by Leslie Jones
“My da was a shrimper. I started working on that boat the day I turned twelve.”
Lark wrinkled her brows. “I don’t get it. That’s a stigma?”
Mace chuckled. “Yah, for sure. Because of that, us kids were mal pris. Stuck in the Bayou with no hope of escape.”
“There’s nothing wrong with earning an honest living. At least your family produced something. Food that my parents ate at fancy parties with rich friends.”
Mace dipped his chin once. “Yeah, but much as I love the Bayou, I didn’t want to be a shrimper. I wanted to be a supersoldier.” He cast a grin in her direction that she did not return.
“Is your family still there?” She couldn’t seem to curb her curiosity.
“My brother and sister. Solomon runs the business, and Bonnie does the books. My older sister, Susanna, married one of the civil engineers who came after the Storm to help repair the levees and dams. She’s in N’Orleans with him.”
Lark detected a bitterness in his tone he probably wasn’t even aware of. “What about everyone else? Your parents?”
Mace was silent.
“You don’t have to tell me,” she said. “I just wondered.”
Mace shook his head. “I don’t mind. The Storm took my da.”
“Oh, no,” she murmured. “Hurricane Katrina?”
He nodded curtly. “He sent my mother and sisters to my auntie in Arkansas, but we stayed. The Storm submerged our home almos’ to the roof. Da’s boat ended up quarter of a mile inland. But the worst part . . . a wave knocked Da off the roof. Solomon and I tried to find him, but we never did.”
Tears of sympathy appeared in her eyes. “I’m so sorry. That’s awful.”
His hands tightened on the steering wheel, then relaxed. “Yeah, well, it was a long time ago.”
She resisted the urge to reach out to him. What could she say? Compared to him, she’d never experienced hardship. Rebelling against her parents hardly counted.
He pulled into the parking lot. “I’ll come up with you.”
Lark didn’t want their time together to end. “Okay.”
They went up to her room in silence. Housekeeping had been by; her bed was made, and her clothes had been folded neatly and placed on top of the bureau. It looked unnatural. She opened her suitcase on the bed and threw all her stuff into it willy-nilly. Mace chuckled, putting a hand at the small of her back as he carried her suitcase down to the car.
“Where do you live?”
“Danvers. Head north.”
She directed him to her townhouse on Newbury Street. The homes had all been built in the early eighties, and it showed. Her end unit sported pale yellow clapboard on top and ugly brick on the bottom. She liked the bright red shutters, though. She’d copied the color onto an accent wall inside, which, as usual, cheered her as she entered.
Mace looked around her small living room, taking in the royal blue sofa and loveseat covered with pillows ranging from lime green to bold geometric patterns to her favorite, a linen pillow covered with birds and flowers. The woven area rug under her simple coffee table had a muted turquoise pattern. He flicked a look at the multipanel art on one wall, depicting a magnificent sunset over a lake.
“It’s very you.”
She laughed. “I like it. Make yourself at home. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
She bounced up the stairs two at a time and entered her bedroom, just as colorful as the downstairs. Grabbing some clothing, she headed into the bathroom to shower. When she finally emerged, dressed, makeup in place, heels on, she saw that Mace had stretched out on her bed and was fast asleep.
Should she wake him? Join him? As tempting as that was, she needed to get to the office. The work on her plate had doubled, suddenly leaving her with too much to do and too little time. Not only did she need to start her search for her mystery hacker, she also had an actual project to complete.
“Mace,” she whispered.
His eyes opened, finding her unerringly. Unlike herself when she awoke, he appeared immediately alert. He swung his shoes off the bedspread and stood, stretching mightily. “You ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Give me your phone.” He held out his hand.
She unlocked it and passed it over. He programmed in his number and handed it back. She immediately sent him a text with her number.
“Thank you,” he said. “Let’s roll. We can’t be late for training.”
Chapter 22
Sunday, February 19. 11:00 a.m.
Shooting House. Fort Devens, Massachusetts.
Mace seated himself on the battered artichoke-colored Naugahyde couch, wriggling a little to get comfortable. Ken Acolatse, the troop’s senior NCO, stood by the window, the bright sunlight bouncing off his dark skin. Muscles rippled as he crossed his arms.
“We’re on standby, Sir Lancelot. Word can come down at any time.”
“I know that, sergeant major,” he said. He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, using the meditation techniques he’d learned during Selection. His mind calmed, his need to protect Lark pushed down as he accepted his current reality. He looked around the room, consciously focusing on each object: front door to his left, dining room table with four chairs, round wooden table in the right corner with a nonworking lamp on it, coffee table in front of him with a braided rug beneath. Ugly collage on the wall above his head, featuring all of the characters from The Simpsons.
“We’re moving to a former FBI safe house this afternoon. We’ll use it as our base of operations until we go live,” Ken said. “We all know you do this from time to time. It’s admirable, but the unit comes first.”
