I held his gaze, my jaw rigid. “And what if I don’t plan on giving it to you?”
“I’m afraid you don’t have that option.”
“Why? Because you’ll kill me?”
“I don’t want to threaten you, Darcy.”
“Too late. You already have.”
He sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes, as though this whole thing was making him tired. “That isn’t my intention. I want you to help us, that’s all.”
“You want me to help the men who kidnapped me and held me in a cellar for three days?”
“I want you to help the men who took you from people who would have tortured you to get the code out of you. Those were not nice guys, Darcy. Your father knew it, too, that’s why he took the flash drive. They were the ones who killed him that night. Not random strangers or criminals, but the same men he worked alongside, day in, day out.”
My body trembled. “No, I don’t believe you.”
He brought his face level with mine. “Why not?”
“Because you have no proof.”
He spun around and slammed his hand down on the table. “God-dammit, Darcy. Isn’t him taking the flash drive in the first place proof enough? He didn’t trust the men he worked with, which is why he took it and protected it with the code. He didn’t want them getting access to what’s on it.”
“What’s on it?” I asked again.
“I can’t tell you that.”
I pressed my lips together, thinking hard. “Okay, then. If getting into the flash drive is so important, why didn’t you just bring in someone to crack the code? Surely there are people who can hack into just about anything these days?”
Isaac frowned. “It’s not that easy. Your father was a smart man and he built a failsafe into the drive where if the number was entered incorrectly, it would wipe everything on the drive.”
Wow, my father had some serious faith in my ability to remember, but I guessed that must have been because he knew how my mind worked. “So you need me to remember the numbers exactly right the first time?”
“That’s right.”
The idea made my head spin. What, even with my ability, I got the numbers wrong? I wasn’t sure I could handle that kind of responsibility.
I continued my line of questioning, thirsty for answers. “Who are you guys? Some kind of gang?”
His lips tightened and he glanced away. “You don’t need to know what we are.”
“Why not? What harm will it do? It’s not as though you’re going to ever let me tell anyone.”
“You don’t need to know,” he said bluntly, and I scowled at him.
“Then you don’t need to know the code.”
He huffed out a breath of frustration and stepped away, walking in a small, slow circle in front of me. “I want you to think about this for a while. You’re down here, with nowhere to go. No one is going to find you. If you cooperate with us, we’ll repay the favor. When we get the drive, and if the code you give us works, you’ll be allowed to walk free.”
I frowned. “Free? You mean you’ll let me live?”
“I keep telling you, we’ve never meant to hurt you. We just need this, and if we hadn’t taken you, those other guys would have.”
Was he lying? Was this his way of getting what they wanted, then as soon as they had it, I’d find myself with a bullet in my head?
“Aren’t you worried about me going to the cops if you let me go?”
He paused in his movement and lifted his green gaze to mine, solid and confident. “You won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because by then you’ll have realized that we did the right thing. By then, Darcy, you’ll already be on our side.”
Chapter Fourteen
I stared at Isaac, at those intense green eyes, and that perfect mouth. Was he serious? Did he really believe I’d ever be on their side? What did he know that I didn’t?
Lots. He knew lots. A whole world of knowledge, apparently.
But I was the one who had the most important piece of knowledge stashed somewhere inside my head. And yet he held my freedom, and potentially my life.
So what was more important—that knowledge or my life?
And what if everything he was saying was a lie, and I gave him the number and he killed me anyway? I had to consider that possibility.
“I’ll give you some time to think about it,” he said, nodding at me as though we’d just conducted a business meeting. Part of me felt as though he was about to try to shake my hand to bring an end to proceedings. “I hope you’ll come around to my way of thinking, but as a goodwill gesture, I’ll leave you with the light on, and I’ll send a couple of the guys down with some food.”
“How about as a goodwill gesture, you just let me the hell out of here?”
He gave me a reluctant but-nice-try smile. “You know I can’t do that, love. We both know you’d run.”
I pressed my lips together, not answering. I didn’t need to. He already knew the truth. Of course I’d run.
I thought he was going to leave, but instead he moved closer. We were only inches apart now, and the scent of his expensive cologne drifted to my nose.
His tone grew softer and his whole face relaxed. He suddenly looked younger, but only for a moment. “If you escaped, Darcy, where would you go?”
I lifted my head and forced myself to look him directly in the eye. “To the cops. Tell them exactly what you’ve done.”
“And the cops would hand you right over to the FBI.”
“So? They might be able to help find all of you.”
“Yes, but that wouldn’t be what you’d want.”
My eyebrows lifted and I tilted my chin. “I promise you it is.”
“No, Darcy. They might come to find us, but it wouldn’t be for anything to do with punishing us for taking you, not in the way you think. They might try to kill us, but that would be to take us out of the picture. Then they’d do whatever they had to do to get whatever is in your head.”
He was talking nonsense, and I huffed in exasperation.
“What I’m saying,” he continued, “is that escaping us won’t save you. It’ll only put you in more danger.”
