by Cat Connor
One by one they stood and came over to my desk and hugged me.
Sam’s arms damn near swallowed me. “Toughest week in a long time, Chicky babe. See you Sunday.”
“Yes, you will.”
He let me go and grinned. “I will.”
Lee elbowed his way in. “It’s not going to be the same around here,” he said smiling.
“I should hope not.”
He gave me a hug. “Sunday.”
“Sunday.”
Kurt was last. Lee and Sam waited by the door.
Kurt’s voice almost became lost in my hair as he wrapped his arms around me; it was no effort to hug him back.
“You’ve been hit in the head more times than Kevin Costner in Dances with Wolves and you scare the shit out of me.” He squeezed me hard and then pulled back. “Thank God you are just as resilient. Sunday.”
“Sunday.” I smiled. “I have to go.” I extracted myself from his embrace hoping I was the only one who knew how reluctant an extraction it was. Modern West were singing, Indian Summer. The song was a perfect fit and scared the hell out of me.
“Hang on a minute. I have something for you,” Kurt said.
I saw Sam pass him a gift bag.
“This is for you, from us.” Kurt placed the bag in my hands. “Open it.”
I peered inside, and removed yellow tissue paper. Underneath the tissue was a yellow band. I lifted it out.
“Silicone band?” I said. Not seeing the relevance.
There was no writing on it. Kurt took it from me and pulled it apart.
“A USB drive?” I said, as he clipped it around my wrist.
“Sixteen gig of memory. I thought if you wore a flash drive it would stop you running into a burning building any time soon.”
I looked at the band on my wrist and smiled. “The first thing I’m going to do is transfer everything from Mac’s flash drives to this. Thank you.”
I took the box from my desk and walked past my team. From the corner of my eye I caught a movement. I turned, ready to drop the box and draw my Glock. All three men followed my gaze. The shadow of a butterfly floated across the back wall of my office then paused before breaking into a million small silver butterflies. The swarm twisted across the room, out the door, and into the hallway.
“Ellie?” Kurt spoke first. “What was it?”
“The ghost of a butterfly,” I replied walking out the door before anyone of them could raise a comment.
Rowan was waiting out in the bullpen with Sandra.
“Ready?” he said, walking over to me and taking the box from my arms.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
Let’s go before I stay, or before I say something that jeopardizes the team dynamic.
Modern West was interrupted when a deep voice inside my head announced, “Elvis has left the building.”
We are able to find everything in our memory, which is like a
dispensary or chemical laboratory in which chance steers our hand
sometimes to a soothing drug and sometimes to a dangerous poison.
Marcel Proust
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following people:
Rosanne English and Megan Chambers – for Virginia, DC, NYC and Canada. Surprisingly no one got arrested!
My family – for being my family.
Eric Gosse – for letting me pick his brain on all things medical.
All the awesome, supportive, fun Twitter folk who distract me and give me something to do when I don’t feel like writing and also kick my ass until I do write.
Special Twitter mentions: 1littlebird, JeanetteMarsh, MrsLPikon, Brian_NZ, guylex83, threebadcats, threeand10, akianz, Yvette_tan, BrandonFord, tarasutherland, Hagelrat, biotales, karenfrommentor.
Caroline Addenbrooke for starting this ball rolling.
Jayne Southern and Rebel e Publishers for all their hard work.
About the Author
Cat divides her time between her family, writing, and a retired racing greyhound, Romeo, who is her constant companion. Despite this, she has found the time to write twelve novels, including seven so far in The byte Series. She lives in New Zealand.
Also by Cat Connor
Killerbyte, Terrorbyte, Exacerbyte, Flashbyte, Soundbyte, Databyte, Eraserbyte
And for more from Cat Connor …
Please turn the page for a preview of the next exciting book in the byte series,Soundbyte
One
Memory Motel
A massive thump vibrated through the wall.
