Blindsided

by Hernandez, Gwen

  “Does it bother you?” he asked. “Dealing with those guys?”

  She looked up and waited a beat before answering. “Sometimes. On one hand, I am one of ‘those guys.’ Or, I was. I understand them. I get the excitement of solving the puzzle. Hacking is like the intellectual equivalent of drag racing. You know it’s wrong, but the thrill is addictive.

  “Not every hacker is trying to hurt individual people, though” she said. “Some want to make a statement, stick it to the big corporations, or damage a government’s reputation—”

  “Never mind that innocent people get strafed in the process.”

  Her lips compressed. “Kind of like your war.”

  “It wasn’t mine.” But she had a point.

  “Look, some of these guys are straight-up criminals, some fancy themselves crusaders, others like the challenge. Papá may have started out with some ideals and become addicted to the rush, but he forgot to draw a line. I want to fight guys like him, but if I’m going to help vulnerable companies and government organizations find their security holes so they can plug the leaks, I have to know the tools and tricks.”

  “Like working undercover, except online.”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  Scott sighed and held up his hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to attack your career choice. I’m hardly one who should be throwing stones.”

  He squeezed the back of his neck and scanned the tables and bookshelves nearby. He was a hands-on kind of guy, and while he didn’t have any trouble sitting surveillance, he also liked to know that he added value. In the Marines, there had never been a doubt. He knew how to take down an enemy standing directly in front of him, or one a thousand yards away. But this whole underground battle taking place over transatlantic cables was something he didn’t comprehend and didn’t have a clue how to fight. He was as useful as a fifth leg on a dog watching Valerie bang away at her keyboard.

  Their partnership was not equal at all. In the beginning, he’d protected her, saved her. But now, without her, he had no chance at clearing his name. Not even a clue where to start.

  Not to mention, she’d brought most of the money to the party.

  Any goon with moderate intelligence could provide her security. She didn’t need Scott.

  But he needed her.

  And he wanted her.

  Fuck.

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  He gave her a blank look, trying to backtrack to what he’d said, because for damn sure she wasn’t reading his mind or her expression would be far different.

  “We’re both under a lot of stress.” She toyed absently with her ponytail and took a sip of her frothy iced coffee. “And, to be fair, I was part of the black hat community before.”

  Relaxing somewhat, he said, “To be fair, you were a kid.”

  She gave him a humorless smile that said she appreciated his efforts but didn’t agree. “I knew the difference between right and wrong.”

  “Maybe. But did you feel like you could quit? Would your papá have let you?”

  Her face turned pale and she stared at her keyboard, elegant hands at the ready but not moving. “No.” She shook her head. “I know he wouldn’t. My dads used to fight about it, but Papá and I never stopped.”

  Setting down his book, Scott placed his palm over one of her small hands and tried to think of something to say.

  “It’s our fault Dad died,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We pissed off the wrong guy.” A tear slid down her cheek, clamping a vise around Scott’s chest. “He was a carder—a dealer in stolen credit card numbers—that Papá and I had put out of business, and he’d lost everything. His money, his family, his reputation. He broke into our house one night when Papá was gone. Dad and I were eating dinner, and the guy pulled a knife and started screaming at Dad about revenge.” Her breath came faster. “I just stood there and watched, not believing what I was seeing, my feet frozen to the ground as he—” Her face crumpled, and she covered her mouth with shaking fingers. “He stabbed him.”

  Fucking hell. Scott didn’t want to make a scene, but he couldn’t sit there and watch her implode. “Hey,” he reached for her.

  She slammed the lid on her laptop and jumped to her feet, her chair screeching against the tile floor and drawing several gazes. “I… Excuse me.”

  “V…” But he let her go, watching her race past the bakery display and through the doorway at the far side of the café marked RESTROOMS. He’d been trying to make her feel better, to prove a point about her culpability in the crimes she’d committed under her father’s direction, but obviously he’d only added to her distress.

  Perfect.

  He glanced at his watch. Nine forty-two. He’d give her five minutes.

  Picking up his book, he returned to surreptitious people-watching, practicing his observation skills, eavesdropping on conversations. Everyone was so ordinary, going through the motions of daily life while he and Valerie were stuck in some parallel universe where their lives had gone completely off the rails.

  Nothing appeared particularly unusual about the man who joined the line at the counter, and Scott didn’t initially understand why the guy had caught his attention. He looked like half a dozen other men who’d passed through the store in the last ninety minutes. Medium height and build, Oakland A’s baseball cap, square-framed glasses, brown hair peeking out from beneath his hat, 5K race tech T in dark gray, blue jeans…

  Black Nikes with a red swoosh, and a nice watch.

  CHAPTER TEN

  San Diego, CA

  Monday, 9:45 a.m.

  “VALERIE?” SCOTT’S PLEASANT BARITONE CAME from the other side of the stall door. Why was he always following her into the women’s restroom?

  “It was my fault,” she said, her flat voice reflecting the bone-deep fatigue that had taken over her mind and body.

  “You were a kid.”

  “I was fourteen.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Old enough.”

