by Dale Amidei
Smiling, she turned and hit the bathroom. She emerged once finished to the sight of him still sitting up in bed, tapping and swiping at the screen of his smartphone. She began pulling on her intimates followed by raven-black working clothes, from her turtleneck to stockings, riding breeches and knee boots. Her Galco rig bearing her 9mm SIG SAUER P290, “Little Swiss,” and accoutrements wrapped itself around her shoulders afterward. “Terrence, dear, whatever are you doing?”
“Security access at DARIUS. I’ve listed your federal access card. You should have free entry to whatever door’s lock you encounter.”
“Sweet,” she murmured. But then, Paul Kemp is a sweetheart, isn’t he. Readied, she pulled a short leather jacket over her rig, posing. “See? I’m ready for work in record time, breaking every misconception you’ve ever held.”
Bradley sunk back down under the covers, rolling over. “You go get ‘em, Agent Hildebrandt. This bed will be warm when you get back.”
She smirked while grabbing the small wallet holding her driver’s license, identification and other essentials. The hotel’s access card went into another pocket. “I’ll be back once I’ve seen if the guys at the DARIUS front desk are still awake.” By his muffled response she could tell Bradley was again nearly asleep. Practice makes perfect. No wonder Janine went insane in less than a year. Boone slipped quietly out into the hallway, checking the door to make sure it had secured behind her.
Let’s get this over with. Terry definitely has the right idea.
DARIUS was located across town from her hotel and the Liberty Crossing campus, in a district zoned for commerce rather than cloaks and daggers. Traffic at this hour of the morning was nearly nonexistent. Only the early shift workers and late-night employees relieved sooner than usual from their graveyard positions were on the streets.
Traffic would be so much better without the people, Boone thought. But then again, without people, the damned streets wouldn’t even be here now, would they? She realized in her muddled thinking she was missing her usual cup of hazelnut blend as an eye-opener. Buck up, girl. Another addiction is the last thing you need.
She drove past Liberty Crossing. As always, the facility was staffed and lit around the clock though it remained obscured by the trees on campus. Boone had reported there for years without being a resident worker. She wondered now if the change would be her undoing. And Terry’s too. He’s your direct supervisor. If anyone gets wind of an affair, the hammer of the gods will fall from the Office of Personnel Management before either one of us has time to crap our pants. Boone made a silent vow to be more considerate of Edna Reese in the uncertain future.
A glance in the rearview mirror, an ingrained habit in the field, exposed another SUV—not dissimilar to her USIC Escalade—following at a discreet distance. Should I not have lost them at the yellow light? Boone looked ahead to the next such traffic control, gauging whether it would serve to test her theory. She saw the crosswalk warning begin to blink orange. There. The timing will be perfect. Adjusting her speed downward, she crossed as the light was finishing yellow. Glancing again behind her, she saw the SUV bust the red without so much as a moment’s hesitation. OK, so he’s definitely a scofflaw. But then again, he probably works in D.C. Boone paid more attention to the interior of the vehicle as it passed under street lighting. Two front-seat passengers—men by their size. Spying her turn, she left the main artery for the access road leading to the parking lot of the expansive DARIUS facility.
Again, the vehicle behind chose the same route. Sure enough, they are going my way. A coincidence? Paul Kemp, as part of his familiarization tour, had given her the operational schedules of his firm. DARIUS is strictly a daywalker’s operation. We can’t have sleep-deprived eggheads designing the next generation of ray guns, after all. Cleaning crews—and sometimes maintenance workers—took the place over for the swing shift. And the nighttime belongs to third-shift security. It’s all doughnuts and Internet porn, probably. I’m about to find out.
Boone wheeled the Escalade into the largely deserted DARIUS parking lot. Sure enough. Here they come. DARIUS security guys, I bet, wondering what the hell I am doing here in the middle of the night. “Well, guys, it was supposed to be a surprise,” she murmured. I guess it still is. I can begin by giving them kudos on their perimeter control.