“I know that,” he said again. “If any of you have the slightest doubt that I can operate at one hundred percent, tell me now.”
Ken shook his head. “I don’t doubt you. If I did, I’d have Jace sideline you in a hot second.”
“I appreciate your vote of confidence. This girl. Lark. She’s not like anybody—”
I’ve ever met, he meant to say. But the door burst inward, and a camouflaged figure hurtled through, throwing a canister toward the ceiling. Mace closed his eyes reflexively. The flash-bang detonated with a searingly bright light, accompanied by a boom that disoriented him. He opened his eyes, forcing himself to focus on what was happening. The man came at him, firing four rounds in rapid succession that whistled around his head. Mace didn’t so much as twitch.
Two more figures swarmed inside, searching for targets. The first man passed in front of him and positioned himself in the right corner, weapon up. The second moved left, firing toward the dining room table. The third stayed by the door.
Silence settled over the room. Not more than four seconds had passed since initial entry. Smoke filled the room from the flash-bang grenade. Mace had to force himself not to cough.
“Hands on top of your head,” the first man ordered. “Lace your fingers together. Do it now.”
Mace complied, knowing the others did the same.
“Search,” the first man said. He trained his weapon behind Mace. The one by the door strode over to the couch and did something Mace couldn’t see, then turned to him. He patted Mace down, smoothing his hands under his arms, around his waist, and down his legs, relieving him of his sidearm and boot knife.
The first man gave the same command to the man in the left corner, who moved into the dining area, covered by the man at the door, then searched Ken and Gabe.
The first man looked at the three in turn, eyes serious. “I need you to stay calm and do exactly what we tell you to do,” he said. “Are there any more terrorists in this room? Any danger you’re aware of?”
Mace shook his head. “No.”
“Then please follow me.” The first man left the room, Mace, Gabe, and Ken following him out. They all stopped in the plain wooden hallway.
“Clear,” the man called. “Stand down.”
They trooped back into the room. Mace pulled his earplugs out. The three men slung their
M4 carbines over their shoulders and stripped off their helmets. Gavin, Tag, and Alex inspected the room.
“All right. Let’s debrief,” Tag said.
Mace only half listened as the others walked through the room-clearing exercise step-by-step, each operator detailing where he’d stepped, shot, decided.
Mace turned to look behind the couch, at the two target silhouettes of terrorists holding rifles that had been pointed at his head. Just below the hideous Simpsons collage, two holes sprouted between the eyes of each target. “Goddammit, Tag. Couldn’t you have shot up that damned picture?”
Ken walked over to finger the single shot in the head of the target seated at the table. “Alex, two shots.”
Alex frowned. “But I had him, sergeant major. He was down.”
He’d been recruited from the 75th Ranger Regiment and was an experienced operator, but despite having been a member of Jace’s A-Team for two years, was still considered the new guy.
Ken stiffened, lips tightening and chin jutting forward. He stalked over to Alex. His displeasure was a palpable thing that intelligent people avoided whenever possible. He was a scary good marksman—and sometimes just plain scary—commanding respect across the squadron and beyond. “Always, Sergeant Wood. No exceptions. No grandstanding. Got me?”
“Yes, sergeant major.” To his credit, Alex took the reprimand meekly. “It won’t happen again.”
They’d been training in the live-fire Shooting House for three hours, practicing various scenarios for room-clearing. The smack of boots against the wooden hallway had all six straightening and turning. Only one man walked that way. Bo Granville, Delta Squadron’s commander, appeared in the doorway.
“Done?”
“Yes, sir,” Ken Acolatse said.
“Good. Time for the main event. Let’s go outside.”
They joined the other members of Delta Squadron. Mace wasn’t surprised to see Heather Langstrom-Reed standing next to her husband, Jace, nor Stephanie Tams, their research specialist. Both were invaluable members of their team. Two strangers stood off to one side.
From the outside, the Kill House building looked like an enormous, oddly shaped warehouse. The multilevel building could be configured in a variety of ways, to simulate houses, offices, churches, and schools. Various special units used it to train in urban warfare—building-clearing, infiltration techniques, hostage rescue. The trick was, it was an indoor shooting range. Every exercise conducted inside utilized live ammunition. The exercises required perfect coordination, precision, and accuracy. There was no room for error.
Colonel Granville appeared, rolling his unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. His closely cropped hair didn’t conceal the ring of gray on his balding head, but anyone who couldn’t see past his bulldog face and build to his sharp intelligence wasn’t paying attention. He was a dedicated and hard-core career soldier, and one of the best tacticians Mace had ever come across. He held up his hands. Every operator fell silent.
“All right, you fuckers, listen up!”
Alex, who couldn’t be trusted to behave at the best of times, pulled his ears away from his head like Dumbo. Granville ignored him.
