Blindsided

by Hernandez, Gwen

  “Explain.”

  She crossed her ankles and rested her head against the wall. “Hollowell knew my background. I learned almost everything about hacking from my papá, and I helped him with his cons until my early teens. He went by DarkHand in his phreaking days, and there are still plenty of people out there who would recognize that handle. He was a bit of a legend,” she said, with a mixture of distaste and reverence.

  “Freaking?”

  “Phreaking with a P-H. Phreakers cracked the phone networks, mostly to make free long-distance calls. Anyway, who better for a scapegoat than the girl whose dad is a famous black hat hacker in jail for running a massive credit card fraud site, among other things? I’m the obvious choice.”

  She was right. If Hollowell—or someone else—had set her up, she was the perfect scapegoat.

  “I’ve been following you for nearly a month. Let’s cover that time frame.”

  She looked away with a frown. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “I’m good at my job.”

  “Were you ever inside my apartment?” Her voice rose, thin and tight as she met his gaze again. “Or my house here?”

  “No.” If he wanted her trust and honesty, he had to give it. “I did go through your trash.”

  “Why?” Her nose wrinkled.

  “Looking for clues about your plans. Trying to figure out who you were working for.”

  She shivered. “I still feel violated.”

  What could he say to that? He had absolutely invaded her privacy. Still, he wasn’t going to apologize. If she was guilty, he had no regrets. And if she wasn’t, he couldn’t change the past.

  “Were you really a Marine, or was that just part of your cover story?”

  He nodded. “I was a scout sniper. Scott Kramer is my real name, but I don’t work at Aggressor. That was my cover. I work for Steele Security, a contractor in Arlington. Hollowell hired me specifically to follow you.”

  Valerie shook her head slowly and stared unseeing at the tacky wood paneling on the far wall. “I can’t believe he went to all of this trouble. And those poor FBI agents and Jay…” Tears shimmered in her pretty brown eyes. “There must be some serious money at stake.”

  Either she was a stellar actress, or she was actually innocent. Although, considering her background running scams with her father—what kind of nutcase would call himself DarkHand, for Christ’s sake?—she might just be snowing Scott completely. “For the kind of information we’re talking about, hell yeah.”

  She sighed. “He seemed like such a patriot. I mean, he started Aggressor after he left the army because he wanted to keep fighting in any way he could. I’d like to think money wouldn’t be enough to sway him.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t.” Her attitude toward money gelled with his impression of her from the start. But that proved nothing. “Blackmail and extortion are pretty effective too.” But they were getting too far off track.

  “The part that I can’t get past is your rescue,” he said. “Two good men are dead because someone wanted you to run. That’s pretty damning.”

  Her jaw tensed. “I agree, but I have no idea who would have done it.”

  “Your buyers would have a vested interest in your escape. At least until they got what they were looking for.”

  “If I had buyers.” She let loose a long sigh and dropped her head into her palms. Was he imagining the slight tremble in her shoulders? “How do you know the sniper wasn’t trying to kill me too?” she asked, her voice muffled.

  “Because he didn’t. You were wide open, and none of his bullets even came close.”

  Her head lifted and she nailed him with her solemn brown eyes. “You were there?”

  “Yeah.”

  Recognition dawned on her face. “Green Parka. I thought you were another attacker.”

  He nodded, ignoring the pulse of regret in his chest. He’d run flat out, but he hadn’t been fast enough to save the agents.

  “So, by helping me escape,” she said, “the shooter made me look guilty. As if someone outside the law needed me alive.”

  “However it went down, it definitely made you appear guilty.” If she was innocent, her escape from the FBI also deflected suspicion away from whoever actually stole the files. “Tell me about your offshore account.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Okay.” Scott had taken the old man at his word. There’d been no reason not to believe him. But could he believe her?

  “Besides, if I did, no one would be able trace it back to me.”

  He didn’t understand her world and what she was capable of, so she could be bluffing, but her assertion seemed plausible. If she could hack into Westgate Defense Systems, surely she could work some sleight of hand with a bank in the Caribbean.

  Then again, criminals never expected to get caught. Sometimes they got cocky and did stupid shit.

  “If the audit team didn’t find an offshore account, then what triggered Hollowell to have you followed?” Scott asked.

  “I discovered that someone had been compromising our past clients using the same vulnerabilities I’d already identified. I told Duncan I thought someone was intercepting my reports, maybe leaving out one of the potential security holes so they could access it later.” She dropped her head to her knees. “That was my first mistake. As soon as he knew I was onto him, he must have put his plan in motion. It wasn’t until the next day that I found out our so-called clients had never actually hired Aggressor at all. I’d been working on bogus accounts all along, digging myself in deeper with every job.”

  She punched the bed. “He had us illegally cracking accounts without even knowing it, and since Jay and I never dealt directly with the clients, we were none the wiser. I worked so hard to go legit and now…”

  Scott rubbed his forehead with two fingers. The Aggressor job had sounded like such a sweet gig—shadow a quiet hacker chick for a few weeks and keep his stalking skills sharp—but now? Total clusterfuck. “So you’re the perfect fall guy because of your history.”

