DARC Ops: The Complete Series

by Jamie Garrett

  “You shouldn’t do that.”

  She spasmed awake.

  “Especially with your windows open.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jackson.” Mira was relieved to find him standing beside her car, his tall frame hunched over, his shadowy face lowered near the open drivers'-side window.

  “You weren’t sleeping, were you?”

  “No,” she said, still trying to catch her breath. “No, I don't sleep much anymore.”

  “Me, neither.” He smiled and rested his large hands at the bottom of the window frame.

  “Jesus,” she muttered, patting her lap to find her phone.

  “Sorry I scared you. But seriously, don't sleep with your windows down.”

  She felt along the sides of her seat. “Then don't leave me waiting so long.”

  “We didn’t.”

  “Who's we?” She reached down to the floor mat.

  “Me and Robert.”

  Mira’s hand brushed against the familiar smooth edge of her phone. She picked it up and sat back in her seat. “Who's Robert?”

  “Take a guess.”

  “I don't know... A DARC operative? Your personal driver?”

  He put his elbows up at the roof of her car, leaning his head on them. “We wanted to see who was on your tail.”

  “Yeah? So who's there?”

  “Just me.” He grinned.

  If only he'd meant that. Even though Jackson tricked her about the boat club. Even though he had been a ghost, the whole sexy shower scene becoming more of a sad apparition than fantasy.

  “I thought you said you were a rower,” she said. “You made it seem like you'd be inside the clubhouse. ”

  He gave the clubhouse a quick glance. “Yeah, I go in there sometimes.”

  Mira turned the keys over in the ignition, powering up the windows, which prompted Jackson's, “There you go, roll 'em up.” She then stepped out of her car, rounding the front to get a better look at her personal DARC operative. He wore a tight black long-sleeve shirt and black cargo pants with bulging pockets. Mira wondered what kind of spy tools he was packing. A pocket full of tracking devices? Night vision goggles? Black fuzzy handcuffs?

  Focus, Mira. Forget the shower. It’s not going to happen.

  “Thanks for coming out,” he said.

  “No problem. Where's your friend?”

  Jackson turned around and waved his arm down the road. A dark sedan that had been idling abruptly turned its engine off, its headlights fading to black.

  “So...” Mira began. “You did this just to follow me, or...?”

  “That's part of it. I was also getting a little sick of the office.” He shrugged. “And it's a nice night.”

  It was true. The weather was much more enjoyable than inside Mira's stuffy apartment. The company, too.

  “Care for a walk?” he asked.

  They began their stroll towards the bridge abutment, and then under its archway where the road turned into a jogging path through a park along the river. Their conversation running a little dry, Mira said, “It is a nice night,” for the second time. Jackson responded to each with two very similarly delivered “Yeah”s.

  In the following silence, Mira felt a mutually awkward awareness of their change in venue, of Jackson's planned escape from the professional sterility of a DARC Ops office environment. Why did he do that? Was the counter-surveillance experiment really necessary? Against her better judgment and screaming rationality, she began to wonder if Jackson just wanted her all to himself in the dark. Away from computers, cameras, and employees.

  “So, Mira...” He spoke hesitantly. Softer than the usual shoptalk tone of headquarters. “I want to apologize again about the way I doubted your, uh... your case.” It was too dark to read his expression. And then to conceal it further, he looked away, to the river, to the lights of a passing yacht. “I feel stupid, actually, about some of the things I said. I'm probably not the first.”

  “It's okay,” she said, making sure to sound neutral and unrehearsed. “We can start over again.”

  He nodded as he walked, a silent thank you, before asking, “How are you holding up?”

  “Fine. A little tired... Angry.”

  “Angry?”

  “Well, the more I learn about it...”

  “Oh, right. I can imagine. Did you get my latest about the refugees?”

  He'd been keeping her updated with reports, emails personally encrypted by Tansy which covered DARC Op's latest findings—the most recent being Langhorne's connections to some unsavory cadre of Kenyans: ex-politicians who'd been ousted by drug trade accusations. But their real hobby was using rebel groups, or "freedom fighters," to oversee the arming of Dadaab refugees.

  “So Langhorne's friends would get these guys, these provocateurs, to do their dirty work,” said Jackson, returning to his business tone. “All under the guise of a 'grassroots uprising,' of course. Something the CIA's been doing for decades. But I think the senator is flying solo on this one.”

  “So he’s a rogue senator?”

  “I hope so, at least.”

  Mira hoped so, too. The last thing she wanted was to mess around with some spook's pet project.

  “Don't worry,” said Jackson, seeing her face. “I highly doubt the CIA, or any of the alphabet soup of agencies, would entrust Langhorne with all of this.”

  “You sure? What about his connections over there?”

  “You don't think they have their own connections?”

  Mira didn’t respond. Instead she kept walking quietly, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, and trying not to think about exactly who the senator knew in Kenya. She watched Jackson out the corner of her eye as he swatted a mosquito away from his ear.

  “So... We've been working on some things,” said Jackson, swatting his ear again. “Tansy thinks he might be able to disrupt their communications. We're either going to send our own encrypted messages as misdirection, or create a virus that'll annihilate the whole thing.”