I grabbed my Glock from the nightstand. Noel rolled off his bed, Sig in hand. He shoved his feet into his boots and crept to the window of our motel room. A long day hunting a fugitive named Oswald Randall and the attendant adrenaline made sleep an elusive wisp of an idea. My brain tried to carry on working and my body attempted to relax. It was a fail on both counts.
I slid off my bed and dragged on my cowboy boots.
“Psst,” I hissed.
“What?” Noel whispered from the edge of the front window. He tweaked the cruddy curtain and peered out the small gap.
“Who is it?”
“Can see a back. Staggering. Looks drunk.”
I had two seconds to wonder what a drunken back looked like.
Crash. Glass smashed and sliced the curtains as it fell into the room from the window on the far left of the door.
“Another male,” Noel said, still watching. “Don’t know where he came from but he threw the first guy at our window.”
“We’re not ground floor so there shouldn’t be any through traffic. This could be guests going to their rooms.”
I was glad I’d put my boots on as more glass fell.
“Could be. The fight probably started somewhere else and travelled.”
We’d both seen that before. One drunk who just can’t let things go and follows along looking for an opportunity to taunt the other person some more.
There was another loud crash, an arm broke through jagged glass in the window. Blood sprayed. Both men were yelling at each other. An undertone in one of their voices sounded familiar. I picked him as a Virginian.
Noel flung the door open. “Federal Agents,” he hollered. I moved up on his left, with my weapon in a two-handed grip.
One man was holding his dripping arm. The other punched him in the face then rocked back.
“Stop,” I said and aimed at the puncher’s head.
The bleeding man stepped farther away.
The punchy male lunged at the bleeder. He overreached which nudged him off balance and brought him closer to Noel.
Noel smacked the guy on the side of the head with his elbow. He dropped like a wet sack of manure. With the attacker on the ground and Noel cuffing him, I turned my attention to the bloodied victim. His face was somewhat obscured by his hood.
“Elevate your arm and put pressure on that. I have a first aid kit in the room,” I told him.
Noel used his cell phone and called police and an ambulance while I grabbed the first aid kit. I took a bunch of wound pads, opened them, and then told the man to hold them on his arm. I rolled a small towel into a tight wad and put it inside his elbow, then bent his arm over it. He looked shaky.
“Sit down,” I said holding his other elbow and helping him to slide down the wall. “Bend your knee up, so you can rest your elbow and still keep your arm up, and folded over that towel.” I figured his arm would get tired. I remembered how tired mine got when I’d needed to do something similar a long time ago.
He nodded. His dark hair inched forward from inside the hood and fell over his face. The way his hair fell sent pangs shooting through my heart.
“Do I know you?” I couldn’t get a clear look at him. He was keeping his face out of the light and head down.
He shook his head.
“You don’t talk?”
He shook his head again.
“That’s funny. Pretty sure I heard you both shouting at each other e
arlier.”
He didn’t reply.
Noel was watching. He’d been talking to the man he’d cuffed and now held face down on the verandah.
“El, this gentleman told me his name is Nicky. And Nicky thinks your bleeder is a cop.”
“Local?”
“No.”
The guy face down on the verandah spoke, “He’s a pig.”
“And you know this, with no room for confusion?” I said.
“Yeah.” Nicky spat. Spitting face down is never smart.
“Awesome. Assaulting a law enforcement officer will earn you no end of favors.”
A police car pulled into the lot.
“Noel, can you take your man down to the car? I’ll wait here for the ambulance and have a chat with our bleeder.”
I waited until Noel dragged him to his feet and took him away. With them out of earshot, I spoke to the man. The flow of blood had reduced with the pressure on the wound but he was still bleeding.
“He’s gone. Do you have ID?”
He shook his head. Without a free hand, he couldn’t stop his hood from slipping partway off his head and revealing more of his face. Hazel eyes met mine. I knew those eyes.
I was looking at a ghost.