  Not a single sound gave away his presence, but under the door she could see his muscular calves covered in curly blond hair, white crew socks, and worn Sauconys. “If you had gotten in the way, he might have killed you too.”

  Maybe that would have been better. Better than going through life knowing she’d failed the one person who had cared about her. She rubbed her ribs. “He tried. I was a witness after all.”

  Scott swore under his breath. “Valerie.” His voice was deep and serious and sad. He let out a long sigh. “I hate to do this now, but we need to go.”

  That got her attention. Wallowing in ancient history only put her at risk at a time when she needed to be alert.

  She opened the stall door. Scott stood next to the sink with her flowered tote bag over one shoulder and the black duffle over the other. She might have laughed if his expression weren’t so dark and her own emotions weren’t already frayed.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I think someone’s watching us.”

  The news was like a slap to the face. “How?”

  He shook his head. “No idea, but I’ve seen the same guy twice in two different outfits.”

  “You’re sure?” Not that she doubted his skills, but it was easy to get paranoid when your picture was on the front page of every newspaper. Below the fold, because a terrorist bombing in Syria had stolen the headlines, but she could hardly celebrate something so horrific.

  “Same shoes, same watch,” Scott said, matter of factly. “It’s a common mistake. People change their hair, hats, glasses, shirts, but rarely think about shoes or other accessories. Once that registered, I looked more closely at his face.”

  Jeez. “Do you have a photographic memory or something?”

  “No, just observation training.” He waved her toward the door as she stepped up to the sink to wash her shaking hands. “Finish up, we need to move. This could be nothing, he could be watching someone else, robbing the place, who knows. But I�
��m not willing to take a chance.” When she was done, he handed her the flowered bag, adjusted the duffle strap across his body so his hands were free, and said, “Your laptop’s inside.”

  “Thanks.”

  He nodded. “Act normal. We’re not leaving in a hurry, just leaving because we’re ready.”

  She took a deep breath and got her bearings, while inside she tried to beat down the nerves running roughshod through her veins. “You mean normal like you being in the women’s bathroom? Again.”

  His lips twitched. “Apparently, that’s how we roll.”

  Following him through the doorway, she said, “I’m sorry I ran out.”

  “Don’t sweat it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “You were trying to help. I appreciate that.”

  He nodded without meeting her gaze—probably because, hello, they had more important things to worry about—and surveyed the small anteroom that housed a drinking fountain and community bulletin board. He did the same for the café and bookstore beyond. “Let’s go.”

  She knew better than to look around too much. Still, she couldn’t help but scan for the shoes. It would be better if Nike Man didn’t know Scott had spotted him, though he’d surely be suspicious at the timing of their departure. And they still needed to playact for the rest of the crowd. The last thing they wanted was a bunch of people taking notice and calling the police.

  Scott took her hand—something she was getting dangerously used to—and they strolled through the stacks of books. She inhaled the soothing scent of binding glue and paper. It brought back memories of long summers in grade school spent reading in the back seat of Papá’s car while he sat surveillance on a target company or person. Once, those had been good memories.

  They passed the bins of impulse-buy crap near the registers and sauntered out the front door into the fog-tempered sunlight. Salty, cool air filled her nostrils, seagulls swooped and squawked overhead, and for one desperate, futile moment she tried to convince herself that they were just a happy couple out shopping. Be the lie, her papá always said. Own it.

  The breeze brought goosebumps to her bare arms as they reached the white van, with its already-fading window paint and weathered stickers. “We’re definitely going to have to ditch this now.”

  “After we lose this guy.” He knelt down and looked under the rear bumper, running his hands along the grimy metal. “Keep an eye out, will you?” he asked, moving his inspection along the perimeter of the van. “I want to make sure we didn’t pick up a tracker.”

  Or worse? She shivered. “Do you think he was FBI undercover, checking out a tip or something?” she asked. If they hadn’t been followed, how else would someone have found them?

  “Maybe.” He stood and rubbed his hands together and wiped the gravel from his knees. Then he unlocked the door and splashed water from a plastic bottle over his hands, flicking it from his fingertips before using his shorts as a makeshift towel. “I don’t think Hollowell’s network is big enough to track us.”

  He gestured her to get in the van. “Did you see anyone follow us out of the store?”

  “No, but he could be watching through a window,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat as he slid behind the wheel. “What if there’s someone else out here, ready to tail us?”

  “I can handle it.” He sent a glance her way. “Trust me.”

  “I do.”

  Even if she didn’t, what choice did she have? She knew the basics of counter-surveillance, but she was no expert. If she had to go on the run with someone, she couldn’t ask for a better partner than Scott.

  She was more grateful than she could express to be with him.

  They spoke little on the drive, and she tried not to be distracted from her task of watching for tails while taking in the splendor of San Diego.

  “That’s Mission Bay Park,” Scott said as they passed a waterlogged area of green grass and palm trees, bridges, and sailboats, the narrow inlet glittering like a sequined dress in the strengthening sunlight.

