by Kari Nichols
“I’ll find her, sir,” Tate promised. Turning, she walked out the door, Evan on her heels. When the door closed behind her she stopped in her tracks. Juliet turned away as Evan folded Tate in his arms and held her. He didn’t say a word. He held her tight, as much for his own comfort as for hers. Tate allowed herself a few moments to lean on him before pulling away.
“Anything you need,” Evan promised.
Tate nodded and walked down the hall.
***
Emily Walker, aka Fiona Engleton as well as several other aliases, stepped onto the platform from the first class car of the midnight Amtrak train bound for DC. She didn’t go the distance, choosing to alight on the far side of the Potomac, in Maryland. Calling for a taxi from the train station, she gave the driver the address she wanted and sat back with a sigh.
She was grateful her driver wasn’t a chatty fellow. She needed the quiet time to think. On the train, she’d decided that she couldn’t stay out of touch, electronically, and still hope to accomplish her goal. If she was going to find Warp and his team she needed a computer that could handle the programs she’d created, had superior processing power for multiple searches of large databases, had a satellite uplink and could go with her wherever her searches took her. It wasn’t possible to buy what she needed from the local Apple store.
She’d already sent an encrypted text to Haggar letting him know what she needed and when she’d arrive. She didn’t worry that she wasn’t giving him enough time to get everything together. Haggar received deliveries on an hourly basis. Some came via the usual methods, UPS, Fed-Ex. Other deliveries came via kids on skateboards with RAM in their pockets. The taxi dropped her off in front of his building and Emily hit the buzzer for unit 4A.
He lived in a four-storey walkup on the outskirts of DC, with a semi-decent view of the Potomac. She doubted he paid much attention to the view. Like most hackers, he lived in cyberspace and only dealt with the real world when it couldn’t be avoided.
Opening the door of his apartment – he’d already scanned her for weapons and wires when she’d crossed the lobby on the main floor – she saw that nothing had changed since she’d been there last. The computers would be newer, he might have a few more gadgets, but otherwise it was still the same barely controlled chaos she knew so well. She’d lived just like this for the better part of fifteen years, ever since her father had plunked her down in front of a computer when she was nine.
Her time at The Sector had been a hiatus from this world and she realized now that she’d missed it. Looking toward the centre of the studio apartment, Emily found Haggar swiveling between work stations, his desk resembling the command bridge of a warship. He waved to her, but kept his attention on his screen, his fingers flying over the keys at warp speed.
Emily came around to the business side of the desk and watched over his shoulder as he sent out multiple bots to track a signal that was bouncing around at near-lightning speed. Reading the signature, she recognized it as an NSA satellite uplink. She’d harnessed their satellites many times in her four years at The Sector. She was allowed to do it, which took all the fun out of it.
Haggar grunted as a security bot attempted to catch him. Emily knew that Haggar wouldn’t let that happen; he was too fast for it. They were both firm believers that if you left too many things for the computer to do, you lost your edge and that’s when they caught you.
Another few minutes and Haggar had the link connected. He sent one bot into hibernation while the remaining bots dispersed and muddied the trail for the NSA’s security bot. The hibernating bot could be activated at a later date when Haggar needed to access the satellite. It was a one-shot deal, because the minute he took control of the satellite, the NSA would know it and if they couldn’t find him they’d scrub the entire system.
“If they manage to trace any of the decoys, who will they find?” Emily asked.
“An octogenarian living in Duluth who doesn’t own a computer, but has one hell of a good broadband connection,” Haggar replied, grinning. One of the simplest ways to hide on the internet was to hack into someone else’s connection. If they didn’t have one, which was likely the case for the octogenarian, one could be set up for them with little difficulty. It cut the risk of getting caught to nil, since the owner didn’t even know they had a connection to be hacked.
Haggar wheeled away from his command centre and stood to give Emily a hug. Normally reticent around women, Haggar had always thought of Emily as a sister. Of course they looked nothing alike, her being white and all. He was a mix of black and Hispanic and would be the first to admit that he got the junk DNA from both parents.
He topped out at a measly 5’3” on a good day, had the heart and liver of a man twice his age and hadn’t had a single girlfriend in his entire life, not that he was concerned about that. What few needs he had could be taken care of with a firm hand and a Kleenex.
He walked over to a low shelf separating the kitchen from the rest of the apartment and grabbed a black leather case that was lying there. Setting it down on the end of his desk, he unzipped it and pulled the laptop out. Popping the top, he turned it on and waited while it booted up.
“Less than ten seconds to boot, 10-terabyte hard drive and 128GB of RAM, top of the line wireless with satellite uplink, auto and remote self-destruct, backlit keyboard,” he continued to list the features she’d asked for as well as a few that he’d thrown in for good measure.
Emily plugged her 2-terabyte USB drive into the port and watched as the computer copied 800 gigabytes of data in less than ten seconds. The speed was impressive, but the real test would come when she had someone chasing her through cyberspace. She could feel her fingers start to twitch and her palms were getting itchy. She wouldn’t give the laptop a proper test drive until she was away from Haggar.
