“I know, that makes it sound like the Internet is having an existential crisis.” Parker smiled. “So you know how the NSA likes to say they aren’t listening to your phone calls?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, that’s true. Mostly. They aren’t listening to your calls. It’s simply not practical. There isn’t enough manpower to sift through all those conversations, and technology isn’t evolved enough—yet—to do the work for them. So they needed a more practical solution.”
“Metadata.”
Parker nodded. “So when the NSA says, ‘Hey, we’re not listening to your phone calls,’ what they really mean is, ‘We know who you talked to, and for how long, and who you talked to next, but we don’t know what you talked about.’”
“Okay, so that seems pretty basic. What do I care if they know I spent twenty minutes on the phone with Aunt Edna?”
“And that’s exactly what they want you to think.” His brow creased. “Do you really have an Aunt Edna?”
Georgia shot him a look she hoped translated to, You’re kidding.
“Right. Off topic. But what if I told you they know that yesterday morning you called your boyfriend, talked for twenty minutes, then called your doctor, talked for another ten, and later that afternoon called your pharmacy after you Googled ‘suspicious rash’? They didn’t listen to any of these conversations, but do you really think they’re as clueless as Aunt Edna?”
“Okay. So metadata isn’t as benign as they make it sound.” It made sense. If it were harmless, the NSA wouldn’t want it in the first place. “Still, that doesn’t explain what this has to do with you.”
For the first time since she’d met him, Parker looked uncomfortable. Had she been less tuned in to him, she might have missed it. It was subtle, but he’d stopped twitching. Stopped drumming his fingers or toying with his spoon. For a second, two at most, Parker went completely still.
“What if I told you I’d not only found a way to analyze all that data but that I’d found a way to weaponize it?”
Georgia raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”
“You know I work as a special contractor for the government. What you don’t know is I’ve been working for the DoD, in one capacity or another, since I was seventeen.”
Seventeen? It was hard to picture Parker working within the confines of the government now, let alone at that age. The man was twenty-eight and had a vintage Indian motorcycle in his living room and the first issue of Iron Man framed by the entryway.
“When I was about halfway through MIT, the government approached me about consulting on a variety of projects—and leveraging some programs I’d already developed. Before I knew it, I was spending all my free time developing software programs geared toward national defense projects.” He propped a foot on his knee, bouncing it up and down as he talked. “Later, I was attached to a classified black-ops team that dealt specifically with cyber warfare. It’s how I met Ethan.”
His expression grew distant, and for the first time, Georgia recognized a tinge of insecurity, a memory of shy awkwardness Parker wore physically.
“I used my technical expertise to assist teams in the field.” He pushed away from the countertop, a tense line creasing his forehead. “At first I thought it was cool—a video game come to life where I was the man with the plan. I mean, intellectually I understood it was life and death, but it wasn’t real to me, you know?”
“It never is, not until it’s personal.” Georgia knew that better than most. Until the bad shit followed you home, took away the people you cared about, all the warnings in the world didn’t hold any more power than the bogeyman. “You lost someone?”
“Yeah. I was just sitting there, playing God, so sure I had everything under control. Seconds,” he said, staring into his coffee. “That’s all it took for everything to go to shit. I watched, safe and secure in a glorified closet a world away as men I knew, men I liked, died.”
“It’s something you live through but not something you survive. You’re never the same.” Georgia rolled the heavy watch at her wrist, memories of the army’s representatives taking her into her CO’s office rising unbidden. She could still remember the shine of their buttons, the close cut of their suits, the way they’d spoken, calm and collected, official and precise—as if their words weren’t irrevocably altering the world she’d lived in. It was that moment she remembered most vividly, the one where everything she knew, everything she’d built her life on—rules, orders, predictability—abandoned her forever. Georgia looked up and caught Parker staring at her. It wasn’t the pity she’d expected, nor were there questions in his expression. Just a simple tilt of the head, a gentle, unspoken acknowledgment that touched her more than she wanted to admit.