  She had vague memories of her first view of the ocean a decade ago when her uncle Hector had picked her up at the San Diego airport and driven her up 5, taking 99 through Bakersfield and on to Four Creeks. Still reeling from her dad’s death and Papá’s going to jail, she didn’t mind that Hector barely spoke English, because he mostly left her alone.

  Despite Spanish being the first language for both of her parents, she’d never learned it from them. Dad had wanted her to be as American as possible and only spoke Spanish at home when he was really upset. Papá didn’t fully agree—and he slipped a few times—but mostly he went along to keep the peace.

  After living with the Ramirez family for four years, Valerie had learned enough Spanish to get by, but the language barrier had been one more strike against her in her aunt and uncle’s house. Her cousins—three older boys who worked in the fields with their parents from sunup to sundown—called her a coconut, brown on the outside, white on the inside.

  Kids at school often used the slur pocho when they bothered to acknowledge her presence. Her only “friend,” if you could call her that, had been the school’s computer instructor, who was in awe—and maybe a little scared—of Valerie’s skills.

  Everyone was happy when she left for college.

  “You seem to know San Diego pretty well,” she said when Scott turned into a parking spot in lush Balboa Park.

  “I was here for boot camp and SOI.” He glanced at her. “School of Infantry. I had some leave in between and a few days off here and there during SOI.”

  “It’s so beautiful here. I always meant to come back to visit…” Under different circumstances.

  Scott nodded. “I’d never seen the ocean until I landed here. Spent every spare minute I had on the beach after boot camp ended.” A rare grin lit his face. “I even started surfing, but I’m pretty awful.”

  She smiled, imagining him in board shorts, sunburned, all gleaming, wet muscles as he paddled out into the swells.

  The moment didn’t last long. “Grab whatever you need,” he said. “We might not be able to return to the van.”

  They divvied up the money between her flowered bag and his backpack, thinking the duffle would draw too much attention. She had filled the remaining space with clothing, toiletries, and her computer. His bag held the same but instead of a computer, he had a large digital camera.

  “For surveillance,” he said. But something about his expression and the way he held the camera made her think it was more important to him than just a tool of the trade.

  “Oh, and here,” he said, tossing her a dark gray Billabong hoodie with the logo on the front. “To keep you warm.”

  Her heart warmed. He must have noticed her goosebumps earlier. It doesn’t mean he cares. The man noticed everything, after all.

  “Thanks.” She donned the thick sweatshirt. Not only did it block the cool breeze, but it smelled of Scott, warm and faintly spicy. She resisted the urge to bury her face in the soft cotton.

  He left the van unlocked with the keys above the visor, and they walked the paths of Balboa Park’s many gardens, scouting the area before their meeting with Alan.

  “I’m sorry about earlier, at the bookstore,” Scott said. “I should know better.”

  She slowed without realizing it, and his grip on her hand tightened. Catching up to his stride again, she took a deep breath. “Don’t apologize. That was half my life ago. I should have figured out how to move on.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible.”

  Something in his voice made her look at him, his strong jaw tight, pale eyebrows drawn over dark sunglasses as he mentally recorded everything around them like a human version of the Google car with all of its cameras and sensors. What had he suffered? She knew so little about him, but she didn’t dare ask.

  They strolled for the next hour, munching on snacks from a vending machine as they moved in ever-narrowing rings toward the Botanical Building. The huge wooden-slat structure
stood at the end of a reflecting pool in a grove of palm and eucalyptus trees that tinged the air with an earthy fragrance. Two half-pipe shaped wings jutted out from a central dome with a stucco base and arched doorways leading inside.

  The air inside was moist and slightly warmer, the breeze buffered by yard upon yard of ferns, palms, orchids, flowering vines, and so much soothing green. Delicate floral scents mingled with that of damp earth and the nearby sea in an intoxicating perfume that made her breathe deep.

  “It’s heaven,” she whispered, out of awe more than any need for privacy, overcome by the urge to never leave this spot.

  “Yeah, but kind of a nightmare for our meeting,” Scott said, shattering her moment. “Plenty of concealment for us, but also for everyone else.”

  They took a quick circuit of the interior before stationing themselves part of the way down a side path with a view of the entrance. Sunlight streamed in through the narrow boards, painting bright stripes across the cement floor, cutting across Scott’s face and turning the golden streaks in his hair to flame.

  “Will you recognize this guy?” he asked.

  A little breathless, she said, “Probably, but it’s been about ten years since I last saw him at my high school graduation.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “He’s thirty-four, maybe six-two, trim build, black hair—it used to be long, about shoulder length—blue eyes, fair skin.”

  “He’s that young?” he asked. “I thought he was a friend of your dad’s.”

  She shrugged. “They met online. Age is meaningless. It’s only skill and tenacity that matter. And discretion.”

  Several minutes later, his eyes narrowed and he frowned. “Is that him?”

  A man dressed in jeans and a slim-cut green sweater strode through the archway and stopped beneath the shade of a paddle-shaped palm to remove his dark sunglasses. He wore his black hair short and lightly mussed like a movie star, and several days’ worth of stubble darkened his jawline.