She’d already sent payment for the laptop to his account. Stowing the laptop in the case, which she noticed was watertight, she slung the strap over her shoulder and adjusted its length.
“You’ve been out of circulation a long time, Em. You should let me help you.”
He’d made the same offer when she’d contacted him about the laptop. She’d told him that she didn’t trust the people who were looking for her not to use him to get to her. He’d brushed that aside, but Emily couldn’t do the same. She didn’t know what The Sector would do to him if they thought he knew where she was, but she wasn’t willing to risk his life.
“If I need you, I’ll ping you.” She kissed his cheek and left before he could change her mind. She had been out of circulation a long time, but that was going to change, very soon. Calling for a taxi, she headed away from the grand hotels in the heart of DC and opted instead for a Super 8 with broadband.
***
The Sector – HQ
Blackburn carefully replaced the phone in its cradle. He rubbed his temples to alleviate the ache that was already starting to build. Threading his fingers through his graying, brown hair, he massaged his scalp until the ache lessened a bit. Godin had just torn a strip off him for McMaster’s death. How the fuck was Blackburn supposed to know that McMaster would fuck Godin over? And it was Godin’s fault that McMaster had fucked him over! Greedy bastard!
But no, now it was Blackburn’s problem and he had to fix it. It’s not like McMaster could be revived! Whatever the hell Tate had used on him, it had been fucking permanent. The first cops on scene had already been approved for stress leave. It’s not often they come across a burned out carcass sitting at his desk, dressed in a pristine Armani suit.
Kicking his feet up on the edge of his desk, Blackburn leaned back in his chair, his arms flailed out. The stress of this Op was burning a hole in his gut that the Tums couldn’t keep up with. Soon he’d have to go back to the doctor for another prescription to kill the acid. His regular workouts had diminished. The Op was getting too hot for him to take the time away from his desk. His body was already making him regret that decision.
Who did he know that would b
e capable of getting the information that Godin needed? Finn couldn’t do it, or it would be done by now. They needed someone like Finn, but better. Blackburn swiveled in his chair a few minutes until a name popped into his head. He sat up straight and gave the person further consideration. Pulling the phone over, he dialed a number he had memorized. When Morrison answered, he said, “tell me about Fiona’s hacker skills.”
Chapter 6
Winnipeg, Manitoba
Fiona’s apartment was situated in the middle of a long block. Cars parked on both sides of the street, but Tate found a spot in front of a defunct internet café at the start of the next block. Two doors further down was the Starbucks, its windows shiny and new again. The charred remains of Fiona’s car had been removed and the scorched pavement was the only indication that anything had happened here. Jogging back up the street, Tate gave the building a thorough glance as she continued to walk by. At the corner, she headed around to the alley and made her way behind Fiona’s building. Her apartment faced the alley, on the third floor.
It was just past 7pm, but it was dark enough to feel like midnight. The fire escape’s ladder was drawn up, but Tate didn’t trust it not to screech in protest when lowered. The main entrance at the back of the building had a pitched roof covering the stoop and a wrought-iron trellis attached at both front corners. Testing it for strength, Tate hauled herself up until she was level with the fire escape. Reaching across, she swung away from the post and got a leg up onto the railing of the fire escape.
Climbing to the third floor, she peered in the window leading to Fiona’s living room. The apartment was dark. Tate donned her sunglasses and switched through the various modes. Electromagnetic, night-vision, infrared: all showed an empty apartment with no discernible booby traps.
Taking a chance that the alarm had never been set before Fiona ran, Tate tested the window and found it open. Sliding it up, she waited. Unless the alarm was silent, Tate figured she was safe. Slipping inside, she left the window open for a quick exit.
In fact there was a silent alarm. It left no trace on any of Tate’s scans, because it piggy-backed on an existing signature. Her electromagnetic scan would have identified small electronics that everyone has in their home, like a microwave or a stereo. The alarm Morrison had set up mimicked the stereo’s signature. It was a simple motion sensor that detected when the air currents in the room changed. He’d turned the heating off before he’d left the previous time, so he wouldn’t get any false readings. He assumed Fiona would return for something. In his experience, no one could ever disappear without a trace and now she’d proven him right. His orders had changed. He couldn’t just kill her and move on. Now, because of McMaster, they wanted Fiona alive. It was his fault for telling Blackburn that Fiona, or Emily as he’d known her, could breach the tech and get what Godin needed from the locators. Killing was so much easier than capturing.
Morrison arrived at Emily’s apartment in twenty minutes. With no other orders to split his time, he’d taken a room in a local motel and waited her out. He followed Tate’s path up the wrought iron trellis to the fire escape. Seeing the living room window open, he paused to listen for sounds of her footsteps.
It took Tate no time to clear the living room. Fiona had lived a very sparse life and what little she did have had no convenient cubby holes to hide anything. No pockets beside the couch, nothing stuffed between the cushions. No messages on her answering machine.
The newspaper on her coffee table was from a week ago. Tate recognized it by the odd story on the front page. 35-year-old Kenny Chu, of Winnipeg, had been killed when he’d slipped on some grease, knocked himself unconscious and then drowned in a large pool of bacon fat that hadn’t congealed. He’d been working at a diner and had gone to the back to dump the fat into a garbage container. The diner had been busy and no one noticed that he wasn’t around. By the time the cook had realized that Kenny hadn’t returned to the kitchen, he was dead. Tate would rather take a bullet to the face than drown in bacon fat.
