Dark Secret (DARC Ops Book 1)

by Jamie Garrett

  It was quickly becoming clear that the search through Senator Langhorne's digital odds and ends would take a little longer than she'd hoped. She even felt some new pressure returning to the burgeoning hunch in her back. It was like two tectonic plates mashing together and sprouting forth a mountain. And as she considered the tectonics, a new and more troubling concern emerged. While at first she'd hope to quickly find and print his document, she now hoped that she wouldn’t stumble upon anything inappropriate. She did not want to accidentally discover the Senator's secret interest in some weird porn fetish.

  Please... Please don't be amputee cosplay...

  Just as the thought crossed her mind, an extremely odd-looking window opened up. And an immediate and unexplainable wave of fear washed over her.

  In lieu of some obscene discovery was a page of strange-looking symbols. To anyone else, it would have looked like any other piece of Senator's Langhorne's random computer clutter. Anyone else would have opened and closed it and moved on, continuing elsewhere with the banal search for a meeting agenda and its attachments. Chuck, for example, wouldn’t have given it a second thought. He might have even found the agenda by now. But what he certainly wouldn’t—and couldn’t—do, was translate the strange collection of symbols on the spot, rendering them into intelligible strings of meaning which could be read just like any other language. Like any other foreign document sitting in the translation folder on Mira's laptop.

  She had no choice. It happened effortlessly and on impulse, her eyes automatically converting gibberish to common symbols, which blended into words, and then sentences, to whole meanings. Slowly and methodically, under the watchful eyes of stuffed bears and mountain lions, Mira decrypted the message. The story. And what she read scared the crap out of her.

  When Chuck's voice wafted over her shoulder, she jumped up from her seat.

  “Whoa,” he cried, looking almost as startled as Mira.

  “Sorry, you just... You...” She was still too flustered.

  Chuck started laughing. “Seriously, are you okay?”

  “I was just looking for his agenda, and all these windows...” When she turned back to face the computer screen, she noticed the coded text was still up. And then she froze.

  Chuck approached the computer and nonchalantly clicked off the coded text window. “Yeah, he's pretty unorganized on here.” He started searching through various windows and folders, sighing casually. “What a mess.”

  “Yeah,” she said feebly.

  “The way he leaves this thing...” Chuck turned to check the door for his boss before continuing. “...you'd never think he's a Senator. Seriously. I don't blame you for being in here so long. It looks like some kid’s computer. But worse. Like the kid let his grandpa on it or something.” He clicked through a few more pages before muttering, “Fuck.” More scanning, clicking, swearing.

  With a grinding noise and several long beeps, the printer awoke from its inactive slumber. And on page one it sounded groggy and sluggish, protesting the job with long inexplicable pauses.

  Mira thought Chuck would have said something, or even just reacted in some small way upon his finding the document, but as more and more pages sputtered out of the printer, he seemed content to simply stare at her with an eerily distant smile.

  “Sorry for scaring you,” he said.

  “Me too.” Mira grinned tightly back at him.

  “Too much coffee?”

  “The opposite,” she said, walking over and collecting the pages from the print tray. “Not enough sleep.”

  2

  Mira

  She had presented the idea with an intentional half-heartedness, the invitation to an early lunch being just another of Mira's crazy impulses. A whim. A sudden craving for Kenyan food. Never mind that she'd just been to Njema Cafe several days ago, that it wasn’t exactly a convenient drive from Capitol Hill, and that it shared a building with a dry-cleaning shop. The laundry and the cheap neon signage, along with its cramped parking, only added to the authenticity of the experience, as if the corner of 4th Street and Wilma had been Washington 's little slice of Nairobi.

  “Excuse me, Miss?”

  Mira turned around in her chair to look at the food counter. Her waiter had been leaning over it, trying to get her attention.

  “Kamari just called,” said the waiter. “He's on his way.”

  Although she was waiting for the arrival of two friends, only one of them was to join her at the table.

  “Still okay with water?”

