’d tilted her world’s axis.

  Henry shook his head. “Brilliant and beautiful, but hopeless.”

  “So they say.”

  “Want me to walk you out?”

  “Sweet, but no thanks.” She bobbed her head toward the computer. “Going to get caught up, now that the shrew is gone.”

  “Your loss.”

  “You tried to save me,” she sighed dramatically.

  “That I did.”

  She waved. “’Night, Henry.”

  — VIRGINIA —

  “Aunt Agatha?” Haven crouched at her great-aunt’s wheelchair and touched her parchment-thin skin.

  “She is not asleep,” the maid said, clucking her tongue. “That’s her wanting attention again.”

  “Oh, shush, Marguerite,” came Aunt Agatha’s creaky, amused voice. Bright eyes like Haven’s green ones shone as she opened them. They crinkled beneath years of laugh lines as she placed her other hand on Haven’s. “How are you, dear?”

  What a character. “I’m fine. How are you doing? Is Marguerite being good to you?”

  “Good? That woman wouldn’t—”

  “Don’t be telling lies now, Mrs. Agatha.”

  “I thought you had work to do,” her aunt said, laughing. Then she patted Haven’s hand. “Now, what did you need, dear? I know you aren’t here just to hear an old woman scold her maid.”

  Haven breathed a laugh. “I’m ashamed. It’s been too long since I visited.”

  Bony shoulders lifted beneath a cream cardigan. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Guilt. Too many people fling it around as if it were maple syrup.” She stabbed a gnarled hand at Haven. “Some might say cream, but I like maple syrup better. Do you like maple syrup?”

  “One of my favorites.”

  “Now.” Aunt Agatha leaned to the side as her gaze took in Chiji’s very long frame. “Heavens, you are tall, young man.”

  “God knew someone needed to reach the top shelves,” Chiji said with a smile.

  “That’s what my Reggie always used to say,” her aunt said, beaming. “He was six one, you know. Handsome as the day was long. Much like your friend there.” Quick eyes fastened on Haven. “Is he your fella?”

  Haven shook her head. “No, Chiji’s a very good friend.”

  “Well, he could be your fella. Is it because you’re different colors? I know some people have a problem with that, but I’d be gravely disappointed in you, if—”

  “No,” Haven said. “I have a fella. He’s . . . working right now. Chiji is like a brother to him. We’re looking into some things for Cole.”

  “Cole. Is that your fella’s name? That’s nice.” Aunt Agatha tilted her head. “But I like Reggie better.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Haven had to bite back another laugh. “Aunt Agatha, Mom told me that you had a cousin named Elisabeth. Is that right?”

  “Cousin? Oh lands, no.”

  Haven frowned. Felt her heart trip over that declaration. She pulled the journal from her tote bag and unraveled the leather thong.

  “Elisabeth was my aunt. But we were very nearly the same age. We were like cousins—no, like sisters.” Aunt Agatha seemed to glow with the words, touching her necklace. “Very close. We did everything together.”

  “Elisabeth Linwood,” Haven said as she flipped through the pages to find the sketch.

  “Well, of course, dear. What other last name would she have?” Aunt Agatha shifted in her chair again, then primped her hair.

  “I have a journal . . . that lists Elisabeth.” Haven angled it for her great-aunt to see. “But she married a Russell—a Raphael Russell.”

  Lifting her readers from the chain around her neck, Aunt Agatha craned her neck to see. “Oh, that’s not my Elisabeth.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No, it’s her great-aunt. Elisabeth was named after her. Everyone talked about Lady Elisa,” she said, pronouncing the name with great reverence and pomp. “Lady Elisa was a baroness, you know. So pretty and elegant, just as you can see in that picture. They said that when she died, the estate died with her. She died very young. Too young. I think that’s why Raphael took Edward and came to America with Lady Elisa’s brother, Anthony.” She smiled conspiratorially. “That’s how I met Reggie. We were new in the city, and he was so smart and fast. He was a runner, you know.”

  Haven urged the journal sketch back into her great-aunt’s view. “Do you know anything else about the Elisabeth who married Raphael Russell?”

  “Now, what would I know about them?” She straightened and her eyes widened, smoothing out her wrinkles. “Oh. The bust.”

  “Bust?”

  “Yes, yes,” Agatha said, wagging her hand. “My picture book. Young man,” she said to Chiji, who stood near the wall-to-ceiling bookshelf, “be a dear and bring it to me.” She pointed to a black leather album on a bookshelf.

  Haven waited as Chiji lifted it, then he handed it to her. Surprise rippled through her as she eyed it. “This is a photo album.”

  “Of course it is. That’s what I said—a picture book. Bring it here, dear.”

  Haven delivered it as ordered.

  Agatha wrangled the book onto her lap and turned the pages with shaking hands. “Here.” She tapped it twice. “The bust. Made of marble. And just glorious.” She turned the picture toward Haven. “See? That was Elisabeth’s great-aunt.”

  “And your great-great-aunt.” Haven admired the picture, an old tintype of a man beside an exquisite sculpture. She noted the familiar background in the picture. The man stood with the bust before the grand staircase of this very home.