“I decided I had to do more, be better for the teams that relied on me. It was terrifying. I’d never been driven by more than the idle curiosity of what I could do. It took a while, but I leveraged my academic focus—advanced algorithms and predictive analysis—to create a program that could mine through terabytes of data and create a profile for every individual we were tasked with either finding or stopping. Combining metadata with past behaviors, known associates—you name it—all of it is useful when you have a program that can find connections.” A tinge of pride slipped into Parker’s voice. “My program can do in hours what it would take a team of analysts years to do. Basically, with the right information, I could predict what it would take to prevent—or enable—a certain outcome. Since we implemented this program, our margin of success has grown, and our negative outcomes have been reduced.”
Georgia shivered. Everything Parker was saying sounded powerful, wonderful even . . . unless you were the one his program was targeting.
“Anyway, it’s my program, and I’m constantly refining it, but without me it doesn’t work.”
The sheer ego in the statement should have irritated her, but the flat delivery told Georgia that Parker wasn’t bragging or exaggerating, simply stating a fact.
“People say I’m smart. It’s a casual acknowledgment of fact. To most people, I am smart. But to the government? To them, I’m dangerous.” He whispered the last, as if he still had a hard time believing it. “Or at least, I have the potential to be. It’s why they very rarely deploy me with the team. Why I don’t do fieldwork or consult on cases overseas. The DoD prefers to know where I am, and what I’m doing, at all times.” Parker appeared torn between the obvious pride he took in his work and the realization that his talent, his abilities, had landed him a dubious place of honor on a government watch list. Professionalism warred with instincts. Georgia hadn’t known Parker long enough to be sure one way or the other, but she just couldn’t picture this man—this rumpled, sexy, insanely clever man—as dangerous. Well, at least not to anything other than her self-control.
“Intent, not ability, determines how dangerous a man can be.” She wasn’t sure why she said it, but the way he let go of a breath and dipped his chin told her it had been the right thing to say.
“Or woman.”
Georgia smiled. “Or woman.”
“So to answer your question, if the DoD thought I’d put up with it, they’d have me under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”
“Why don’t they?” Georgia asked, taking her mug to the sink and rinsing it.
“Because I’m a huge pain in the ass who likes his privacy?” Parker shrugged. “And besides, it’s like you said, the biggest threat to my well-being is me.”
“No argument there,” Georgia said as she snatched Parker’s empty mug out of his hands before he could contemplate another cup of coffee. “If you’re such a high-value government asset, why the hell do you need to hack classified documents? Shits and giggles?”
Parker rolled his eyes. “Please. I could do that faster than you could solve beginner-level sudoku.”
“Then why do it at all?” Georgia asked, intrigued despite herself.
Parker yawned and scratched at the abs outlined beneath his T-shirt. “Because in
order to continue to refine my program, I need to be able to study the negative outcomes and figure out what we missed. You have to understand, they use my program—use me—to calculate the risk versus reward of a lot of operations. In so many ways, it’s my call that sends someone’s brother, husband, wife, son, or daughter into a dangerous situation. It’s a responsibility I don’t take lightly. When an op goes bad, when family members have the worst day of their lives, I take that seriously.”
Parker clenched his fists against the countertop, then flexed and splayed his fingers, blowing out a deep breath. “Negative outcomes matter—maybe more than the positive ones—in terms of refining the program I developed.” He looked beyond her, focused on the framed comic book on the wall, a furrow creasing his brow. “I created this program to save lives. I won’t stand idly by and shrug when things go bad.” He pushed away from the counter and pinned Georgia with a challenging stare. “And I sure as fuck am not going to let someone use my program to justify dangerous operations that should never have been given the green light in the first place.”
“And you think someone’s doing that? Using your program to deploy assets into situations that would otherwise never be authorized?”
“Not sure. Hence the hacking,” he said with a smug little grin. “But you can bet your ass if they are, I’m going to find out about it,” Parker said.
