Hacking Darkness

by Marissa Farrar

  “We can’t discuss this standing on your doorstep. I really am going to insist ...”

  I knew what that meant. By insisting, he was saying I’d be going with them, whether I liked it or not.

  My mind tripped, trying to get my thoughts straight in my head. Surely it wasn’t illegal to sell your story if it was something that happened to you? The events surrounding my father’s death weren’t a secret. It had been all over the papers six years ago, too, though admittedly none of the stories had come directly from me. I’d only been fourteen years old back then.

  “Aunt Sarah,” I said, clutching for reasons I should stay, “she won’t know where I am.”

  “We’ll have someone let her know.”

  “But ... I ...” I tried to think of other excuses, but none were forthcoming.

  Agent Hollan frowned. “Now, Miss Sullivan, I’m afraid you really are going to have to come with us.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “I need to get my purse. My phone.”

  “You won’t be needing them.”

  His tone drove slivers of ice through me.

  “I’m not even wearing any shoes,” I pointed out.

  His gaze flicked to the floor behind me, where my sneakers were lined up beside Aunt Sarah’s sensible pumps and the black biker boots I liked to wear.

  I didn’t have much choice. With a sigh, I turned and slipped my bare feet into my shoes. I told myself it wouldn’t be for long. I’d be home before I knew it, most likely with my tail even further between my legs than it already was. The keys for the house sat on the console beside the door, so I grabbed them before stepping outside, joining the two men on my porch and pulling the door shut behind me. The catch locked automatically, so I didn’t need to worry about using my keys to keep the door secure. Was the back door locked? I hadn’t checked it that morning. I was sure it didn’t matter—I was bound to return within an hour—two, tops.

  I glanced down the road to see an expensive-looking black car parked at the curb. A third man stood beside the open rear door, obviously waiting for me, his expression stern. Three guys for me? It wasn’t as though I was some hardened criminal.

  I started down toward where the car was parked. The other two men, Agents Hollan and Bayne, walked right behind me, one on either side, as though they were scared I’d turn and bolt. Did they think I was my father’s daughter and I was going to cause them a problem?

  “Look, I’m really sorry about the interview,” I tried again as I reached the car. “I feel horrible about it. Honestly, I do. I promise I won’t do anything like that again.”

  “Just get in the car, please, Miss Sullivan,” Agent Hollan said.

  I looked between the three men, but there was no sign they were about to change their minds. With a resigned sigh, I passed the man who’d been standing at the back door and climbed onto the rear seat. The vehicle had that new car smell, the seats a soft leather. The door slammed shut beside me, making me jump. Movement came from the outside as the men walked around the vehicle. Agent Hollan climbed into the passenger seat, while Agent Bayne slid behind the wheel. The man whose name I hadn’t yet learned opened the rear door on the other side of the car then got in beside me. He pulled the door shut and sat with his back straight, looking straight ahead, not even glancing at me.

  I suddenly realized I still hadn’t managed to put on a bra that morning, and I wrapped both arms around myself, feeling vulnerable and suddenly on the verge of tears.

  This is nothing to worry about. They’ll just warn me off, and I’ll be home within an hour.

  I tightened my jaw and blinked hard to prevent the tears from coming. I didn’t want to look like some silly little girl. I was Michael Sullivan’s daughter, and he’d taught me to be strong. I wouldn’t let myself down in front of men he might have worked with back in the day.

  The car pulled from the curb and drove away from my neighborhood, toward the city.

  The longer I spent inside the vehicle, the more anxious I became. Every muscle in my body tensed, and my neck and shoulders ached from the stress. I wanted to ask questions, anything to break this awful silence, but I didn’t know what else to ask other than what had already been ignored when I’d asked it. Agent Hollan still held the newspaper in his lap, and a sadistic part of me wanted to ask him if I could borrow it for a moment. Had the reporter—Ian Rice—written something he shouldn’t have? I didn’t know what scruples the man had, if any. He could have made up something completely damning, for all I knew, and used his words as my own.

  We pulled onto a smaller residential road to take the highway into the city.