  Mira smiled. “I'm hungry, but I'll wait.” And then she turned to look again at the décor, once again noting the minimalist, utilitarian, and maybe even cheap interior design. The chairs, not covered in the typical carefully folded fabric, were bare, modern, and metal-framed. The tabletops were faux wood and freshly wiped with a citrusy, medicinal-smelling cleaning solution. She looked across the room and observed a distinct lack of Kenyan flags, teak, Benga music and other kitsch, which had her once again appreciating the stark authenticity of Njema Cafe. Kenyan restaurants, in Kenya, never had to prove they were in Kenya.

  Remembering her reason for being at Njema, aside from hunger, Mira looked back down at her notes. She read over a list of words written on the notepad which usually never left her glove compartment, the words she'd frenetically scribbled as soon as she had gotten to her car. It was a wise move, writing them out while they were still fresh in her mind. At least as fresh as anything could be two corridors, an elevator, a security guard, and a soot-lined parking garage later.

  mburungo

  chapaa

  in baridi $

  The chair directly across from her suddenly scraped back across the floor tiles. Mira looked up from her notepad to see a very tall, gorgeous mocha-skinned woman slinging her purse around the chair back. For whatever reason, it was Lashay's custom to make her comings and goings as wordless as possible.

  “Well, there you are,” said Mira, instantly hating how inane it sounded.

  “Yep. You had me at chapati.” Lashay sat and looked around the restaurant. And in a much quieter voice, she said, “It's so empty here.”

  “Shhh. Why are you so late?”

  “For the same reason why we should've just got bagels at Buñuel's.”

  “Yeah, I dunno.” Mira handed her friend a folded paper menu. “That's not as fun.”

  “Neither is falling asleep at my desk in an hour.” She grabbed and unfolded the paper in a distinctly low-blood sugar type of haste.

  Mira shrugged as she read the menu. “Maybe for you. I love doing that. Food coma, here I come.”

  “And how does the Senator feel about it?”

  “Not sure. But it's always the best sleep I ever get.”

  Lashay looked up just in time to see the waiter approaching their table, a young African kid. Kid, mainly because of his face. As for the rest of him, definitely not kid. Mira noticed, too, suddenly wanting to skip her meal and go straight for his immaculately defined arms and chest instead.

  “You know what the best sleep I ever get is?” Lashay asked with a devilish grin.

  Mira thought about kicking Lashay's shins under the table. But it was already time to order drinks. Two seltzers with lime wedges.

  “So are we really just here for the nyama choma, or...”

  Mira gave her friend an innocent look.

  “Because I can tell something's up,” Lashay continued. “You have that weird eye twitch thing again.”

  Mira stared at her friend for a moment.

  “Well, go ahead.”

  “Go ahead what?”

  Lashay rolled her eyes as she looked back to her menu. She quickly folded it and then dropped it on the table with a sigh. “Go ahead,” she said again.

  Mira tried formulating the words in her head. But they just weren’t there. She’d had the whole time she was waiting for Lashay to prepare, yet she still felt blocked up somehow. “Alright,” she said, trying a different approach. “Well, have you ever worked fo
r someone who... um... where you start questioning their ethics and their conduct?”

  “More than once. Why don't you just tell me?”

  Mira sighed. “The Senator had me go on his computer this morning to look for some documents. And I came across some encrypted text that I, uh, accidentally decrypted.”

  Lashay raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

  “I don't even know how it happened. I just looked at it and my brain just started... I didn’t even know what the hell it was.”

  “So what the hell was it?”

  “It looked like some sort of contract.” Mira looked back to her notepad. “A lot of it seemed to be written in... Swahili.” And then she looked up, scanning the room to make sure they were alone. “Have you ever heard of the Mungiki?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Well, you're a librarian. You’re surrounded by knowledge all day long.”

  “Not that knowledge.”

  “It's a rebel faction in Kenya.”

  “Okay...”

  “And I think Senator Langhorne is somehow dealing weapons to them.”

  Lashay's expression didn’t change.