  She nodded. “And I’m thinking you’re perfect because of yours.”

  “You mean as a sniper?”

  She frowned and pointed to the TV screen, which displayed his passport photo, in which he was clean-cut and clean-shaven and about a million years younger.

  He strode forward and jabbed the volume UP button.

  “…that Kramer, a security specialist from Virginia, might be working with Sanchez,” the man-on-the-scene reporter said. “The former Marine sniper is wanted for questioning in the death of the two FBI agents who were killed when Sanchez escaped their custody. Police are assuming the pair is armed and dangerous. Central Coast residents are cautioned—”

  “A sniper shot the FBI agents,” Valerie said, talking over the reporter. “You were in the area. You’re a sniper. Now you’re here with me. Who wouldn’t think you’re guilty?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Zachari, CA

  Sunday, 7:45 p.m.

  “MOTHER FUCKER,” SCOTT SAID, HIS face turning several shades of red. “It crossed my mind, but I didn’t really think…”

  He might have been stalking Valerie for weeks—which still totally creeped her out—but she understood his anger. Surprisingly, he didn’t pace or stomp around wild-eyed, he merely let out a long, slow breath and swore again.

  “Hollowell’s plan was brilliant,” Scott said. “He brings me in to watch you, which casts you in suspicion immediately. He invents an offshore account, which Kurt and I don’t question, because why would we? He’s the client with a corporation at risk, not you. We have no reason to suspect his motives. He tells me he doesn’t want to fire you or take you off the Westgate account because you might be innocent, and he can’t afford any delays. Good hackers are hard to find.”

  Valerie’s stomach clenched. Duncan’s appalling duplicity cut her to the bone. “I always thought he was a pretty good boss. Friendly, fair. No micromanaging, eve
n when something took longer than expected.”

  “His patience with the Westgate account was probably limitless,” Scott pointed out. “He wanted in at any cost.”

  Her body sagged under the weight of the older man’s betrayal. Duncan might not have committed the murders himself, but he was directly responsible for three deaths. At least.

  Scott turned off the TV and faced Valerie. “I believe you.”

  “Just like that?”

  “No, not just like that. I was heading in that direction already, but this seals it.” He waved toward the blank television. “That fucker threw me under the bus. Without Hollowell, the police wouldn’t even know to look for me.”

  “You said your van is parked down the street from the restaurant. It’s possible that’s how they made the connection.” Her voice betrayed her doubt.

  “I bought it off a guy at the beach but never registered it in my name. There’s no link.”

  Well, then.

  “I’m sorry you got dragged into this too.” How many lives had she managed to ruin in some way in her twenty-eight years on Earth? And yet a selfish part of her was glad to finally have his trust. She could use an ally about now. They both could.

  His short nod dismissed her remorse as he resumed his perch against the wall, crossing his arms in a way that emphasized his nicely sculpted biceps. “Hollowell probably didn’t waste any time getting the files he wanted from Westgate. With Suresh out of the picture, you and I are loose ends.”

  She swallowed against the panic that burned its way up her throat. “There has to be a way to get out of this. To prove that we’ve been framed.”

  “You’re a smart woman. Between the two of us, we’ll figure out something.”

  His praise and confidence were the verbal equivalent of a bubble bath, soothing her battered nerves. Maybe a partner on the run was a good thing, even if it was the man who’d been following her covertly for weeks.

  She bit her lower lip. Not entirely his fault.

  “Guess I’m keeping this thing,” he said, rubbing his beard with a scowl. “If I shave, I’ll look too much like that old photo.”

  How did he do that? He was pure beauty from his straight nose and high cheekbones to his golden brows, but it was his complete lack of expression that triggered her amazement. How did he take the hit and move on as if his life hadn’t been completely upended, maybe destroyed?

  He met her gaze and waved a hand to encompass her body from head to toe, apparently oblivious to her scrutiny. “The bangs help, and your clothes too, but would you consider a new hair color?”

  A small part of her warmed at his appraisal. He’d noticed her mini makeover. Then again, he was trained in observation. “If it means getting out of this godawful place, I’ll go green.”

  He actually smiled, sending her stomach on a downward spiral. “That’s not exactly blending, even in California.”

  She gave him an answering grin, the act alone improving her mood despite their troubles. “Blond it is. Or as blond as I can go with one treatment.”

  Scott nodded, sobering. “Being able to move freely is a start, but we’re going to need funds. And wheels. We can’t stay here. The front desk clerk might recognize me from check-in if he sees the news.” He slid a thin wallet from his front pocket and flipped it open to check the contents. “I can withdraw some cash from the ATM, but once I do, we’ll have to move.”

  Giving her a sideways glance, he said, “Unless you want to split up.” He broke eye contact and tucked away his wallet. “The police seem to be looking for us as a couple now.”

  Her heart hit bottom. “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No.” His gaze was steady. “I think we can help each other, but I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to go it alone.” Without giving away anything in his voice or expression, he said, “Your choice.”

  Something warm curled through her, despite knowing that his declaration had nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with being chased by every law enforcement agency in the country. “I think we have a better chance together.”

  Scott simply nodded.