  The car suddenly swerved to a halt, and Hollan gave a shout of alarm. I sat up straighter, trying to see what was going on. A car had skidded in front of us, blocking the road. Had there been an accident? I couldn’t see any signs of the other vehicle hitting anything. The door of the car blocking the road opened, and out of nowhere everyone burst into action.

  “Get the girl down!” Hollan yelled.

  I heard two sharp bangs, and something about the car changed, the front sloping down. The two front tires had just blown out, I realized. Then a second thing dawned on me. No, they hadn’t blown out, they’d been shot out.

  More shots were fired. Billows of white smoke rose from the engine of the car I was in, blocking my view of what was happening in the road ahead. Instinctively, I ducked, cowering behind the passenger seat. The agent who’d been sitting to my right leaned over me, shielding me with his body. I took a tiny amount of comfort in the fact these men seemed to be trying to protect me, though I had no idea from whom. The front doors of the car I was in both opened and the two agents stepped out to return fire, using the doors as shields.

  What was going on? Who were these people?

  I flinched at every gunshot.

  Hands slammed against the car window beside me. I glanced up long enough to see Bayne’s face pressed against the glass, his hand smearing blood down the pane, before he slid from view.

  “Shit,” swore the agent who’d been covering me.

  He straightened, and I saw he already had his weapon pulled.

  “No, don’t go out there!” I cried.

  But it was too late. Staying down, low across the back seat, he reached out and cracked open the door. “Stay here,” he told me. He adjusted his body, kicked open the back door, then threw himself out. He was in position and returning fire before I had the chance to cry out for him not to leave me.

  Movement came behind him, and I had time to let out a warning cry, but another gunshot cracked through the air. The third agent slumped forward, sliding down the inside of the car door, and ending up half on the floor behind the seat, the other half of his body on the road outside.

  “Oh, God!” My hand was to my mouth, my eyes wide with fear. It wasn’t my first dead body, and memories of witnessing my father’s murder, not unlike what had just happened here, flashed through my head. What the hell was going on?

  Someone would surely have called the cops by now. They’d be on their way. Hell, they’d be here any minute. Whoever these people were obviously hated the Feds, but that had nothing to do with me. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  I debated what to do. Stay, curled up in a ball in the back seat of the car and hope no one spotted me, or open the car door and make a run for it? I hadn’t seen Agent Hollan since he’d climbed out of the car. Was he still alive? Could he protect me? Indecision dragged me in every direction, certain whichever option I took would end up getting me killed.

  But then the door closest to me swung open. I’d hoped for Hollan, but instead it was my worst fear—a man, tall and strongly built, carrying a gun. But that wasn’t the worst thing. His face was covered in a black balaclava. Through the hole where the mouth was, I saw his lips, full, with a defined cupid’s bow, and to my horror, I watched them curve in a smile.

  “Hello, Darcy.”

  It dawned on me then. These men weren’t here to exact some
kind of revenge on the FBI agents.

  No, they were here for me.

  Chapter Three

  I didn’t want them to kill me, but I wasn’t about to go without a fight. Trying not to think about the man they’d already shot, still lying slumped half in and out of the car, I threw myself toward that side of the car. The movement brought my feet up, and I kicked out at the man in the balaclava. I cursed myself for not having slipped on my biker boots at the door instead of the soft soled shoes.

  Even so, I managed to get in a couple of good kicks, my teeth gritted, my upper lip curled. I was frightened, yes, but I was angry, too. Who were these people? What the hell did they want with me?

  The man grappled at my legs, catching hold of my calves, only for me to wriggle free again. I commando crawled across the back seat, toward the body of the agent, trying to balance putting distance between me and balaclava man with continuing to kick him so he didn’t get a good hold. If he did, he’d yank me out of the car, and that would be that.

  I managed to deliver a swift kick to the man’s face, a roar of triumph building inside me. I lunged for the open door on the other side as he staggered back, clutching his nose over the top of the mask he wore. I took satisfaction in seeing red appear between his fingers.

