“You don’t trust her?”
“It’s not that kind of problem. He just got out of jail, and he’s been . . . bothering her.”
“Sam, I might not agree with you quitting DARC Ops. But I do think you need to take some steps back from this investigation, and maybe work on your personal life. Work on her. Do what you have to do, but, please, think about coming back when you’re done. Okay?”
It was a reasonable request. Since coming down, Jasper had been firm, but fair, with his assessments of Sam’s latest predicaments. He was someone Sam could trust.
“You haven’t seen the last of me,” Sam said, thinking already about his night ahead. Should he already consider himself a free man from DARC, a freelancer, with a free night to spend with his girl? Should he call Jackson already and tell him about it? Or should he stay at his hotel and focus on how he should deal with the Kurt situation? He still had all those clips of news footage. He could maybe comb through them in search of Kurt, use it as evidence for Clara’s restraining order.
Sam took another look at his good friend. He would feel a little sad, saying goodbye. DARC had been good to him, almost like a family.
“Hey,” Sam said. “One last thing before you go. A beignet.”
“A what?”
Sam pointed up over the road behind them to another of New Orleans’ famous landmarks, the Cafe Du Monde. “Let’s do something touristy for a change.”
It was like fishing. But less scenic. And a lot less relaxing.
Sam sat in his hotel room, hunch-backed in front of two linked monitors, watching clip after clip of anything pertaining to the event—watching carefully and closely for Kurt’s clothing, hair style, manner of walk. He had been straining his eyes for almost an hour, during which time he’d already had gone through the clips of Clara. Those were painful to revisit. When he’d first discovered her, his reaction with Bren had been a mix of excitement and horror. Now he just felt a muted sense of sadness.
She looked so broken and pitiful. He fucking hated it.
Sam clenched his teeth and fast-forwarded those parts, all while making a promise to himself that he would never let anything happen to her ever again. It could be his new job. It could be her future, protected. Really protected.
It made him stare at the screens harder, his focus sharpened, even his peripheral vision opening up and taking in wider and wider swaths of visual coverage. But still no fucking sign of Kurt.
Of course, there was that possibility that he’d never been there. At the time of the event, Sam’s adrenaline had been off the charts. His breathing fucked up. He might have even been affected by remnants of the attack. Kurt could have just been a product of that, some maddening mirage.
When Sam’s phone vibrated against the table, the intrusion into such hard concentration made him jump in his seat. He was glad no one was around to see it, or to hear the little squeal he made.
“Dave?”
“Hi, Sam. Got some news for you.”
It could either be about Kurt or the bio attack. Although he’d sworn off researching the bio angle to Jasper, he still wasn’t sure what info he’d like to hear.
Dave spoke again. “It turns out that Kurt is most definitely in New Orleans.”
“Shit . . .”
“But don’t worry. Clara’s safe. He’s in jail.” Dave laughed quietly on the other end. Sam thought he sounded drunk. “He got swept up in a sting operation. A crack house in the lower Ninth Ward.”
“He smokes crack?”
“You wouldn’t believe some of these guys,” Dave said. “They go in there and get straight for five years and then as soon as they get out, it’s the first thing they want.”
Sam was glad that Kurt was off the streets and no longer a threat to Clara or Molly, but there was something about this latest news that made him hurt inside. It was such a terrible tragedy all around.
“I just figured you’d want to know.”
“Of course,” he said. “Thank you. I’m just . . . I guess I’m stunned.”
“Why? The guy’s a loser.”
“True.”
“Sam, he beats women. I don’t want to get into it, but—”
“I know, I know. I just don’t want to celebrate something like this.”
“I do,” Dave said. “I’m celebrating right now.” There was the cracking sound of an opened can of beer. And then some hard swallows coming through on the call.
“You okay, Dave?”
“I don’t mean to be crass,” he said. “I’m just glad to be done on your little research project.”
Sam kept staring at the screen of his own research project, all the faces and shapes blurred into an ugly impressionist painting. One of Monet’s worst works. Biological Attack in the Courtyard.
Dave kept going. “Unless you’ve got some more bright ideas. Maybe you want me to get Vivian to be the guy’s lawyer? A legal assistant posing as public defender. She’d probably do a better job than most of those hacks. But you’re not looking for that; you just want to keep tabs on the guy.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, just letting him go on.
“Actually, you should get her to do that, make Vivian sabotage the case and keep him in jail for the rest of his life. You know how hard this state is on drug crimes? This ain’t Washington.”
“Dave?”
“Go ahead.”
“Where are you?”
“In my car.”
“Okay. Do me favor?”
“What?”
“Don’t drive anywhere.”
Fucking Dave was really going off the rails. How long had it been going on for? Had Sam walked into the final scenes of his friend’s tragedy? Or had he been instrumental in some way? He found it hard not to feel a little guilty. Even if the timing was just completely coincidental. Sam had bothered him about the Kurt research, which put him back in contact with Vivian. Though it seemed that type of contact, physical or not, was inevitable. Still, Sam played some small role in that. Then there was the drinking. It seemed like everything for Dave after those catch-up beers—his retainer fee—had been going downhill.