  “And money’s not a problem,” she said. “We just need to get to it.”

  At two the next morning, Scott didn’t even try to hide his awe from Valerie as she removed a large black bag from a reserved locker at a 24-hour gym about a mile from the hotel. She’d helped him contact his mom and Kurt to profess his innocence using an anonymous Internet telegram service—to avoid the possibility of tapped phones—and they’d thrown around ideas for what to do next.

  Step one, grab her money. Step two, get his van back. Step three, head toward D.C., putting as much distance between them and Zachari as possible before stopping somewhere with WiFi so she could start setting her traps for Hollowell’s family and friends, and the employees at Aggressor.

  The money was a fan-freaking-tastic start. “I can’t believe you set up a cache.” As if he’d needed more evidence that she was his kind of woman. Pretty, intelligent, great rack, knew how to take care of herself… And absolutely not an option for him. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

  One elegant shoulder lifted. “It seemed like a good idea in case something exactly like this happened.”

  “Fucking brilliant,” he said, keeping his awareness on their surroundings out of habit.

  The place had that underlying odor of sweat, disinfectant, and mildew that seemed to permeate even the cleanest gyms. More importantly, the large open space filled with cardio and weight equipment was deserted. And he’d determined that the cameras—blinking red lights and all—were merely for show.

  Bad for security. Good for them.

  They’d walked to the gym in the dark—making a quick stop at an all-night drugstore along the way—holding hands like any other couple leaving a bar after last call, except sober in every way. Afterward, he’d been more reluctant to let go of her than he wanted to admit. He could still feel her small hand wrapped in his and the tingle of awareness that had spread up to his shoulder. He resisted the urge to rub his arm.

  Valerie acknowledged his compliment with a quick smile and a little duck of her head, as if unsure how to handle his praise.

  “Whatcha got?” He gestured to the duffle.

  She unzipped the bag, holding the sides apart so he could see in. “Five thousand in small bills, a change of clothing, and another pay-as-you-go cell phone.”

  “Holy shit.” He riffled through the contents. “No fake ID?” A guy could hope.

  “Sorry, I wasn’t that prepared.” Stepping back, she said, “Want to check for weapons?”

  He sighed. “Valerie…”

  She gave him a cheeky grin. Even lit by the ugly fluorescent fixtures overhead, her unexpectedly carefree smile took his breath away. He itched for his camera.

  “Relax,” she said, waving away his discomfort. “It’s fine. You had every right to be suspicious.”

  “Yeah.” Nothing to apologize for. He’d been protecting himself.

  She palmed the box of hair dye they’d picked up on the way over. The package advertised that it was specifically formulated for dark hair and would lighten it up to four shades. “Wish me luck.”

  “Worst case, it comes out green.”

  Her quiet laugh raised his spirits and relieved some of the tension in her face. “Perfect then.”

  He turned his back as she entered the women’s locker room with the dye and the change of clothes.

  When she emerged forty-five minutes later, the difference in her appearance was striking. Not extreme enough to draw attention, but enough to make her anonymous. Especially with her pretty brown eyes lined in black. She’d also changed into a plain gray T-shirt, blue jeans, and running shoes.

  He was going to miss her pink toes.

  “What do you think?” she asked, touching her dark blond hair tentatively with her fingertips.

  Gorgeous. Her natural color was better, but still… “Perfect. I’m not even sure I’d recogn
ize you.”

  Her shoulders relaxed.

  Scott turned back to the empty room. “Ready?”

  It took them another hour to trek to the neighborhood around the corner from Good Old Days. The area near the bar was quiet and dark with yellow crime scene tape flapping in the breeze under the streetlights.

  The techs and detectives appeared long gone, but just in case, they were proceeding with caution. Scott’s van sat on the street with a dozen other cars, parked in front of a four-story apartment building that needed new stucco.

  He and Valerie approached from the alley, walked in the back door of the building, through the small lobby, and exited onto the dark street as if they were residents. With his floppy, sun-bleached hair, and two weeks’ growth on his face, he could be any surfer on the coast.

  Inside the van, he tossed her bigger bag behind the seats and buckled in. “Ready?” he asked, keeping his grip light on the steering wheel. Every time he glanced at her he was jolted by her new look.

  “As I can be.” She put on her seatbelt, and then dug through her bag until she found a stretchy hairband to tie her hair back into a low ponytail. “There’s only so much I can accomplish online. Aggressor is locked down tight. Sooner or later, we need to be in Duncan’s backyard to take him down.”

  Scott nodded and started the engine, opening a can of Mountain Dew—another drugstore purchase—for the road.

  “How about we aim for Phoenix?” He pulled onto the street, heading for 101 South. “We can follow I-10 all the way to Mississippi.”

  “I’d rather take 40,” she said.

  Scott entered the freeway and got the rattling van up to speed. “We run the risk of hitting snow or freezing rain between Albuquerque and Little Rock that way.”

  “Yeah, but we’d skip most of Texas.”

  He almost smiled at her grouchy tone. “You got something against Texas in particular, or did you desperately want to see Oklahoma City?”

  Her lips didn’t even twitch. “I have a lot of things against Texas in particular.”