  Freedom was only inches away. All I needed was to get through the door and run, and keep running, and not look back. I gave the agent a shove, and to my shock, he let out a groan. He wasn’t dead.

  “Oh, God.”

  I couldn’t stop and save him. I needed to get help, though I felt wretched doing so. The man on the other side of the car came for me again, ignoring his bloodied nose and throwing himself through the open door after me.

  I focused on climbing out over the injured agent.

  A second figure, dressed in black and wearing another balaclava, stepped into view, blocking the open door.

  My heart lurched. There were two of them.

  I was trapped now. With no other choice, I went for the only space I had left—that of the front of the car, between the seats. Deep down, I knew it was futile, but I couldn’t just give in. I prayed help would turn up, that someone would have reported the shootings and the cops were on their way. If I could survive long enough for them to make it here, I would be okay.

  At least that was what I kept telling myself.

  I scrambled over to the front seats, but I had nowhere to go. The second balaclava-wearing guy cracked open the passenger side door and pointed something through the gap.

  I froze. A gun.

  I’d known they were armed. Would they really shoot me?

  “Come on, now, sugar,” the second man said with a southern drawl. “I really don’t wanna have to shoot you.”

  I stared first at the muzzle of the handgun pointed at me, and then following the length of the arm and to the man on the other end. He was shorter than the first guy, and through the holes of the balaclava he wore, I could see stormy gray eyes, framed with dark blond lashes. Was that amusement I saw sparkling behind their depths? Was the son of a bitch enjoying this?

  The door behind me also opened then strong hands circled the tops of my arms and yanked me backward. I screamed and tried to wrestle away, but he was too strong, and besides, I still had a gun pointed at me. I didn’t want these men to take me, but I also didn’t want to end up with a bullet in my head and to be left to die on the sidewalk.

  He pulled me fully out of the car and shoved me forward, my arms yanked hard behind my back, my shoulders screaming in protest.

  “Thought she was gonna get the better of you,” Gray-eyes said to his taller companion. I could hear the smirk in his tone.

  “I like to make them sweat,” the one with the busted nose replied, his voice clipped.

  “Yeah? Well, she liked to make you bleed.” That same amusement, perhaps even a little impressed.

  “Shut the hell up.”

  He shoved me forward until I reached their car. My gaze flicked around, trying to assess what was going on, hoping there might be an opportunity for someone to help me, or even for me to do something to help myself. Had someone dropped a gun during the shootout? I wasn’t much of a shot, but my dad had taught me when I was younger, and I’d done some practice at the range. After what had happened to my dad, I’d wanted to be able to protect myself. Not that it was doing me much good at this precise moment.

  A third man, this one huge and bulked with muscle, jumped from the car. He wore a balaclava, too, and from the glimpses of skin I saw through the holes in the hood, he was black. A fourth man sat behind the wheel, seemingly ready to stamp his foot on the accelerator the moment he was given the word to go. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, and I spotted a multitude of tattoos running down both arms.

  The big guy spoke, his voice deep and gravelly. “Man, what did she do to your nose?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  He shrugged, as though he didn’t really give a shit anyway. “Turn her around.”

  Busted-nose, who still had hold of me, did as he was told. I struggled again, though I knew it was pointless. I didn’t stand a chance against four armed men, but I wanted them to know I wasn’t going to give in without a fight.

  They were too strong, however, and held me still. Unable to fight physically, I opened my mouth and screamed, “Help! Someone help me!” There was no one around. Though rush hour, people smelled trouble and avoided it like the plague. No one wanted to get shot during someone else’s fight. That didn’t stop me from screaming, and I opened my mouth and let out another shriek for help.

  The big guy leaned forward, his breath hot in my ear. “Now, now. We can’t have that.”

  I heard the coarse rip of strong tape, and then next thing I knew, a hot hand was placed across my mouth, and with it a strip of the tape. It sealed my lips shut, and he smoothed his large palm across the tape, making sure it stuck to my skin. My words had been taken from me, and I could only make a frustrated moaning.