He dropped the wound pads, pulled his hood over his head, and scrambled to his feet. The bloodied towel fell. Blood ran down his hand and dripped off his fingers. I picked up the towel and rolled it back into a tight wad.
“Fold your arm back on this,” I said pressing the towel into the inside of his elbow. I grabbed more wound pads and pressed them to his wrist. It was almost impossible to process what I thought I’d seen.
“I’ll be okay,” he said with a hint of a slow drawl in his voice. I’d heard it a million times before.
I wanted to shake him and demand to know who he really was. His face, eyes, and voice all told me he was Mac.
Impossible.
Was I was face to face with his doppelganger? My body screamed in agony as I fought to control the urge to throw myself into his arms. Nothing made sense. I wanted to slap him and hug him. Shake him and melt into the arms I used to know. I took a breath and focused my energy on reality.
Breathe.
Think.
I plunged my hand into my pocket and pulled out a small vial. Unscrewing the top, I took a deep breath of the healing aroma. I knew the Synergy would ward off a migraine and I expected one to charge through my brain at any minute. I took another deep breath, inhaling the soothing vapor deep into my lungs. With care, I screwed the top back on the small bottle and shoved it into my pocket.
“What’s that stuff?”
As soon as he spoke, I knew what he was doing. He was using a technique I’d used myself hundreds of times to engage a person and help them focus on now.
“Synergy,” I replied. “Aromatherapy for migraines.”
“Does it work?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you get it?”
“New Zealand.” Angry noise from the parking lot below intruded. “I have it sent over.”
I stepped closer to the railing and looked down. It was dark and difficult to see.
“Who makes it?”
I glanced at him then back to the noises below.
“Le’Esscience,” I replied and shifted my concentration to what was happening in the dark, Shuffling. Skin on skin. Hard contact. Grunts. Men tumbled into a pool of light. One of them was Noel. Instinct took over. I aimed at the male fighting with Noel.
“Stop!” I hollered.
“Shoot, bitch!” he yelled back.
The man with me spoke, “What’s happening?”
“The guy with you is causing a problem for my partner.”
“Nicky’s an asshole.”
Nicky, yes, that was his name.
Noel threw Nicky on his ass. He struggled back up. Noel punched him. Reeling from Noel’s blow, he staggered into a pool of light. I got a clear look at his bloodied face and confirmed it was Nicky. Nicky wasn’t wearing handcuffs anymore. Noel drew his weapon. More scuffling. I heard the gun hit the blacktop.
This was not going well.
“You okay, Noel?” I asked, training my weapon on Nicky.
“Sure,” he puffed without looking up. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
“I can finish this anytime,” I called back.
“I got it,” Noel said as he scrabbled across the ground for his weapon. His fingers missing it as Nicky kicked the gun. Noel hauled himself to his feet and took a swing at the guy. His fist connected with jawbone. Nicky’s head jerked.
I saw two police officers approach ‒ neither drew their weapons. Noel made another lunge for his gun. Nicky ran and dove for a cop: In one movement, he’d snatched the gun from the officer’s holster and spun around to face Noel. The gun in his hand aimed at Noel’s chest.
I fired. My bullet punched a hole right in the middle of his forehead.
“Goodnight loser,” I whispered.
Nicky dropped to the ground with a dull thud. The gun smacked into the blacktop and bounced out of his hand.
“Thanks, El,” Noel said as he kicked the weapon away from the man’s lifeless body. “Nice shot.”
“I’m allergic to fucktards. They make my trigger finger itchy.”
And I’m a little worried about the possibility of zombies so a head shot is the only shot that counts.
Noel nodded.
“Is this our scene or local police?” I asked. I had no desire to have the rest of my night consumed with paperwork and statements.
“I’ll figure it out,” Noel said.
I turned my attention back to the man I was supposed to be helping.
His voice held the promise of a smile as he said, “You’re a hard ass.”
I shrugged. Oh the joy of the questions to come. How did the loser get free of the cuffs? How did he disarm Noel? How did he take a gun off a police officer? But not right now.