  “I know it sounds crazy,” Mira cut off suddenly with the arrival of their waiter. He took their orders, and even left Mira a cute parting smile. But she was no longer in the mood for it.

  “Heyyy,” boomed a loud, deep voice from the front of the restaurant. “Mira, my girl. What's happenin'?” It was Kamari, the jovial, slightly rotund, middle-aged owner of Njema Cafe. He carried a bunch of grocery bags towards the back counter, giving the ladies a wink as he walked by their table.

  “Well, well, well,” said Mira. “Someone who skips work as much as I do.”

  “Hey, I'm re-stockin',” said Kamari. “Important part of the job. Just ask Tito.”

  Tito, the waiter behind the counter, shrugged apathetically.

  “So I heard you were lookin' for me?” Kamari, after placing the bags on his counter, walked back over to the girls. “What's up?”

  Mira introduced Lashay and then asked Kamari about his travels to Kenya. When was the last time? And for how long?

  “Last month... Not too long... Why, you wanna come wit' me next time?” He chuckled as if he'd said something hilarious.

  “I was just wondering something...”

  “What is it?”

  “Can you speak Sheng?” asked Mira.

  “Sheng?” He looked disgusted with the word.

  “Yeah, the slang. Like, English and Swahili.”

  Kamari had a sour look on his face.

  “I hear it's what all the kids are doing,” she added.

  “You mean slum kids?”

  Mira remained quiet for a moment as she tried to consider Kamari's perspective. His context. What's this white girl doing asking about Sheng? “Well, it's gaining in popularity. And in legitimacy too, from what I hear.”

  “Then that's a darn, darn shame.”

  “Why?”

  “Kids who speak that... The ghetto kids... You know why they do that?”

  Mira had an idea. But she'd rather hear Kamari's insight.

  “They do that 'cause they can't speak English or Swahili. Can't speak nothin', so they speak Sheng. ”

  Mira nodded politely in agreement. “Okay, I see. But can you speak it?”

  He grimaced. “Ah, well, I dunno.” Then he looked around, with one hand scratching his stomach absentmindedly. “Maybe some words.”

  “Can you help me out?”

  “Ah, I dunno...” He kept looking around.

  “Please?” She tried on the prettiest, most innocent and deserving-of-help face she could muster.

  Kamari stared at her and sighed. Then he looked at Tito. “Why are we so dead in here? Jesus Christ, Tito. Was it like this all day?”

  Tito shrugged and mumbled something from behind the counter.

  “Kamari,” said Mira. “Please?”

  He looked annoyed now. “Whatcha need, girl?”

  “Mburungo.”

  He cocked his head to one side, looking like a puppy that just thought it heard something. “The hell you say?”

  “Mburungo?”

  “What? You're saying Mburungo? Like cargo?”

  “I don't know,” said Mira. “Am I?”

  “That means like cargo. Like, shipping. Like how someone would say, like, I dunno. Shipment.”

  “Okay, good,” Mira said in a chipper voice while nodding. Shit, she was acting like a high school teacher. “Thank you.”

  Kamari frowned.

  “What about chapaa?”

  His frown deepened.

  “Does that sound right? Chapaa?” asked Mara.

  “Money,” he said.

  “Money, okay, thanks.”

  “It's a like a dirty way to say money.”

  “Oh, okay.” said Mira. “Now, one more.”

  He was still frowning.

  “Come on, Kamari, cheer up. One more.”

  “Let's hear it,” he said with quiet resignation.

  “In baridi dollar.”

  Kamari was silent, his eyes closed briefly in concentration. Mira, meanwhile, stole a glance at Lashay who'd been sitting silently throughout the exchange. Her eyes were locked on Kamari, waiting for his next hyper-animated reaction.

  “In baridi dollar,” she said again, treating the words with a mysterious tone. “What do you think?”

  “Cold dollar,” he finally said, his head nodding as he thought it through. “Cold. Like, night job. Night work.”

  “Alright,” she said with a smile. “Thank you. That's all I got.”

  “That's all, then? You sure?” His tone had changed, and he almost sounded like he wanted more.

