Dark Control (DARC Ops Book 4)

by Jamie Garrett

  “I wanted to come here, you know, to pay my respects. We were just here, and, I guess this place was always special to him.”

  “It was.”

  “I don’t mean to bother you any, I just . . . don’t have anyone to talk to about him, and I saw you, and then I—”

  “It was a tragic thing,” Pat said. “What happened to him. It wasn’t natural.”

  Laurel waited him for him to continue, but he just stared at his bottle. Abe was an eighty-year man who died in his sleep. What could be any more natural than that?

  “It wasn’t right,” he said, shaking his head. “Not right at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “And I’ll tell you why. That man made a lot of enemies lately. He’s been talking too much around here. You know . . . you get old, and you talk, and you just don’t care anymore. He was probably talkin’ to you, if you know him as good as you say.”

  “We talked some.” Her hand was back on the table, feeling the grooved wood. She ran their last conversation through her mind. It was hard to believe it had been just twenty-four hours ago.

  Pat jolted with a loud hiccup, which attracted the attention of the bartender, who was now glaring at him. Poor guy was probably close to getting thrown out. “I probably shouldn’t be even talking to you,” he said. “Get my ass killed like that, talkin’ like that.”

  “Is it about the . . . whatever’s goin’ down with AIDA?”

  “They offed him.”

  “What?”

  “State boys did.”

  “How do you know?”

  He shrugged, eyes still pointed down. “They found a pillow over his face.”

  “It was a heart attack.”

  “He had lacerations on his chest, and on his hands.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he didn’t go quietly.” He gripped his beer bottle tightly. “And neither will I. I’m not suicidal.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If you hear that I killed myself in the next couple of days . . .”

  She really had no idea who he was, what kind of history he’d had. Pat either knew some things, or had just spent far too much time in Whitby’s.

  “Ah, what the hell, I’m not that important.” He started laughing.

  Laurel tried joining him, humoring him. But then she noticed the bartender approaching their table.

  “Ain’t that great?” Pat said. “No one cares a damn about me. Certainly not enough to do anything about it.”

  “Come on, Pat,” said the bartender, patting his shoulder. “Time.”

  “It’s time?” Pat rolled his eyes at Laurel. “Looks like I’m getting the toss.”

  “No, no.” The bartender smiled at Laurel. “I just want to make sure you get home okay.”

  “See?” Pat was up on his feet, already staggering toward the door with his help. “See, they’re already taking me home. I’m not suicidal, I’m tellin’ ya.” He stopped and began struggling with the bartender, backing up into him, screaming to the rest of the bar, “I’m not suicidal! I’m not suicidal!”

  The bar laughed and jeered at him. The old drunk. The clown.

  “If they find me dead,” he cried. “I’m not suicidal!”

  Pat was swiftly removed and the bartender was applauded for his efforts. The seat across from Laurel, her old seat, now empty. She felt the same. Empty. Pat’s story had left her with a cold, blank, gnawing feeling inside the pit of her stomach. It was the first she’d heard about any mysterious circumstances surrounding Abe’s death, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Given Pat’s current mood and intoxication, it would be easy to dismiss it, forget all about what she’d heard. Chalk it up to the gossip of a drunkard, rumors of some conspiracy. Another crazy conspiracy theory. The only problem was that a conspiracy theory was precisely what Abe had approached her about.

  If everything Abe had worried about was true, that there was indeed some secret AIDA scheme, and if it was true that men would kill to keep it a secret, then maybe Laurel should start using Pat’s strategy of telling the whole world—or at least the bar—that she wasn’t suicidal.

  She was happy and healthy and she expected to live a long, happy life. And nowhere in that life would there be a pillow over her face with lacerations and defensive wounds.

  20

  Matthias

  He was back at his computer, trying not obsess about Ernesto’s mission, trying to ignore his suspicious findings on Laurel’s profile, and trying even harder to find suspicious evidence on anyone else’s profile. But everything had been quiet. So far, aside from Laurel’s questionable file transfer, he’d come across nothing but standard procedures. Geffen had a good crew—with the possible exception of Laurel. Their activity logs were filled with swaths of boring, predictable, by-the-book dealings that only made Laurel look worse by the minute, profile by profile.

  “You’re still here,” Mr. Geffen said, appearing out of nowhere.

  Matthias kept his attention on his screen. “You told me to get started on these names.”

  “That’s right. And I’m very happy we got the ball rolling on this. It’s been a monkey on my back.”

  “Mr. Andre said you were busy.”

  “Why would he say that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I mean, did you ask for me or something? What happened?”

  “Well, nothing happened.”

  “So you didn’t find the leak?”

  Matthias finally turned to face him. “I’ve hit a wall in the investigation.”

  “Well, good. That just probably means there’s been no leak on our end.”

  “Or that I need to look harder.”

  Geffen frowned. “Go on.”

  “I’ll need your permission to gain access to the activity signatures of your employees.”

  “Okay.”

  Matthias was a little confused. He stared at Mr. Geffen, waiting for some excuse about why that would be a problem. But there seemed to be no problem whatsoever.