“Right,” I said. “Got it. If I escape, I die. If I stay here, but don’t give you the code, I’ll probably die. So it’s all looking good for me, then.” I couldn’t help the sarcastic bite to my tone.
I didn’t miss the twist of amusement at his mouth. “Just think about it, that’s all I ask.”
He reached out to touch my face, and I slapped his hand away.
“You really are too pretty to die.”
Then he turned and left me, closing the door behind him. At least he’d left the light on. I didn’t have to stumble around in the dark anymore, and that was something.
With my mind reeling, I sat on the bare mattress of the bed, and put my head in my hands.
There was something Isaac didn’t know.
I had a secret. Something only my father had been aware of.
Since as long as I could remember, I was able to see numbers. Not just in my head, but actually visualize numerical sequences in the space around me. I’m a spatial sequence synesthete. It’s a form of synesthesia. Where some people’s brains processed colors as tastes, or saw days of the week or seasons as certain hues, or musicians may see sounds and music, my brain was able to visualize dates and numbers. I saw the past and future in a timetable of dates. My present was always directly in front of me. My future was to my right, curving around behind me to the point where I could no longer see it. And my past went to my left, again curving behind my head at the point where I could no longer remember.
My dad picked up on my ability when I was only small. How I would always point to my right if I was talking about something in our future or to my left if it was in my past. I’d pretend to pick out numbers from the air, laughing if he’d just walked right through number six or ten. He’d figured it out for me, so, although of course I’d
done my own research online, he’d always told me that the way I saw things was different than others. It was almost impossible to explain, and when I was about ten years old, and I’d tried to tell a friend about it, she’d only laughed and gone and told a number of the other girls at school. It had spread quickly, and I’d been taunted for weeks. ‘Darcy sees things!’ ‘Where’s today gone, Darcy?’ ‘Are there numbers dancing around your head!’ After that, I’d learned to keep my mouth shut, and I’d learned not to point into the air when I was talking about a date or a number. My memory was good, but it’s not photographic as some people would assume when they heard about spatial sequence synesthesia. It was easier to stick to times and dates, and I rarely missed an appointment.
But the point was, my dad knew how numbers worked for me. He knew my affinity for them, and perhaps he thought I’d immediately be able to visualize the code he’d given me and remember. What he hadn’t thought about was that I’d been a frightened girl who had her only parent bleeding out into her arms. The last thing I’d been thinking about was visualizing the numbers he’d told me. If I’d known how important they were, perhaps I’d have concentrated a little better.
But I had heard them. They’d gone into my long term memory, whether I liked it or not. But Isaac was wrong about one thing. They wouldn’t be in my head. When they came back to me, they’d be right in front of me. So real to me I could reach out my hand and touch them.
I lifted my face from my hands and stared into the air in front of me. Just as I had my whole life, when I thought about certain numbers, they appeared in the bubble of space around me. The number one was closest, and just to the left of my left eye. Eight was behind and slightly above. Three came next, further forward, nearing my nose, and seven was right in the center of my vision. They each had their own particular locations, and if a number was most important to me at that time for some reason, it didn’t change position, but instead took on a kind of glow, an illumination that said ‘look at me.’ I knew this sounded crazy to anyone who hadn’t experienced it for themselves, but that was how it had always been to me.
I wondered if my mother had ever experienced synesthesia. From the reading I’d done on the phenomenon, it was often passed down through generations, and I knew it didn’t exist on my father’s side. But I had no way of knowing. She’d left when I’d been a newborn, vanishing without a trace after telling my dad that she couldn’t cope, and being stuck with a baby and a husband wasn’t how she’d planned her life to be. He’d tried to stop her, wanting her to get medical help, assuming she was suffering from postpartum depression, but she hadn’t wanted it. She hadn’t wanted me.
The door opened again, causing me to turn around. Clay walked down the stairs, carrying a tray. Kingsley was not far behind him, though he stood in the doorway, his arms folded across his massive chest, as though daring me to try to get past him.
I offered Clay a conciliatory smile. A part of me still felt if I could get one or more of these guys on my side, they might help me.
“Hey, sugar,” he said. “I brought you breakfast.”
I got to my feet. Crispy bacon and pancakes, a side of chopped fruit. Coffee and orange juice. It seemed I was living on breakfast right now, but it smelled amazing.
“Thanks, Clay. I’m starving.”
“Sorry, no knives and forks. Isaac said you can’t be trusted.”
I shrugged. “Isaac is probably right.”
Clay grinned, revealing a dimple in his cheek. He watched me as I took a seat at the small table and tucked in. I remembered my previous show with the meal he’d given me. I wasn’t going to do the same thing again. Not if I wanted to get him on my side. I could feel Kingsley watching me, however, and I wondered if the other man had an idea of what I was thinking. He had a way of doing that, watching, observing, taking in far more than I was willing to give out.
“So,” Clay said, leaning casually against the wall beside us. “What do you make of Isaac’s proposal?”
I spoke between mouthfuls of salty bacon. “That I give you some mysterious code in return for my freedom?”
“Yeah, that.”
I jerked my shoulders. “First of all, I don’t even know the code. Isaac thinks there’s a way of getting it out of my head, but I’m not sure it’s possible.”