  Either strategy sounded fine to her. They were at least better than last week's vague crumbs of Jackson's "we'll look into it," though Mira felt herself siding with the kill-it-all method, despite not knowing what Jackson meant by it. “What do you mean by annihilation?” she finally asked.

  “You ever have ants?”

  “Um...”

  “It's like bait,” said Jackson. “They take it home to poison their colony.”

  She kept quiet, waiting for an elaboration.

  “Tansy makes up a document using their encryption. So it seems legit and gets forwarded through their ranks, like ant bait. It proliferates and takes control of their computers and their encryption key generators. And when we're ready, it self-destructs everything it ever touched. Get it?”

  “Got it,” she said, not completely getting it. “So did you get my update? About the Tanzanian connection?”

  “Well, yeah. The Tanzanian opposition party? Sure. Langhorne's got a lot of friends.”

  “But do you really know about them?”

  Jackson kept his head down as he walked.

  “I've been working on my own strategy,” Mira said. “Inside access.”

  “You've already got that.” Jackson said quickly and bluntly. “Almost too much of it.” His sudden shift from passive colleague to concerned friend was a surprise. He slowed his gait to walk right next to her, made sure he had eye contact, and said, “You're right in the thick of things. How much more access do you need?”

  “I don't need it,” she said.

  “Then what's going on?”

  “And I didn’t seek it out. It came to me. An aide to the Tanzanian embassy invited me to the Embassy Row Ball.”

  Jackson held Mira by the arm as they approached a bench, urging her to sit with him. As they settled into the bench, she glanced at Jackson. He was staring back at her intently. In the soft orange glow of the park lamp, a look of worry crossed his lightly stubbled face. “What did you say?”

  “I
said I'd go.”

  “Why?”

  Mira laughed nervously under her breath.

  “Do you know this person?”

  “No.”

  “Then doesn’t that seem odd to you? Out of the blue like that?”

  “It was a casual thing. Like, natural. Chuck introduced him to me because he wanted to hear us speak Swahili. He gets a kick out of that kind of stuff.”

  “And?”

  “And then he asked if I could come to the ball to help with the translator team. He'll pay me. So I pretended like I had this great interest in Tanzania, but really I just thought it would be a good chance to do some snooping.”

  “Sounds risky.” Jackson turned to face the water. “And too convenient. What's your gut tell you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you think it's a trap?”

  “I don't think so.” Mira smiled. “But that's why you're coming along with me.”

  “What?”

  “I'm allowed to bring a date.”

  Jackson's sigh turned into groan. He was hating this. It was cute.

  “Well,” she said, nudging his arm. “Way to make a girl feel bad.”

  “This is too convenient. You set this all up just to get a date out of me. Probably hounded the Tanzanian embassy for days, hawking your talents, trying to get an invite.”

  “So are you coming or not?”

  He chuckled and looked at her, his eyes running up and down. “Sounds like I have to.”

  “You don't have to do anything.”

  “Well I have to... protect you.”

  She nudged him again. “You're becoming quite protective.”

  “Yeah,” he said, turning back to the river “I protect all my clients.”

  “Oh, right, your clients, of course.”

  “It wouldn’t look good for business if I left a trail of bodies.”

  “No, but at least they couldn’t leave bad reviews.”

  Mira chuckled, but Jackson was nodding about something else, his head looking up, searching. “This could be an interesting scenario.”

  She loved the fullness of his bottom lip, how it pressed against the top. She loved how he looked while thinking hard about their strategy to take down a big chunk of Capitol Hill corruption.

  “We could try to find out who else is involved in the deal,” he said finally.

  She loved thinking of that lip sliding between hers, and how hard she'd suck on it.

  “You could translate,” Jackson said. “And I could mingle and keep an ear out. Maybe plant some bugs.”

  “See?” Mira said with a smirk. “We needed some inside access.”

  She'd love for Jackson to have some, too.

  “I still don't like putting you in danger, though.”

  “It's a totally public event. What could happen?”

  “I don't know.” Jackson went quiet. There was the sound of a fish jumping up and splashing back into the water, and then the mournful call of a distant fog horn. And then Jackson suddenly stood up from the bench. “Let's head back.”

  It was an abrupt turn, as if someone had whispered some urgent information into a small device in his ear. Maybe they had. Maybe someone who had mind-reading access to Mira's dirty, unprofessional thoughts.

  On their walk back, she noticed that he'd gone a little cold and quiet, the Embassy Ball perhaps weighing on his mind. Or maybe something, like an irk or an urge to flee, stemming from her asking him on a date. But it wasn't really a date... No. What the fuck? He thought she meant a real date? No, Jackson. She’d meant it as purely business, right?

  “There was something else I wanted to ask you about,” he said, waving a hand at another flying insect buzzing near his perfect face. “We've uncovered some sexual misconduct stuff happening in Langhorne's office.”

  Now that was news to Mira.

  “With his staffers,” Jackson continued. “Pretty young girls, like you.”

  Jackson was staring at her again. Mira turned to face him head on. “So?”