“Who do I contact?” I said.
“My handler. Tierney. Jonathon Tierney.”
Well, ain’t that just peachy?
“Jonathon Tierney. You’re CIA?”
I moved back to the railing and yelled down to Noel, “This is ours, this is federal.”
“Got ya,” Noel replied. I could hear his voice as he explained to police how they could help us as I moved back to the bleeding man.
“I’m working a joint task force,” he said.
A joint task force was a familiar story. He moved his arm again. I was ready for the movement this time. I had a thick wad of gauze in my hand, just in case.
I wrapped my hand around the gaping wound and pushed the gauze hard over the gash. I held his arm back on itself, with the towel in the crook of his elbow. The plan was for the combination of the towel and his bent arm to apply pressure and stop the bleeding. I could hear Kurt in my head telling me to keep applying pressure.
“This is West Virginia, a small town at that. Not the sort of place I’d associate with a joint operational task force. What are you really doing here?”
“Work,” he replied. “I can’t tell you much more than that. You know how it goes.”
“You can’t tell me much more than that? So you can tell me something?”
“It’s a drug operation. Offshore investors setting up drug labs all over the eastern sea board.”
“You have a name?” Calling him Mac would be ludicrous.
“Chad.” His eyes smiled. “You?”
I heard an ambulance approaching.
“You really don’t know?”
“No, I don’t.”
It was hard to bite back the urge to yell at him that he did know my name and this game he was playing had to stop.
An instant of clarity prevented my outburst. Mac is dead. I know that. I took a breath, counted to five, and said, “Gabrielle Conway. Ellie.”
Flashing red lights drew my attention. I waved at the paramedics as they disembarked from their truck.
�
�Ellie Conway, the Ellie Conway?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“I’ve heard of you. You’re on Tierney’s list.”
Shit list I presumed.
“List?”
“Safe list. You’re someone people like me can approach for help. He trusts you.”
How fortuitous for Chad that he staggered into our motel wall.
“I’ll call Tierney. What do I tell him?”
His fingers closed around mine. “Tell him … Socrates …”
Footsteps pounded on the stairs.
“Did you say Socrates?”
Paramedics hurried toward us.
Chad nodded. “Socrates needs extraction.”
A solid block of ice formed where my stomach used to be. Socrates. Mac’s alternate screen name was Socrates. He most often used Galileo but every now and then he chose to use Socrates, when he didn’t want to be recognized in our chat room. I blinked. Our chat room no longer existed. Galileo no longer existed.
Someone was messing with me. Tierney was messing with me. But why? To what end. If I’m on his safe list, why let a Mac clone loose where I could stumble upon him? But he didn’t, he couldn’t have known where I would end up while chasing our fugitive.
“We’ll take it from here, agent,” a paramedic said and unwound my hand from the dressings. “Good job.”
I could feel my blood draining from my head as they moved his hood and shone a flashlight at Chad’s face. He was the spitting image of Mac.
“Pull his other sleeve up,” I said.
Chad shot me a confused glance. The paramedic did as I asked, despite the vocal protests from Chad. Each word he said spiraled through my ear canals, and felt just like they did when Mac spoke them. I recognized a scar on his arm. Everything I’d felt over the last few years, all the pain and the loneliness, churned and coiled inside me. He was turning the key and tightening the spring. The potential for this to end in a bloody mess was high.
“Mac.”
His eyes met mine, and his head shook. My heart broke all over again.
“We’ll take him, ma’am.”
Noel ran up the stairs. Chad pulled his hood back on and sank into a dark pool.
Had it been so long since I’d laid eyes on my husband in the flesh that I saw his likeness in others who bore similar traits? Or was there something more to the man who looked and sounded like my dead husband? I could see sanity drifting away. Cerebrally entertaining or mentally hilarious, my ass! I was heading down the slippery slope to full-blown nuts.