  A sound filtered to my ears, and my heart lifted in hope. In the distance, I heard the rise and fall of a siren.

  The men heard it, too.

  “Hurry up,” Gray-eyes said, still holding the gun.

  The big guy with the muscles swiftly used the tape to bind my hands behind my back, and then ducked lower to tape my feet together. As he was bent, I wanted to kick again, catch him in the face for my own satisfaction, but I was horribly aware of the gun still pointed at me. I didn’t want to give Gray-eyes the opportunity to shoot me.

  The sound of sirens grew louder. I should have kicked him, I berated myself. It would have slowed him down, even if I had run the risk of being shot.

  Busted-nose shoved me into the back of the car, and then slid in beside me. Gray-eyes ran around the vehicle and got in the other side, so I was sandwiched between them. Tattoos hadn’t budged from behind the wheel, and Muscles climbed into the passenger seat.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” he said in his deep voice. “Cops are on their way.”

  Tattoos didn’t need any more encouragement. His foot slammed on the accelerator, and the tires screeched as he did a U-turn and sped away from the scene.

  It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen Agent Hollan’s body. What had they done with him? Had he fallen at the back of the car, so I hadn’t spotted him?

  With my feet taped, my hands behind my back, and tape across my mouth, there was nothing I could do. I felt sick with fear, but knew throwing up would mean I’d choke on my own vomit. The body heat of the two men on either side of me seeped into my arms and legs. I pulled myself in, as best I could, trying to make myself smaller so I didn’t have to touch them. Who the hell were they, and what did they want with me? I didn’t have any money, if this was a kidnapping situation for ransom. Poor Aunt Sarah. Would they be contacting her and demanding money from her? She was a cleaner, for God’s sake. It wasn’t as though she had money either.

  I wondered what she would do when she realized I was gone. Would she think s
omething bad had happened to me, or would she assume I was out getting myself into some kind of trouble—drinking or meeting unsuitable men? It occurred to me that I had managed to meet unsuitable men. Four of them, to be precise.

  A hysterical bubble of laughter filled my chest, and I choked it down so I didn’t snort it out of my nose.

  Where were the police sirens? I strained to listen, but with a sinking sensation in the center of my chest, I realized I couldn’t hear them anymore. We’d left them behind.

  Tears filled my eyes, and I struggled to hold them back. They spilled from the corners and ran down my cheeks, to catch in the tape at my mouth so I tasted salt.

  Gray-eyes gave me a sideways glance and shook his head. “Don’t cry.”

  I scowled at him. Why shouldn’t I cry? I’d been kidnapped by four men. I figured this was definitely a crying situation.

  The guy who I’d kicked in the face had rolled up the bottom half of his balaclava, and was using his shirt sleeve to dab away at the blood. Good. I was glad I’d hurt him. I’d hurt the rest of them, too, if they tried to do anything to me. I knew they were empty, pointless threats no one else could even hear, but it made me feel better to bolster myself up inside.

  In the front, both men removed their balaclavas. My view of them was limited. I could see the short buzzed hair of Muscles, his broad shoulders peeping around either side of the seat, his biceps almost the size of my head. The tattooed guy driving had dark hair as well, but straight and spiked. I could see the image of what appeared to be a tiger’s tail curled around the side of his neck. I was only able to see the backs of their heads, but though the side windows were blacked out, the front windshield was not, and I guessed they didn’t want to make anyone who caught a glimpse of them suspicious. The men on either side of me had kept their balaclavas on, but rolled them up to stop right beneath their noses. Nice to know they’re looking after their own comfort, I thought bitterly.

  We drove out of the city. Each mile put between me and my house caused the sickening feeling of dread to solidify further in my stomach. I wanted to go home. I wanted my Aunt Sarah, and I deeply regretted all the harsh words I’d said to her. What if I never got to see her again? What if she never learned what had happened to me? Yes, we’d had our struggles over the years—she’d taken on a fourteen-year-old girl with an attitude who had just watched her father die in her arms. Of course we’d had problems, but we were family, and we were all the other person had. I hated to think of her alone and out of her mind with worry about me.