  “Yes. Which makes her your great-great-great . . .”

  “Something like that, yes. Who’s with the bust? He was here.”

  “That’s Edward, Lady Elisa’s son. Raphael Russell and Anthony Linwood were thick as thieves and came to America together. Edward spent a lot of time here. This was Anthony’s home, which passed to my father, Charles. My brother Albert owned it, then willed it to me upon his death. When Reggie died, it seemed only right I return to the home I was all but raised in with Elisabeth.” Her smile faded as she recounted less-happy times. “Anthony had to sell his sister’s bust when the family fell on hard times. They came to America, where Edward eventually made his fortune in banking. He returned to England and located the bust, bought it, and brought it back for Charles.”

  “Where is the bust now?”

  “Sold again, I’m afraid,” Aunt Agatha said gravely, trembling fingers again going to her throat. “My father said something about how that piece haunted him. He always hated it. During the Depression, Uncle Philip—my father’s oldest brother—sold several family heirlooms through his friend’s auction house in order to keep the estate in the family. Emerson and Hyatt handled the entire transaction with the utmost integrity and respect.”

  “Emerson?” Haven asked, glancing at Chiji, who shrugged.

  “Oh, that’s the auction house—Clarence Hyatt was Philip’s friend. He came for th
e bust himself. I remember that statue.” Her teeth clacked. “I nearly toppled it over a couple of times myself, chasing Rupert, the dog.”

  Haven deflated. “So you don’t know where it is now?” she asked, staring at the bust in the photograph. The eyes and nose had transcended time, coming to rest on her own face. It was mildly creepy.

  “I’ve told you what I know, dear. I’m not as young as I used to be—and neither is my mind!”

  “And the bust is lost?”

  “As is every Elisabeth named after her since.”

  16

  — MARYLAND —

  After finishing a few things, tying up loose ends, and stuffing some letters to send out in the morning, Mercy grabbed her crossbody bag and the photo of Clark, then went down to her Kia Soul. She got tacos from Bueno Nacho and ate in her car, refusing to face her empty apartment. For fun, she surfed the net on her tablet and did some random digging around, trolling security cameras at the Rave to get a feel for what was happening, then headed there.

  She had her spot on the upper balcony. A two-seater against the wall that afforded a great view of the entire dance floor and bar. But mostly, the corner padded her from the noise and kept her back safe.

  Safe. She snorted as she planted herself at the table and ordered a Killer Whale cocktail. Tablet out, she wormed into the security feeds again.

  “Easy breezy, HackerGirl,” she whispered as she loaded her favorite gaming site and settled in for some postapocalyptic survival hunting. Sipping her drink, killing zombies, and saving the world. “What’s not to love?” She’d leveled up twice and defeated a major boss before she sensed him.

  With a rush of crisp cologne and a bucket of good looks, Barclay Purcell slid into the booth to her right.

  “How’s it going, Dog?” Mercy kept her eyes on the game, guiding her character across a night-riddled sky.

  “Sheepdog, Mercy. I’m a sheepdog,” Barc said as if he’d said it a thousand times. He probably had over the years they’d known each other.

  “All Barc and no bite,” she teased.

  “Baby, I got bite.”

  She laughed and looked up into his brown eyes. “Hello, Barclay.”

  Nodding, he studied her. “Hello, DreamGirl.”

  Lifting the fourteen-inch fluted glass that held her bubbling, pale blue drink, she took a sip. She set it down. “So, what’s got your tactical briefs in a knot?”

  Concern creased his brow, and he looked at her laptop. “We shielded?”

  As if she’d leave herself unprotected. “Always.”

  Hands lifted in surrender, he shrank back. “Just making sure. Don’t get all offended.”

  He read her decently for a grunt, though no one had done that as well as Mr. Green Eyes. Which was why she’d cut Barc off. There was nothing between them except a hefty dose of respect and camaraderie. With his job in the Army and hers in hacking, it seemed best to keep their paths separate, lest they combust. “I’m waiting.”

  Arms folded on the table, he hunched closer. “You ever gone through a back door”—he hesitated, not for emphasis but for . . . fear—“into the FBI?”

  She widened her eyes a little. FBI. An Army grunt wanted into the FBI computers. That was interesting. “D’you expect a girl to kiss and tell?”

  He huffed. At least, she thought he did. The throbbing music in the club made it hard to tell. “So you can—do it, I mean?”

  Mercy rolled her eyes. Sipped her drink. “Would you be here”—she motioned to the chaotic din—“if I couldn’t?”

  The first hint of a smile crossed his lips. He’d kissed her once. It wasn’t very good. But he was nice. Protective. Like a big brother—little big brother, since they were the same height. Which was why he fit so perfectly into the Friend category.

  “Good. I need you to do that,” he said.

  Break into the FBI servers. Nothing like a little challenge to brighten her day. Breaking in was the easy part. Getting out, tricky. Not being backtraced later, the least likely part. The FBI might be slow, but they weren’t inept.

  Well, not all of them.

  “What would I be looking for?” She took another swig of her drink and set it aside. Lifted herself and tucked a leg beneath her, adjusting closer to the laptop. Her fingers were alive and her heart thumping.