Tapping the brake, Boone slowed and then stopped in the middle of the lot, seeing the vehicle behind her do the same. Boone, you are psychic. She shifted into Park and exited, her USIC identification held at the ready at head height. The vehicle behind her pulled up close and killed its headlights, revealing the passengers to be, as she suspected, two men. And rather beefy ones at that. “Good morning guys,” she greeted them as they exited their own vehicle. “I’m Doctor—”
“—Rebecca Boone Hildebrandt, USIC,” the driver finished for her. “Lady, you need to get the hell out of here.”
These guys dress well for security goons. Her hand went to her hip. “Excuse me, buddy? This is a security screening, on the authority of the Office of the Director of National Intelligence, working in cooperation with your Vice President of Development and Operations, Mister Kemp.” Boone lowered her ID, returning it to her back pocket. She noticed the passenger was scoping the inside of her Escalade with a small, powerful handheld light, just as one would in any standard patrol procedure.
“I don’t give a shit, honey. If ya don’t wanna have a real bad night, get back in your vehicle and scram. I mean right fuckin’ now.”
Another thought—aside from the driver turning out to be a real asshole—arose to trouble her. Why are there no emergency lights if this is a security vehicle?
The second male rounded the back of her Escalade, returning his flashlight to a coat pocket. His other hand, she saw with alarm, grasped a short shotgun. Remington 870. Bird’s-head pistol grip and twelve-inch barrel. That’s some serious heat. Who in the hell are these guys? “Buddy, I want to see some identification from both of you. I mean pronto.” Maybe it’s the red hair. Maybe I just don’t like these two oversized dickheads.
“Here’s your ID.” the passenger replied, stepping forward and holding the scattergun in both hands now.
Being so close to him, Boone could see his teeth clench as his elbow telegraphed the strike. She easily ducked it. He tried to butt-stroke me! You’re mine, meatball!
Hitting him in the nerve plexus of his near shoulder with a Vo Binh Dinh penetrating thumb strike, she watched the pain register down his arm and up into his face. Disarming him came next as her dual grip slapped his weapon out toward the open sides of both of his hands, her arms crossing as she made his shotgun her shotgun. Another jab with the buttstock followed, one connecting to the side of his skull, furthering the amazed look on his big, stupid face. Nighty-night, lover boy, she thought as he slumped to the pavement.
She leveled the scattergun at the driver, who stood there with his own big, stupid, amazed look on his face. Boone tested the fore-end of the Remington and found it locked. He had a round in the fuckin’ chamber, too. Goddamned idiot. Her finger caressed the slide release, and she racked the gun’s action just for show—to let the driver know she was serious as a heart attack. “Turn your ass around, dipshit. Hands on top of your fuckin’ head.”
As he complied, she snorted under her breath. It must be the green eyes. They show when I’m pissed. “Now get down on your knees, cowboy.”
Again he cooperated but more slowly. “Lady, I’m trying to tell ya. Ya don’t know what you stepped in wit’ ‘dis shit.”
“So what else is new?” she replied. Another butt-stroke, and he was as Little-Lamb-Peaceful as his buddy. Giving him the once-over to assure he was not playing opossum, she moved toward the running Tahoe to get the keys. She then walked quickly around the SUV. No plate in front, and the one on the rear was produced with a color laser printer. Later, I want to ask these guys who they are. For right now, I need to keep moving.
Her solution was to have them stick around until she got
back. High-speed duct tape. Better than handcuffs and has a million and one other uses. She knew there would be a roll of it in the back of her own vehicle, and it was time to use the stuff. And once these turkeys are trussed for Thanksgiving, it’s time to find out what they didn’t want me to see going on inside DARIUS tonight.
As she turned back toward her Escalade, USIC’s Senior Case Officer noticed the 12-gauge round she had ejected from the Remington. Whoa. What’s this? Striding over to the object in question and bending down, her gloved fingers plucked the shell from the surface of the parking lot. It was the shape of a standard shotshell though made of clear plastic. It almost appeared to be an electronic device rather than ammunition, and then the reality of what she was holding struck her. This is a one-hundred-and-sixty-dollar Taser shell … and it’s not even factory configuration since I racked it out of a standard 870 chamber! She looked the unconscious men over. Spendy wardrobe, night stops and stun-gun ammo. I can’t wait to find out who you two morons really are. First, she knew, there was a defense research facility to clear.