  “So he's not trying to buy you off, is he?”

  She stopped and glared at him.

  Jackson looked away. “I'm just... Um...”

  “You've got to be kidding, Jackson... What are you insinuating? That he... And that I'm making all this up to frame and defame him?”

  “I know you're not making this up. And I thought you said we're starting over. We're past that.”

  “Past what?”

  “Me not believing you,” said Jackson, this time swatting a mosquito near Mira's shoulder until his hand got swatted away by Mira. “Anyway, it's not about me. It's the optics of it. How it looks to the public.”

  “How what looks?” she asked.

  “I saw a press release about an unprecedentedly large donation to Swanson's Hope. It might look like he's trying to buy your silence.”

  “My silence about what?”

  “Whatever it was... Is...” He glanced over her shoulder, and then back to Mira. “I already feel like I want to do serious bodily harm to this guy. But if he touched you...”

  Mira turned and began walking back to the stone archway, the rowing club, her car, leaving Jackson behind her.

  “Wait,” he called, his tactical boots clunking fast against the asphalt of the jogging path. He pulled abreast of Mira and said, “I've got these for you.”

  Mira looked at his outstretched hand and saw a cluster of little round electronic devices.

  “Bugs,” he said. “Useful ones. Not like the ones I've been swatting at all night.”

  She held out her hand and he poured them in. They felt like breath mints.

  “If you ever get a good opportunity, put one in Langhorne's office,” he said. “Or anywhere else you think might help.”

  “There's absolutely nothing going on between Langhorne and me. That's the last thing I'll say about it.”

  “I know, I know. But if this thing comes to light, and he starts feeling the heat...”

  “And?” said Mira.

  “Well, who knows what he'll say about you. Just prepare yourself for the worst.”

  Mira hadn’t thought about that, about what Langhorne would do to her personally if he found out what she was up to. Vile as he was internationally, he'd been a saint domestically. Especially in the office. And he'd always been so good to Mira. He seemed incapable of doing anything even remotely malicious to his prized translator. But maybe that was his tactic. Surprise attack, a useful strategy for his blood-soaked African safaris. She suddenly felt as naive as a water buffalo.

  “So how do I work these things?” she rolled the bugs around in her hand. “How do I turn them on?”

  “Don't worry about it. They're always on.”

  She laughed quietly and slipped the small handful of electronics into a pocket.

  “And we're always listening,” he said in a diabolical, big-brotherish voice. In an attempt to walk in the stilted strides of an evil authoritarian robot, he lost his balance and swayed into Mira, his thigh brushing against her hip. Laughing, she braced the impact by reaching out her arm, her hand palming against the muscular side of Jackson's midsection. Her hand lingered there, the current of electricity keeping it in place. With the current finally completed, running from Jackson's body and into hers, through her brain and down through her toes, Mira was incapacitated. All she could do was want more, more of him, her fingers curling into his warm body and grabbing a firm hold before Jackson's balance tilted him away in the opposite direction. Then they laughed like nothing happened. Whatever.

  But she was burning for him.

  13

  Jackson

  The creature of Cathedral Heights could be spotted at daybreak. 5:25 a.m., to be exact, when the quiet mechanical humming of a retracting wrought iron gate signified the emergence of the elusive Langhorne. In a sky-blue BMW it would migrate southeast from its gated community, speeding all the way through Embassy Row, slowing a bit for the ornamental traffic circles of Downtown, and th
en driving 'round and 'round a single block like a complete asshole. Here, the creature foraged for the most convenient parking space imaginable, lest it be faced with the perils of walking more than 15 feet. When the ritual was finally complete and its territory claimed, the hungry Langhorne would move on to more important matters—the high-fructose, cholesterol, and caffeine of Bluebird cafe, a Greek-owned greasy spoon that had been serving up downtown D.C.'s finest flapjacks since 1959.

  Three plates and a heart attack later, the creature would reappear tired and slow-moving. It would make an audible groaning sound when bending over to sit in its BMW. Careful observers would note the slumping movement of the car as it shuddered under the added weight. Careful observers would also know how to slide into traffic behind the creature's car without garnering suspicion. But now, for the over-stuffed and food-sleepy Langhorne, precaution was hardly needed. The tailing itself had become effortless. The creature, whose primary urge had just been satisfied with a double stack of pancakes, seemed content with slower speeds and far less erratic lane changes. Everything was merely routine now, and almost superfluous, like Langhorne's lazy wave to the security guard in the parking booth at the Hart Senate Building. Unfortunately for Jackson, it would take more than a wave.

  “Media? What media?” asked the skinhead-looking security guard behind a kiosk at the building's main entrance.

  “Action News Network,” said Jackson, making sure to sound bored and bothered.

  “What?” The guard winced as his radio came warbling to life in loud burps of static. He promptly twisted down the volume knob at his waist and said, “Never heard of it.”

  “It's online only.”

  “That's probably why you don't have a pass.”

  Jackson reached into his suit-jacket pocket, feeling around as if he’d misplaced something.

  “I can't let you in without a pass,” the guard said while reading something on his computer screen. “And why are you using the front entrance?”