Tate dropped the paper back onto the coffee table and continued through the apartment. The bathroom was cleared. Fiona had a cast iron claw foot tub, a pedestal sink, toilet and one tiny linen closet. There was nothing in between the towels or tucked into the centre of a roll of toilet paper.
Moving to the bedroom, she was surprised at the paucity of girly things on the dresser. She had one hair brush, no clips or hair bands, and an eyelash curler. There were no pictures in frames, no books waiting to be read. The night stand was equally bare. It was unlikely that Fiona would have taken much with her. On the run, she’d have needed to pack lightly.
Looking around the room, Tate started to wonder if the woman had actually lived there. If she’d had a boyfriend on record, Tate would have abandoned this place and continued her search there, certain that she’d find all of the ‘stuff’ that most women kept nearby.
Kicking back the rug, Tate searched for any loose floorboards, but everything was solidly crafted. She was just poking her head into the closet when she heard the faint creak of shoe leather. Tate pulled her gun from her shoulder holster. She angled away from the closet and peered around the edge of the bedroom door.
Seeing no one, she stepped out of the bedroom and turned into the bathroom. Empty. The bathroom and bedroom were separated from the rest of the apartment by a short hallway. Tate had to come around the bedroom and toward the kitchen before she could see into the living room. She didn’t get that far.
The minute she poked her head around the corner to look toward the kitchen, he started firing. Pulling back, she waited for a lull and then she whipped around the corner and fired in his general direction. She caught him in the shoulder, but he shrugged it off. He fired another barrage and Tate tucked back around the corner again.
Before she could fire another volley she heard something hit the floor nearby and start rolling toward her. Tate sprinted for the bathroom, slammed the door and dove into the bath tub. She cracked her head on the side of the tub, but ignored the pain. The grenade exploded and shrapnel pierced through the wooden door as though it were made of butter. A fragmentation grenade, it was filled with hundreds of tiny, sharp pieces of metal. If not for the cast iron tub, she’d have been shredded in seconds.
Levering herself out of the tub, she ran down the hallway and turned the corner, gun up. Nothing. Heading for the living room, she saw that the window was still up, but she was now alone. He’d used the grenade as a way of getting his ass clear of the apartment. With no lights on, she’d gotten a vague sense of his size, but couldn’t have given any specific details about his appearance.
The sounds of sirens got her moving. Pulling her hat low, she exited the apartment from the front door and headed for the stairs. The neighbors who had called the police about the gun shots were wise enough to stay inside their own apartments. Tate didn’t come across a single person as she exited the building and made her way across the street.
Walking through the city, watching in windows for anyone following her, Tate determined after forty minutes that she was alone. She made her way back to her car and drove to HQ.
Upon her return, she found her brother in Tommy’s office. She relayed the events of the past hour to both men.
“So the search gave us nothing new,” Evan said.
“It did give us one very important piece of information,” Tate contradicted him. “We know that Fiona is alive, or they wouldn’t be staking out her apartment. If she’s alive, we can find her.”
Tate arrived at Tommy's office just as he was opening the door to a delivery man. Stepping around the box the delivery man had placed on the floor, Tate settled on the couch. Tommy closed the door and booted the box over to Tate.
“It’s Fiona’s belongings, from her desk.”
Picking up a pair of scissors from Tommy’s desk, Tate slit the tape on the top. Folding the flaps back, she peered inside. The contents were a little depressing. There was a personal mug, a notepad with all work-related pa
ges torn out, a bottle of hand lotion, some packets of tea and a picture.
Pulling out the picture, Tate held it up to the light. It showed two men and a woman sitting in front of the Hatch Shell at the Esplanade, in Boston. She'd been there many times and knew the area well. She also knew one of the men very well. Warp sat with his arm around the girl and a beer in his other hand, grinning for the camera. Tate recognized Fiona by the green eyes and facial structure. In the photo, her hair was a deep chestnut, which suited her better than the blonde. The third person was no one that Tate knew. He was bigger than Warp, just as powerfully built and damn sexy.
“Look at the size of the guy,” Evan said pointing to the unknown man.
“I’m looking,” Tate grinned at him.
“Try and look at it without the hormones,” Evan suggested, poking her in the rib.
“Can’t. Look at those arms.” Tate grabbed the snapshot and took a good long look at the mystery man with Fiona and Warp. The longer she stared at him, the more she noticed that he had similar features to Fiona. She pointed it out to Evan and Tommy.
“Well, she does have a brother on file,” Tommy reminded her.
“Yes, but you couldn’t even find a driver’s license for the brother. How are we going to compare pictures if the guy doesn’t have any?”
“That’s not the only thing funky with her file. I ran it deeper, because one of the addresses she put down on her security forms as a previous place of residence doesn’t exist. It’s a vacant lot now, but at the time she said she lived there it was a grocery store.”
“Don’t they check that sort of thing?”