  “Whoa. Wait.” Cell closed her laptop. “Not here. Not now. Not with me.”

  She curled her fingers over his, squeezing, glaring, digging her nails into his flesh. When he got the message and removed his hand, she murmured, “Chicken.”

  “They find out I asked you to do this—”

  “That would imply that, one—they caught me. Which they won’t. And two—that I’d rat you out. Which I won’t.” She squinted and scrunched her nose. “So I’m not seeing the problem.”

  “I need to get into TAFFIP.”

  “The fingerprint thing?”

  He nodded. “I don’t know how, but I think it’s connected to something bigger. I need you to look at the coding. Compare algorithms with me.”

  “Why?”

  “I think it’s somehow collecting DNA.”

  “A fingerprint system? Collecting DNA?”

  “I know.” He raised a hand again and tucked his chin. “I know my theory’s out there. But I can’t let go of this buzzing at the back of my brain.”

  “You think the FBI is collecting DNA samples?”

  “I’m not convinced it’s the FBI.”

  She screwed up her face tight, then freed it in a breath of shock. “You think they’re being hacked?”

  “Yeah.” He darted a glance around the club. Rubbed his jaw. “Maybe. I don’t know. Now that you say it like that . . .”

  Mercy crossed her arms and sat back. Defiant. “What is going on, Barc?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Doing this—you’re asking for my high game. Even with as good as I am, they could catch me, and then I get locked away. They take away Sunshine.” She nodded to her laptop.

  “What happened to Moonbeam?”

  “Died. Big ugly crash, brought on by violating visiting hours at the Pentagon.”

  Barclay hissed. Ran a palm over his head. “Maybe this was a bad idea. You’re probably on a million watch lists.”

  “And a million call lists. What I do, people pay big money—”

  “Which you know I don’t have.”

  “Good thing you’re almost as cute as Bruce.”

  Barc snorted. “Banner again?”

  Bunching her shoulders, she drew in a dreamy breath. “Always Banner. Brilliant scientist. Passionately compassionate.”

  “But it’s the temper that’ll kill you.”

  “Not for Betsy. She was his Calgon.”

  Barc shook his head, shifting his gaze to the crowds pulsating to the music. He looked back. “Can you do this?”

  “Why?”

  Reluctance held him hostage, but she saw it in his eyes—he’d surrender. They always did. She had a pretty face and prettier skills. How the mighty crumbled! “I think someone’s using TAFFIP to track down certain people. Then they’re killing them.”

  She drew in a long, hard breath, her mind processing faster than an Intel chip. “The Soup Maker.”

  He frowned, obviously wondering how she’d guessed that.

  “It’s all over the news.”

  He scooted closer. “Listen, the congressman who died last was the sponsor of the bill that got TAFFIP approved and implemented.”

  Mercy wet her lips. Finished off her drink, thinking, anticipating. “I see where you’re going with this . . .” Unable to resist the lure of danger and subsequent victory, she started walking through what root she’d need to dig her way into that program. “It probably has all kinds of safety protocols. Trip wires.” They’d naturally expect someone—lots of someones—would want to get in and clean up their records, which were being used unilaterally across government agencies like the TSA, FBI, CIA, ICE. Which meant she
’d need to watch for those traps. Could be tricky. Which meant it was deliciously primed for her skills.

  “Mercy?”

  She lifted her gaze to Barc. “High risk. This’ll cost you, Dog.”

  He winced. “Shee—” He paused. Then grinned. “So you’ll do it?”

  She gave a reluctant-but-excited dip of her head.

  “If you get in and we prove my theory,” Cell said, “I’m pretty sure you could name your price.”

  Name her price? That penthouse overlooking Central Park . . . But she shoved aside her dream, because deals like that were too good to be true. Made to entice the gullible guppy into cooperating. She’d been that victim once. Not again.

  She sat back, concerned for the first time. “Why me? Don’t you work with powerful three-letter agencies, Mr. Black Ops?”

  “I do.” His brown eyes caught the club lights as he skidded a gaze around once more. “But they won’t listen. Dudes blew me off.” He tapped the table. “You know me, Mercy. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have a solid instinct on this.”

  She did know him. It was the only reason she was still listening. But . . . “Why me?”

  “I trust you. Proving that a system is vulnerable is important to you, so I know you’ll dig until you’re convinced. That will convince me, regardless of the outcome.” He smirked. “And you won’t leave a trail of your adventures in cyberspace to bring this back on me.”

  “Well, a trail most don’t know how to find,” she clarified, “but when you violate sacred cyberocity, it always leaves something behind.” It was her turn to smirk. “If this flatlines, you just don’t want anyone knowing Barclay Purcell didn’t listen to his elders. Again. You’ve always had a problem with authority.”

  “Says the pot to the kettle.” He grinned. “So yeah?”

  Mercy bounced a shoulder in a lazy, near-petulant shrug. “You dangled the forbidden fruit.” She sighed. “I am a weak woman when it comes to slipping beneath silky codes.”

  He snorted, scooting to the edge of the leather seat. “Thanks. Keep in touch.”