“You think that’s what Ethan’s looking into?”
Surprise flickered across Parker’s face. “What do you mean?”
So Ethan hadn’t said anything to Parker. Interesting.
“Just that he mentioned you had some concerns he was beginning to share.” She shrugged. “Said someone from the DoJ had reached out, shared some ‘disturbing rumors.’ He wouldn’t give me details.”
“That sounds like Ethan.”
“Yeah, he’s not exactly the caring and sharing type.”
“If you believe that, you don’t know him very well.”
Georgia smothered a laugh. “Right. Ethan tells you everything. And hacking classified files is just your weekend hobby.”
Parker rolled his eyes. “Not that part. Ethan’s terse, by the book, and plays things annoyingly close to the vest. But I’ve never met anyone who cares as much about the people he works with as Ethan does. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to—”
“Except break the rules, right?” Or tell the truth or give Georgia the answers she needed.
Parker’s face softened. “Whatever he’s not telling you, I’m sure he has his reasons. I’m sure he thinks it’s what’s best.”
There’d been plenty of people in Georgia’s life who’d thought they knew what was best for her. All six of her social workers. Isaac. Ethan. The only one who’d ever had the right of it was Will, and he was dead.
“And for what it’s worth? Yeah, under the right circumstances, Ethan would break every rule known to man to do the right thing.” Parker grinned. “In the meantime, he’s got me. And I’m far less concerned with the rules. I take what I need, refine my program, keep an eye on operations I’m not told about. And every so often a certain someone pretends he wasn’t aware I was doing it all along, slaps me on the wrist.” Parker shrugged and wandered toward the hall, stretching his arms high over his head.
“It’s sort of like that kiss we shared. We both know it happened, we both know it’s most likely going to happen again, but for some asinine reason we’re going to pretend otherwise.”
“Strictly a onetime thing,” Georgia assured him, some of her irritation falling away as she watched Parker walk out. Those shorts really did leave little to the imagination.
“Well, if you want to have another ‘strictly onetime thing,’ I’ll be in the shower.” He waved as he disappeared through a door.
“Not even if you begged,” she yelled as he slammed the door behind him. Despite herself, Georgia smiled. She liked the guy, but somehow she doubted an exhaustive roll in the sheets—and she was absolutely certain Parker would be nothing less than thorough—was what Ethan had in mind when he’d told her to “make a connection.” And even if she were willing to lob a Parker-shaped grenade at what was left of her career, Georgia couldn’t afford the distraction. Because despite Parker’s dismissive explanation, Georgia knew Ethan. He didn’t do anything without purpose. He’d sent her here for a reason.
There’ve been some . . . disturbing . . . rumors. Abuses. Corruption. Things I can’t—I won’t—ignore.
For the first time, Georgia wondered if she really wanted to know just what the hell was going on.
Georgia stood at the huge, multipaned windows that dominated the far wall of Parker’s loft. Nearly floor-to-ceiling, they stretched ten feet high and ran the entire length of his living room. Standing a mere foot from the glass, she shivered. While beautiful in the way they subtly warped and waved, the thin panes did little for insulation—or security. She wasn’t certain, but the windows didn’t appear to have any sort of privacy film, which basically rendered Parker’s loft a glorified fishbowl—and a security nightmare. At least the combination of being on the top floor and facing the water presented a logistical challenge to anyone looking to pop off a round or two through the windows. Small mercies, she supposed. Though at the moment, it hardly mattered. What had begun as fat, wet flakes of snow had given way to a driving storm that sliced through the air at an angry angle, as if hell-bent on wiping Baltimore off the map entirely.