  “Yep. Thanks, Kamari. I'll let you know if I have any more.”

  He smiled back. “Yeah? So I can get back to work now? Geez.” Then he looked over to Lashay while pointing to Mira. “Crazy girl. Huh? She's crazy.”

  “Totally,” was all Lashay could say.

  “Yes,” he said. “She wants to go with me to Kenya. I know it.”

  “If you're buying the tickets,” said Mira.

  “She wants to go and learn Sheng.”

  “That's the idea.”

  Kamari's big laugh filled the restaurant. “She better be careful though. She'll get taught Sheng and then get stabbed.” He laughed again, this time looking over to Tito, looking to someone who knew and who could appreciate what he'd said. And then he just walked away shaking his head.

  “What was all that about?” asked Lashay.

  “I picked out some words from the text that didn't make sense to me.”

  Lashay looked at her friend carefully. “If all this is true,” she said quietly. “This crazy arms dealing stuff...”

  “I hope it's not true,” Mira said.

  “I might have someone for you to talk to. An ex of mine.”

  Mira almost chuckled. In a less serious situation a joke would have been made about the staggering amount of exes Lashay had curated over the years.

  “His name's Matthias,” she continued. “We met back when I used to go to all those anarchist meetings. Remember all that?”

  “Yep,” said Mira. “Part-time librarian, full-time shit disturber.”

  “That's right. He was actually an undercover FBI agent trying to infiltrate the collective.”

  Mira eyes widened. “You never told me that. Did you date him while he was, uh, actively investigating?”

  “Yeah.” Lashay smiled. “But I convinced him to be active in other ways.”

  “Oh, I'm sure.”

  Lashay looked off into space—or, to be exact, the cobwebbed upper corner of the restaurant where an old busted fan hung uselessly. “Anyway, that was a long time ago.”

  “What's the deal?” asked Mira. “Why should I talk to him about this?”

  “He works for a private company now. He's a contractor for a security firm that specializes in this kind of stuff.”

  “This
kind of stuff, like, illegal international arms dealing?” Now it was Mira’s turn to be skeptical.

  “Yup. Geopolitics, black ops... All the stuff I still pretty much hate about our country. But anyway...”

  “Wait, what side is he on? I might have evidence against a U.S. Senator. You really think I should go--”

  “Don't worry,” Lashay interrupted. “You can trust him.”

  Mira's face twisted into a frown. “Don't worry?”

  Lashay just stared at her.

  “Whose side is he on?” Mira asked again.

  “Your side.”

  The conversation died abruptly with Tito's near-silent delivery of a plate of fresh chapati bread. It looked delicious. And smelled even better. Her hunger having been worked up by serious conversation, Mira dove into the appetizer, mulling over the situation as she chewed. With a mouth still full of chapati, she asked, “You'll give Matthias a heads up first, right?”

  3

  Jackson

  Luck was always the most important factor on the battlefield. Sheer dumb luck. It was something the drill instructors at Coronado didn’t like to talk about. And when they did, they'd always conclude by saying that hard work, especially hard training, was a means to position oneself for better luck in the field. But when better luck never came, a soldier best be tenacious like a motherfucker. Which was just fine for Jackson, who'd never been particularly lucky to begin with. Put his back up against the wall and out comes the tenacity of a cornered animal. He'd go full-on rabid dog at even the first hint of an impossible situation, the soft, touchy-feely parts of his brain turning off to give maximal attention to his pure will to survive. And then things would suddenly seem clearer and easier. An instinctual simplicity. No thinking. No asking. No doubting. Just survival on autopilot.

  It was what got him through SEAL Hell Week back in California. Jackson was going to survive that week. There was never a question about it. When the sun had set on the first day and the students who’d finished the race ahead were allowed a few merciful moments of sleep, he was already thinking of days two and three, and more if it was necessary. He’d crawled beneath his crew’s inflatable boat, hunkered down as the wind howled around him—and even managed to close his eyes for a few blissful minutes—while everyone around him dropped like flies.