Sam ran his fingertips through his hair, scratching against his skull. There was so much to do. So much to worry about. From mass terror attacks to the private tragedies of his closest friends. He would have to set something up for Dave. He would have to talk to him about a program. Something to get him out of his Goddamned car and maybe back with his family.
Sam started watching through the recordings again, his gaze following them only halfheartedly now as his mind went to Dave. But then he saw it.
What was that?
What was that man holding?
There was a short, thin man, wearing a hooded jacket with the hood pulled down low over his head. All Sam could see was a beard, no mustache. Brown skin. At first he looked like any other man caught up in the attack. But he’d had a small painter’s mask over his mouth, a flat cloth kind like the ones so popular in Asian countries.
And even that would have been fine. He’d seen his fair share of people with masks in major cities. In D.C., New York. It was the way he was moving that got Sam’s attention. His head movements too, where he would look and pay attention to. How he was not panicking or scrambling away, but walking in organized lines. A pre-planned route, that mostly had nothing to do with the flow of traffic away from the attack. Nothing to do with any perceivable sense of self-preservation.
And what the fuck was he holding?
At first it looked like a typical briefcase. But upon closer inspection, it seemed to have a small hose running out of it, with a type of nozzle.
And then he saw another man, similar build, similar skin color and dress. Similar fucking air-quality-monitor briefcase.
Sam paused the video, his fingers shaking so badly at the track pad he had trouble aiming the cursor. He reached for his phone and pulled up two photos he had saved, close-ups of the two suspects.
He compared them to the two he’d been
watching on the screen.
They didn’t fucking match.
These were two completely different men, with what looked like air-quality readers, walking in systematic lines, almost as if they were scientists conducting an experiment. These were his masterminds. The researchers—training and watching over the rats.
21
Clara
“Sam, I thought you were all done with that stuff.”
“I am,” he said, still watching his videos. She couldn’t believe the way he was just sitting there staring at his computers.
“Hello?”
“What?”
“If you were done, you wouldn’t be watching that stuff over and over again.” She moved across his hotel room, trying to decide where she would sit. There was no way she was sitting on the bed. Not when it invoked the kind of images currently running through her head. Sam, naked, lying between her spread legs, his head buried in her folds, making her come all over his face before he slid up and thrust his cock deep into her body. Clara shivered. Sam was still at his computers, his face practically glued to them. For a man who was supposed to notice stuff, he was been supremely fucking dense.
Yep, the bed was the last place she felt like sitting.
“I’m just . . .” His voice came out quietly, distant, his syntax half a step behind usual. Without removing his eyes from the screen, he said, “I’m just trying to . . .” And then he trailed off again, retreating back to his careful study of old news footage.
“Just trying to what?” She walked over to him. He needed a little punch or something. Yes, he definitely needed something. A kick to the head perhaps, to let him know how badly he was behaving. A little slap on the back. She felt compelled to lay her hands on him and break him out of his trance. “Huh? What are you trying?” She reached down at his side, right above his hip, and grabbed a handful of where he’d previously admitted to being the most ticklish.
His only reaction was to slap her hand away with a quick and terse, “Wait.”
“Wait?” Clara backed off before she really did punch him in the head. Hard. She circled back to his bed, looking at it, and then moving over to sit in one of the chairs by a small table.
“Wait,” he said again, this time a little more urgently. “Wait, what was that? What the hell was that?”
He was talking to his fucking screens.
“I don’t know, Sam. Why don’t you tell me?”
No answer.
“Why don’t you communicate?”
He suddenly stood up like someone had cattle-pronged him. “I’m sorry,” he said, this time with direct eye contact. Clara could hardly believe it. The cyborg had detached from its mother ship.
“What the hell’s going on?” She was tempted to get her phone out so that she could stare at her own screen, so that he could feel what it was like to be ignored.
But he looked too white in the face. Too . . . scared?
“Sam?”
He paced around, taking deep breaths. “Okay,” he said. “Sorry.” His breathing slowed a little. And then he walked over to her and sat in the chair opposite. “Okay. Everything’s okay.” he said, smiling. And then laughing a little.
“I still don’t buy it,” she said. “You’re a terrible liar, Sam. That’s why I like you so much.”
“No, I just had to finish up something. I saw something, um . . . I was looking through the old footage.”
“I could see that. Isn’t that a little morbid?”
“And I think I’ve identified two additional suspects.” He started rooting around in his pants pockets, finally pulling away two hands full of smart phones, pens, beer-bottle caps, and an odd-looking laminated card on a string. He overturned his palms and dumped everything on the table. He sighed and said, “Okay.”
“Sam, are you working this case for your company?”
“What case?”