The front entrance was lit although no one was in sight except a guard at the distant front desk. No activity. Boone parked right in front of the damned doors. I just laid out two goons in the parking lot. The opportunity for a stealth approach has, it’s safe to say, been lost. Exiting the Escalade, she walked up to the pull handles, testing them. Locked … as they should be. She swiped her federal access card, and, just as Bradley had indicated, the system responded by allowing her through the entry.
As she could now see, the front-desk guard appeared to be asleep. Big demerit there, dude. Somewhat pissed, she strode up, preparing her inspector’s diatribe. Nearing his station, she found neither her annoyed stride nor slapping her hands on top of the desk's surface caused the officer to even stir. She leaned over, peering at the man more closely. Breathing, but out cold. She was near enough to him to finally see why.
The embedded prongs and wires of another Taser module—the type deployed from a handheld unit—extended down from the side of the security guard’s neck and shoulder, the expended electrical cartridge component ejected onto the floor beside his chair. In front of him on the desk lay an emptied syringe. Sedated … son of a bitch! It’s going down right now!
Boone whirled and slipped her hand under her jacket to her holster, where Little Swiss nestled. She silently made her best speed toward the administration area. At the end of the hallway, her card access fulfilled its function once more, allowing her to scan the dark and empty office space beyond. Likewise, once she had crossed the research labs, she was satisfied this area as well concealed nothing in the way of unusual activity. In the data center. That’s what they’re stealing … so that’s where I’ll find them.
His motionless boots gave his position away as she cleared the corner of the hall leading to the sealed and refrigerated room housing the server racks. Another guard, uniformed identically to the one at the front desk, lay on the hallway floor. He had been, she could see, Tasered and sedated in the same manner as his colleague. He’s right outside the data-center entrance. Game on, Boone honey.
Inside the server room, the technician finished attaching the last of the patch cables between the network routers and storage array. He signaled to his partner, who held the pair of fiber-optic leads ready in his hand, poised outside the ports of the distribution center’s main firewall. “Ready. Light ‘em up,” he advised.
Both men jumped a foot as a small woman with red hair hit the door unexpectedly, coming through the fireproof entry into the cold, excessively air-conditioned environment of the server racks. She was dressed all in black, and her arms were crossed in front of her torso as she seemingly held herself, presumably against the cold of the room. “Good morning, guys.” She inquired in a friendly tone, “Whatcha’ doin’?”
Shit, the tech thought. It’s the monitor from the USIC. Those idiots on the outside were supposed to prevent this. “Server maintenance, ma’am. Are you authorized to be in this area?” he bluffed.
She appeared not to be intimidated by his query. “Oh yeah. More than you. Let’s see some identification, gentlemen.”
That’s it. We’re going to have to do her.
The skinny one reached under his jacket as if to comply. Boone, by now all adrenaline, watched his hand grasp the Taser unit under his jacket as if in slow motion. The device started to swing toward another target, just as she knew it had twice already this evening.
Bullshit. Held ready under the leather of her jacket, Little Swiss emerged. There was no need to aim at this distance, and a pair of Federal 147-grain HST hollow-point loads took her would-be assailant center chest. Worse, Boone saw as he started to fall, his colleague toward the back wall had not been content to pack less-than-lethal hardware. Bad Guy Number Two now had his hand on the backstrap of a semiautomatic pistol tucked into his waistband. The report of her little 9mm was loud as hell inside the chilly room. Before she knew it, her second target was just as dead as the first, only from a single round in the middle of his forehead rather than a pair through the sternum.
The back wall now marked where the second man's head had been before he fell. Ballistic expressionism. Ew! Boone lowered her P290 and stared for just a moment, now burdened by two more kills in a life which had contained more than enough dead men before tonight. Son of a bitch. You never do things the easy way, do you? What now? Her answer was a trained reflex. Evaluate. Clean the scene. Fade to black.
The Tahoe's driver, Wally Mikulek, woke up with a pounding headache and his ass freezing from the cold November asphalt of the DARIUS parking lot. His partner, Bart, was still unconscious thanks to the little bitch who had coldcocked him with his own shotgun. You dumb-ass. You had a Taser round ready to go, and then you try to fuckin’ club her. You’re a putz!