The weather trapping them inside wouldn’t be nearly so irritating but for the fact that Georgia had opened Parker’s refrigerator, determined to put something other than caffeine and sugar into his system once he got out of the shower, and discovered a veritable wasteland of biohazards and empty calories. She’d hoped for eggs, maybe a few veggies. Her culinary skills were limited, but an omelet or two was within her power. Ha. Bobby Flay himself couldn’t produce something edible from a twelve-pack of Mountain Dew, an old hunk of Parmesan, a week-old pizza, and a sealed casserole dish she wasn’t touching for love or money. The freezer had yielded a box of Bagel Bites and two different kinds of vodka. The cabinets had been little better, stocked full of chips, boxed macaroni—which she couldn’t even make do with, as Parker didn’t have milk or butter—and a half dozen varieties of snack-size candy bars.
She’d thought her fridge screamed single and lonely, but Parker’s took it to a whole other level—one reminiscent of her years spent with Will. The scent of warming bite-size pizzas had tossed her back in time, back to when money had been tighter than the trigger on a rebuilt Colt M1911, frozen dinners a delicacy, and paying all the bills in a single month a victory. She’d had so little . . . and been so happy.
But now the memories were edged with sadness, the Bagel Bites were giving her indigestion, the vodka was calling her name—and it was only midafternoon into the first day of a seventy-two-hour shift. At least she’d found a fresh pack of Twizzlers beneath the stack of takeout menus. She’d rolled her eyes when Parker had suggested they order in. As if anyone was delivering in this weather.
Right on cue, her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She withdrew it, hoping it wasn’t Isaac.
But just like the last three times she’d checked, it was.
We need to talk.
Talk. Sure. Because Isaac had done so much of that during their relationship. The Isaac Georgia had met in South America—the open, funny, charming guy who was interested in what she thought, what she liked, who she was—had disappeared behind a polished veneer of perfection and manners the minute he’d returned to DC and the influence of his family. Suddenly it was time to take his career to the next level—and his future seriously. It wasn’t long after that it became clear Georgia had nothing to contribute to either.
Too brash. Too unrefined. Nothing about her fit among the glitz and glam of DC’s elite. How many times had Isaac lamented her lack of feminine grace on the way home from a black-tie affair? Or complained about the assertive way she entered conversations with Washington’s powerful? O
r criticized her inability to choose the proper fork at a $2,500 benefit for world hunger? It had taken Georgia far too long to realize the Isaac she’d met in South America wasn’t real. That he was every inch the blue-blooded, Ivy League–educated snob who liked his women beautiful, even-tempered, and deferential.
Except, on rare occasions, in bed. Then he liked Georgia just fine. At least until the sun came up and his senses returned. Then their relationship was, once again, ill-advised.
It had taken a depressingly long time for Georgia to realize that, at the end of the day, she amounted to little more than a walk on the wild side. An exotic distraction. The equivalent of the slutty waitress or flighty coed.
A laughable cliché.
A role that might not have hurt her so badly if she hadn’t loved him so much.
Or had the pride to leave him sooner.
Her phone vibrated again.
Call me. Please. It’s important.
Not a chance. She shoved her phone into her pocket.
Georgia turned her back to the window and let the cold seep through her clothes. “Do you hear that?” she asked. She swore something was beeping. High-pitched and consistent, at first she’d thought it was a fire alarm, but she’d checked them all and come no closer to pinpointing the noise. Parker, who’d been wrapped up in work at his desk on the other side of the room a few hours ago, ignored her. Again.
Bored out of her mind and praying Isaac would stop texting her already, Georgia shuffled over to the couch and fell into the leather cushion with a huff. She flipped on the television, turned the volume down, and watched as the local weather girl slipped and slid along a sidewalk downtown. Pulling a Twizzler out of the pack in her back pocket drew the other resident menace to the coffee table. PITA seemed determined to follow her around, glaring and generally informing her of his displeasure at her arrival. That, or the cat was demanding she accept her role as his opposable-thumbed servant gracefully. Apparently, bodyguards in the know brought tuna. Georgia’s lack of bribe had placed her firmly on the beast’s persona non grata list. The little bastard had tripped her—twice.
Defenseless (Somerton Security #1) Page 5