“The terrorist attack. I know you feel connected to it because of me. I know it’s personal. But is this your job now?”
Sam was about to say something, but then he stopped himself. And then he frowned. “It’s not really my job, no.”
“Then why are you . . .?” She trailed off as she looked over some of the stuff he’d just dumped on top of the table. She reached over and picked up the card thing. “What’s this?”
“A press pass.”
“For what?”
“It’s a fake. Got it express-mailed here from D.C. Actually, express-hand-delivered.”
“Why?” It was starting to bother her now. “Actually, no. Forget it.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to know.”
Sam reached forward and pushed the rest of his junk aside, maybe so she couldn’t see everything, and then he put both arms on the table stretching out, hands clasped. “Clara, I totally get that I look a little crazy.”
“Yeah, not just a little, Sam.”
“You have to trust me that I’m really onto something here. I think I found something huge, and I need to head down to talk to someone real quick.”
“Yeah, you need to talk to someone, alright.”
“Clara, hey.” Sam stared back at her. His whole demeanor had changed. There was this strange, plastic niceness across his face. “Hey, why don’t we go on a vacation? Just us. Just us and Molly.”
“I can’t go on a vacation.”
“Why? You’re off for three weeks. Molly has Christmas break.”
“She also has a parade.”
“That’s tomorrow,” he said.
“We have plans here.”
“I know, but . . . Wouldn’t it be great to just get away? I feel like we really need to just get out of the city for awhile.”
“I don’t get it, Sam. First you do everything you can to stay here, and now you want to run away? I can’t just pick up and leave.”
“For a vacation.”
Was this it? Was this their first argument?
A sad realization came over her. Was last night the apex of their relationship, the peak of their lust? Would everything now that followed be the same decline that matched the trajectory of all of her past relationships, that same familiar Goddamn downward spiral?
“Clara, listen . . .”
She stood up. “I gotta go.”
“Wait.”
“I know, but I have to go.”
“Clara . . .” He finally looked concerned, not about something he’d seen on his monitor, but concerned for her.
“It’s okay,” she said, collecting her things. “I’ve got to pick up Molly.”
22
Sam
It was a sacrifice: Clara’s immediate reactionary impulse compared to the long-term safety of her and Molly, and perhaps the nation. He just had to juggle it all perfectly right. And he had to stay sharp the next morning, when Jasper surprised him with an invitation to the city council building. A meeting in the basement boardroom where he’d have another chance to persuade Captain Morin. No fake press pass required.
Apparently, something had “come up.” It was all Jasper would offer during their quick car ride. While they were walking down the building’s corridor, he offered Sam the most annoying smile he’d ever seen.
“What’s so funny?” Sam asked.
“Aren’t you glad I didn’t leave town this morning?”
“Well, let’s see what this meeting is about. I’ll be glad when the captain finally gives me access to these guys.”
That was the best-case scenario, that the captain had a change of heart. Maybe he’d hit a wall in the investigation. Maybe all that stuff about Tulane was a misdirection. Maybe Sam was on the verge of breaking the case wide open, saving New Orleans and the whole country. But when Jasper, still smiling, opened the conference room door, the only thing on the verge of being broken wide open was someone’s head.
“What the fuck?” Sam said, shocked and shaking in the doorway.
“‘What the fuck?’ What kind of greeting is that for your boss?”
“Relax,” Jackson said. “It’s fine.”
“What’s fine? What is this?”
“An intervention,” Tansy said with a shit-eating grin.
“I don’t need it,” Sam said. “I’ve made up my mind. But I’m touched that y’all came down here.”
Jackson was on his feet now, coming over for a handshake. And then, “Let’s just talk. Why don’t you take a seat?”
They sat there for several minutes, Sam’s tension easing a little as they made small talk of the biological attack. The boys seemed keenly interested in Sam’s tale, his experiences dealing with the first responders, the press, and the local investigators. They seemed genuine in their care for him. They were almost . . . sensitive.
“I was honestly getting a little worried,” Jackson said. “You’re a huge part of this team. A great asset.”
“You pretty much saved my ass here last month.” Matthias said. He turned to Jackson. “He sat in that bar for just a few minutes and he could already tell who was trying to kill me.”
“You’ve got good instincts,” Tansy said.
“And that’s why we’re here,” Jackson finished.
Despite his best efforts, Sam felt his jaw drop. Just a little. “You’re not here to try to force me back to Washington?”
“It’s no secret that we need you back there,” Jackson said. “But we also want to get to the bottom of what’s going on here. I’m tired of hearing about the conspiracy theories.” Jackson winked at him.
“They’re not conspiracy theories,” Sam said. “Well, yes, technically they are conspiracy theories, because it involves a group of people conspiring, but, they’re not . . . they’re . . . Okay, look.” Sam lifted his bag onto the table, unzipped it, and pulled out his laptop. “Why don’t I just show you the evidence I have?”
Dark Threat - A DARC Ops Christmas Novel Page 14