  “That’s all?” he asked.

  “Andre said that you couldn’t allow it.”

  “That I couldn’t allow it? I don’t know why he would say that.”

  “He mentioned some rule about the stakeholders? Some proprietary thing? I dunno.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know, either.” Geffen pulled out a USB stick from his pocket and handed it to Matthias. “But don’t worry. It’s all on here.”

  “What is this? A security key?”

  “It’ll give you the type of access you need.”

  “Thanks,” said Matthias. He was little confused, but satisfied. That had been easier than he was anticipating. Another reason why he preferred to talk to the “busy” Mr. Geffen. “Will you be here for another hour? I’d like to share my findings.”

  He nodded. “I’d like to hear them. Come by my office when you’re ready, or else we can do it first thing tomorrow.”

  Matthias watched him walk away before returning back to the screen, back to his search, but this time returning back to Laurel. With the security key, he was finally ready to zero in on those questionable file transfers.

  He plugged in and implemented the new security key, which gave him almost as much access privileges as the CEO himself. Returning to Laurel’s history, he could see her activities in a more comprehensive manner. It was a full analysis of user patterns, what websites they’d visited in what session, how long they’d spent doing such-and-such activity, how they typed right down to their exact keystrokes. These were patterns people had developed for their entire computing lives, a type of fingerprint, and was almost as accurate as the real thing. It gave a strong indicator of which person was behind the actions. The human element, the personality, came into view. It wasn’t completely foolproof, nor would it could hold up in a court of law, but it was extremely useful for a forensic analyst in determining which routes to take, where to look further. Better yet, you’d have to be extremely skilled—and
know the tracking was implemented in the first place—to fake it. For Matthias, his main motivation was personal—rule out his girl as a suspect in a deed that would not only see to her firing, but a harsh jail sentence. Even harsher if the info led to any harm upon any FBI agents.

  Again he felt that pang of worry, the irrational fear of Ernesto meeting some horrible fate, being tracked down like a dog and then put down with an unexpected shotgun blast to the back of the head. Why did he feel so strongly about that? And why tonight? Matthias never had known himself to be a clairvoyant, that he could “feel” those types of things. He was a matter-of-fact, meat-and-potatoes type of guy, not a psychic medium.

  But he couldn’t deny the trend away from his regimented, military roboticism. It had begun slowly after the “encounter,” and sped up through his therapy with Dr. Smyth, his encouraging Matthias to feel things, that it was okay to have emotions. It was new and murky territory, confusing. There was nothing sensible and matter of fact about how he felt about Laurel, either, how he’d shed his logical sensibilities and dove headfirst, and how he’d inadvertently injected himself straight in the middle of an investigation. Was that part of his therapy, too? He wondered what the doctor would say about it all. Would he congratulate him on taking such big steps into the unknown, on trusting his heart at the same time shitting all over his professional career?

  And if Laurel had been the leak, and if it was uncovered through the subsequent federal investigation that they had been involved in some sexual liaisons . . .

  Please don’t let her be the leak.

  Please find something, anything, that could point in the other direction. Away from Laurel. Anyone but Laurel.

  It was already quite the bias. That alone, if anyone had known about it, would send up red flags. His clouded judgment, his mind already being tampered with and influenced all while he conducted the investigation. Even if she was innocent, just the fact that he’d conducted the investigation with this clouded mindset was not only unprofessional, but fundamentally wrong. He didn’t care.

  Please be wrong about her. Please let the suspicions fade away . . .

  Matthias had been running the various names and profiles through his algorithm software, looking for any possible matches for the user activity profile and the actions taken on the day of the leak. If someone had logged on to the system as Laurel, and then, posing as her, leaked the file, his analysis might be able to uncover who that person really was. With his analysis coming to a close, he felt increasingly nervous, and sick. Increasingly desperate to find that there had been someone else behind the leak, someone beyond her name.

  And when the analysis finished and he’d read through the results, he slumped back into his chair, finally able to breathe again.

  There had been someone else, a coworker trying to sabotage Laurel. And while his evidence wasn’t concrete, it was at least enough for him, ethically, to believe that Laurel was innocent. Enough for him to vouch for her to Mr. Geffen. That was all he really wanted. A foothold. Something to build from. And, more importantly, another name. A different name than Laurel. And now, reading his screen, he could see that name.

  Caitlyn Rosen.

  Was that her? Was that the person who had logged on as Laurel to send the files? He had no other option than to believe so.

  With a loud sigh, Matthias packed up his tools, his wires, laptops, and external hard drives. He was finished for the night, having finally found what he was looking for. Now he just had to stop by Mr. Geffen’s office with the results, to at least start the process of clearing Laurel’s name.

  The door to this office was shut, as it had been all evening since the employees had left. From inside he could hear voices, two men discussing something in a hushed, urgent tone. And then the sound of someone’s hand slapping against a desk. And shouting.

  “I don’t care!”

  A murmuring voice.

  Followed by, “Listen to me! I don’t care!”

  Although he desperately wanted Geffen to know about his latest finding, maybe it could wait until another time when things with management seemed less hostile.