Wally found he was bound hand and foot with some wicked-strong duct tape. And worse, as he saw once he managed to swivel his head, the little bitch’s Escalade was now parked at the front of the building. Just where we were supposed to stop her from going … any way we had to, the man said.
He and Bart had screwed up something royal, Wally was certain. His partner was a putz, all right … but a putz who always had a Spyderco knife clipped inside his front trouser pocket. And it might be what saves both our sorry asses tonight, Wally-boy.
Bouncing over to his senseless partner, Mikulek's hands groped behind his back until they found his partner's leg and then his groin—Ah! Not there! Not there!—and finally the man's pocket. Sure enough, Wally felt the handle of a folding knife inside. He plucked it out, using the hole at the top of the blade to flip out the implement’s cutting surface. Gotcha. Working quickly and carefully with the razor-sharp edge, he started to slice through the tape binding his wrists.
Good. One more swipe. His wrists freed, Mikulek took the blade through the layers of tape securing his ankles, peeling the rest of the crap off his skin and clothing. Don’t leave it lay, Wally. Your prints and DNA are on the shit now.
As Bart came to, Wally shook his head. That little hole gave him a good one. Mikulek rolled his colleague over and cut the tape binding him hand and foot also, ripping it off in a none-too-gentle motion. That seemed to bring the man back a little faster. Mikulek grabbed him by the arm, helping the larger man, now groaning, back to his feet.
“Dumb-ass. Wake d’ fuck up. You got’cher spare key?” Wally encouraged his groggy partner.
“Yeah, here.”
Mikulek took the ignition key and led his partner by the arm to the passenger side of the vehicle. On the way around to the driver’s door, Wally ducked down to retrieve the shotgun and the expensive-as-hell Taser round his partner had not been smart enough to use. He handed both to his more alert colleague as he climbed back into their SUV. “Here, putz. Try to not shoot yourself. We gotta get the fuck outta here.”
“Fuck you, Wally.”
In the server room, Boone looked to her right and then down. Her trio of empty cartridge cases clu
stered there in the corner of the data room, one still spinning. Boone stepped toward them, plucking the pieces of nickel-plated brass off the floor and stowing them in her pocket. Crossing over to the nearest corpse, his eyes and mouth wide open, she performed a quick pat-down. Nothing but the Taser and the case for your syringes. There had been two doses of what was probably ketamine, one each for the two expected guards. Otherwise, his pockets held not even a breath mint. Almost as if you were an operator. Go figure.
His partner in crime had been more careless, she noted from the contents of his pockets. Extra mag for your .380 Beretta. Keys. Aha … and your wallet! Boone flipped open the billfold, extracting Dexter Johnson’s driver’s license—Maryland—and an access card, similar to her own. The one he must have used to enter the facility. This was an inside job.
Flipping the card over in her fingers, she spied the seal on the opposite side. Oh … shit! In the grip of her thin, leather driving gloves, the Presidential Seal of a White House staffer’s RFID access card stared up at her, the wings of the Eagle spread wide, an olive branch and bundle of arrows gripped in his talons. And no one really gives a rat about a goddamned olive branch.
Boone fought down her panic and forced herself to think. Stolen? Looking through the rest of the wallet's contents, she found more identification matching the RFID card. The billfold was otherwise empty. Nope. This guy’s a staffer, all right. And he brought his get-out-of-jail-free card. Damn. I need to zero the scene and get the hell out of here before the security guys wake up.
The relevant evidence went into a pocket of her jacket. She then moved to the extended LCD panel of a rack-mounted KVM unit, with the foldable keyboard-video-mouse controls the men had been using to access the servers of the DARIUS network. DVR controls. They would have wanted to wipe the security footage. She confirmed it had already been done. The camera feeds, having been rolled back more than a half hour and erased, were currently inoperative. What about the access controls? The pair had been there as well, preparing to delete the entries showing their use of Dexter’s card to enter the facility, the hallway and the server room. And right here are the entries for my own card. Not for long! Boone wiped the audit trail from the system, leaving alone the evidence registering the path of the intruders. Cameras. Access controls … witnesses! Damn it!