“It’s possible.” Kingsley’s deep, smooth voice made me look up.
“How would you know?”
“Because I’m a trained therapist in recovering memories.”
My eyes widened. “What?”
Clay nodded. “It’s true. Kingsley, here, is a shrink.”
I hadn’t taken these men to be educated to a high level. I’d assumed them to be thugs, criminals. Certainly not a psychologist.
The muscles in my face pulled down in disbelief. “So if Kingsley is a therapist, what do the rest of you do?”
“Alex is a medical doctor.”
“Of course, he is.” I almost laughed, but held it back. I was stuck in some crazy dream or parallel universe where nothing was what it seemed. “What about you, Clay?”
He held up both hands, and his cheek tweaked. “Nothing so fancy. I’m a mean whizz with an engine, though. There’s pretty much nothing I can’t make go.”
My curiosity built. It didn’t sound as though he was lying. Still, it was strange to imagine these guys wandering around, leading regular lives. “And what about Lorcan?”
“He’s our weapons guy. Or just fighting in general.”
I was almost too scared to ask. “And Isaac?”
“Computers. But he’s also the one who makes all the final decisions. We don’t always like it, but someone has to, or things wouldn’t get done.”
“So, you all have regular jobs, and just do a little kidnapping on the side?” My tone was laced with sarcasm and a healthy lashing of bitterness.
Clay exchanged a glance with Kingsley, who gave a shrug.
“Nah, not exactly,” said Clay. “We’re trained in those things, but we don’t work regular jobs. I mean, Kingsley doesn’t have his own practice or anything, and neither does Alex, but they were both put through training.”
I picked up on something he’d said. “They were put through training? By who?”
That same glance exchanged again, a silent communication about what could and couldn’t be said.
Clay rubbed his fingers across his lips, as though he’d suddenly found something on them. “Sorry. Can’t tell you that.”
I didn’t think he was lying. Who the hell were these people? I was starting to see them all with new eyes. Psychologist, mechanic, weapons, doctor, technology. This wasn’t a group of uneducated criminals. Okay, they were still criminals—kidnapping me had proven that—but they weren’t stupid.
And they wanted to get inside my head.
What could be on that drive? What were they after? The reports after my father died simply said he’d taken classified information. I was never told what that information was, and of course he didn’t talk about what he was working on with his fourteen-year-old daughter.
Remembering my half-eaten breakfast, I picked up a pancake and chomped down. The pancake was light and fluffy, and sweet, and reminded me of Saturday mornings with my dad when I’d been younger. The ultimate comfort food. Considering I didn’t know when I’d be getting my next meal—hell, this could even be my last meal—I didn’t plan on letting anything go to waste.
I swallowed my mouthful then circled my finger in the air to indicate all of them. “So, who is the cook?”
Clay held up his hand as though volunteering for something in class. “That’d be me as well.”
I hadn’t expected it to be him, for some reason, though I always did like the idea of a guy who could cook. I burned toast and boiled eggs dry. I guessed I couldn’t take anything for granted. There was Kingsley, looking like he could crack your neck with a single finger, but actually more interested in the mind than being physical. I remembered the massage and shivered, and not in a bad
way. Okay, maybe he did like to get hands on as well, only not in the violent way I’d assumed. Alex had patched up my wounds, because that was what he was trained to do, but I still got the feeling he didn’t like to see me hurt. Lorcan, I hadn’t figured out at all yet, and I didn’t even know where to start with Isaac.
But if I agreed to what they wanted, maybe I would get some answers.
Chapter Fifteen
I finished eating and gave a contented sigh.
I suddenly realized something. At some point, though I couldn’t put my finger on the exact moment, I’d stopped being afraid of these guys. Isaac, yeah, perhaps. And I hadn’t warmed to Lorcan. But I didn’t hate Clay, Kingsley, and Alex in the way I had when I’d first been brought here. Was Stockholm syndrome coming into play, and I was forming a bond with my captors, or was I actually starting to believe some of what they were telling me? Maybe those FBI agents who had come to pick me up had been bad news, though I’d known one of them, Agent Hollan, for years. I remembered how brusque he’d been with me, how I hadn’t been able to grab my purse, and I’d barely had time to put my shoes on. I hadn’t felt comfortable with them either, but then I hadn’t expected to. I’d been feeling horrible about the interview, part of me wishing I could give the money back and forget I’d ever opened my mouth. I certainly wished I’d gone down that route now. Look at the amount of shit my big mouth and greed had gotten me into.
It was all about those numbers my dad had told me as he’d died. If he hadn’t wanted me to access the files on that drive, why would he have told me the number? If he’d wanted whatever was on it to die with him, he could have kept his mouth shut, or told me he loved me, like any normal father would have done.
My curiosity had gotten the better of me. Even if I was able to walk away from this right now, I’d still want to know. Perhaps the men would never tell me what was on the drive, but unless we figured out the code, and they did the job of getting their hands on it, I would never find out.
“Okay,” I said eventually.
Hacking Darkness Page 10