  Matthias returned to his desk to collect his things. Picking up his laptop bag, he felt a sudden urge to talk to Ernesto.

  He called Ernie’s work phone, not fully expecting it to be answered, but hopeful nonetheless. After it rang five times and went to the beginnings of his voice mail message, Matthias ended the call.

  A few minutes later, in the brightly lit parking lot, he tried making another call—this time to Laurel.

  It rang.

  No answer.

  A gust of warm wind kicked up and then came the sound of loose recycling, bottles and cans, rolling and bouncing across the pavement. Before hoping onto his Harley, Matthias turned around to check the bare parking lot. Aside from his bike, only three cars remained. The night guard, Geffen, and Andre. A late night for management. They apparently had a lot to argue about.

  Matthias hopped onto the bike, riding off and then pulling over a half mile away from the headquarters. He parked amidst a row of old broken-down school buses, where he reached for his phone and tried calling Laurel again.

  21

  Laurel

  Caitlyn finally showed up, dressed in her bike leathers, black studded jacket and chaps that made her look more biker chick than cybersecurity analyst. But that was always her thing, deception, misdirection beyond the exterior.

  “You look pretty,” she said to Laurel in a somewhat authentic, believable drawl.

  “I don’t feel it,” said Laurel, pocketing her phone. “It’s been a rough one, let me tell ya.”

  “One of those days, huh?”

  “Nu-uh,” Laurel said. “I believe today was the absolute longest day in not only my career, but my whole entire life.”

  “Well, you’ll have to get used to that. This your first job out of school?”

  “Huh?”

  Caitlyn peered at her. “You look real young still.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Just givin’ you some perspective, Hon.”

  Laurel didn’t need perspective. She needed answers. And she needed to keep from being killed while she got them. Though it might be best to keep her fear and desperation out of her meeting with Caitlyn. She was, after all, still her boss. At least for now.

  “I’m not that much older than you,” Caitlyn said. “But I’ve been in the game a lot longer.”

  “Cybersecurity?” Laurel asked. She wanted to make sure. By the looks of Caitlyn, her weathered face, her deep-sunk eyes, and the menacing black leather, she’d perhaps been involved in more than one type of game. But there it was again, deceptive appearances.

  “So what’s goin’ on?” Caitlyn said. “You need my help again with hacking AIDA?”

  “No.”

  “You already did it?”

  “Caitlyn, you’ve been with Sentry for awhile. But, I’m new and I don’t really know anyone.”

  “You mean, you don’t really trust anyone,” said Caitlyn.

  “Yeah, you can say that.”

  “That’s fine. That’s our business. Deception.”

  “Our business is to root it out and get to the truth,” Laurel said.

  “And to block other people from getting to ‘the truth.’ See what I’m sayin’?”

  Laurel stared at her.

  Caitlyn smiled. “But that’s not it, right? There’s somethin’ else.”

  “I just need a friend to talk to,” Laurel said.

  “Well, I’m glad I can be there for you.” Caitlyn looked away, eying the bartender who had just walked over and placed two drinks on the table. “Thanks, Dear.” She turned to Laurel. “I took the liberty of ordering you a Tom Collins.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Looks like you could use one.”

  “Or two.” But that was it, just two. That would be about five fewer than whatever she’d had last night, whatever had fueled her crazy night with Matt.

  “I t
hink I know what you need to talk to me about,” Caitlyn said.

  Laurel began to feel her own distinct lack of facade. She must have been so much easier to read than Caitlyn. She waited for whatever it was to come.

  “It’s that new guy, huh?” Caitlyn said.

  Laurel couldn’t help but flinch at the question. Another example of unguardedness. She would make a horrible criminal.

  “I heard people talkin’,” Caitlyn said.

  “Like what?”

  “You know.” Caitlyn bowed her head toward the straw in her drink. “That’s why we’re talking, right? The new guy?” She took an innocent little sip and then looked up at Laurel, smiling.

  “Caitlyn?”

  “Yes?”

  “Has Mr. Geffen talked to you about your work?”

  “No, thank God. One more of those and I think they’ll can my ass.”

  “He hasn’t asked you about . . . security concerns?”

  “No, but he brought in that guy.”

  “What about him?” Laurel asked.

  “Come on, Laurel. Isn’t it obvious what he’s doing?”

  “Spying?”

  She shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Can you tell me about . . . what the people are saying?”

  “You want the gossip?”

  “For once, yeah. Very badly.”

  “Geffen and Andre are having some major fight right now. And it has to do with the new guy.”

  “Matt,” Laurel said. “His name’s Matt.”

  “Sounds like you know him better than I do. I was told it was Matthias.” She said it in some hoity-toity tone, like it was the name of some upper-class, royal figure who spent his millions on modern art and a collection of insanely expensive, rare-bred toy dogs. “So why don’t you tell me about Matthias—I mean, Matt?”

  “I was told that he was just here to help speed up AIDA.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Probably not,” Laurel said.

  “Do you feel like he’s spying on you? Watching your work?”

  “Should I?

  “If you feel like it.”