“It’s confirmed. The damned Russkies got the suitcase bomb into Boston. Delta Squadron has been assigned as the rapid reaction force to augment the Homeland/FBI joint task force,” he boomed. The man’s voice could carry the length of a parade field. “We have dedicated support once we confirm the location of the nuke. This is our government’s top priority, and they’ve opened up the purse strings. Anything you need, tell me and I’ll make it happen.”
Mace found himself once again grateful to be part of the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta. The red tape the rest of the military dealt with disappeared for them. Plus, since they recruited from all branches of service, they rarely wore uniforms or adhered to accepted military grooming standards. Or, frankly, bothered with the rules and regulations governing others. A relaxed atmosphere and informality between the operators and support staff allowed a camaraderie unmatched in other units.
“All right. Now for the particulars. Stephanie, the floor’s yours.”
The newly promoted buck sergeant stepped to the front. Of all of them, only she and the squadron commander wore camouflaged field uniforms.
“Our combined intelligence assets are pulling every thread we can think of to find the suitcase bomb,” she said. “One of those threads involves the Sokolov crime family here in New England. It’s a tenuous connection at best, but we can’t afford to ignore any lead.”
Heather began passing out sheets of paper. Mace looked his over. It consisted of two photos and several paragraphs of text.
“For those who don’t know, the head of the family, Viktor Sokolov, brought an FBI cybersecurity analyst unwillingly to his home last night and accused her of a hacking theft of millions of dollars of mob money.”
Mace scrutinized the photo of the bastard who had terrorized Lark.
“We know from Ms. Larkspur’s debriefing that Sokolov needs that money available to him in less than a week. While we have no concrete information on why, we do know that the Russians intend to sell the bomb to the highest bidder. Obviously figuring out who, where, and when is our top priority.” She glanced at the notes in her hand. “A suitcase nuke could go for anything from thirty to sixty million dollars; his fifty mil falls right into that sweet spot, making him a person of interest.”
Mutters and curses broke out among the Delta operators. Mace’s gut clenched as he thought again how much danger Lark had really been in.
“The second photo on your intelligence report is Mikhail Kerghakov, an accountant with long-standing ties to Sokolov. Fifty-four years old, second generation Russian immigrant. I’ve listed known associates and prior employment. Unfortunately, both Sokolov and his principal accountant are very careful, and no federal charges have ever stuck. Still, he might be another thread we can pull, if we can get him to talk. You’ll work alongside the FBI on this.” She gestured to the two strangers, who moved forward.
Mace scanned the names included on the piece of paper. Lark wasn’t listed; but then again, she wasn’t an agent. Still, it speared an empty place inside him. “Will the FBI provide other support? The computer people, for instance?”
Beside him, Alex snorted. “I know where your mind just went, dickhead. You’re working. And so is she.”
“I know, I know.”
“Come on,” Jace said. “We have a room set up inside where we can talk.”
For the next hour, the nine Delta Squadron members and two FBI special agents kicked around ideas on how to approach the crime family’s chief accountant.
“Obviously he’s not likely to cooperate,” one agent said. “He’s been under scrutiny for years. He’s never given up one iota of usable intelligence.”
“We need a way to get inside his decision cycle,” Jace said.
Mace leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “Everyone has an Achilles’ heel. How come you guys never found his?”
The agent bristled. “We know what motivates him, and it’s not just loyalty to Sokolov. He’s fanatically protective of his family. They’re all on the level, though. Honest and hardworking folks. And we have a little thing called the Constitution that keeps us from harassing them.”
“Sure. Protect and defend.” Mace smirked. “We, on the other hand, have a few tricks up our sleeves that you don’t.”
“I won’t countenance anything illegal. That’s not what we do.” The agent tried to stare him down. Mace looked back impassively, giving the other man maybe ten seconds before he folded. Sure enough, the agent looked away.
“We uphold the same Constitution you do,” Jace said reassuringly. “No worries on that score. On the other hand, we have specialized training to handle these kinds of situations.”
The agent sneered. “Torture, you mean. No way.”
Mace laughed, straightening the pages of information about
their target in front of him. “Our best weapon is our brain. We leave the thuggery to others.”
“So what are you suggesting?” the agent asked.
“That you two take a lunch break,” Jace said at once. “Let us handle this. I give you my word we will not unlawfully detain him or use extreme measures. But our way covers your asses and gives you plausible deniability. We’ll get what you need.”
The other agent got up. “I’m good with this. Let’s go.”
The man rubbed the back of his neck, hesitated, glared, and finally joined his partner near the door. “We’ll be waiting.”
Jace looked around the table. “All right, team. Let’s get this done.”
Chapter 23
Sunday, February 19. 11:00 a.m.
FBI Field Office. Boston, Massachusetts.
The corridors and offices pulsed with an unnatural stillness, making Lark feel like she should tiptoe through them. She made a beeline for the SCIF, where a few other employees worked at terminals.
Today she would dive into who’d used her hacker handle to steal fifty million dollars for the mob. Oh, and to analyze the malicious code’s behavior.
She might as well run the code while she did some thinking. Opening the folder containing the program, she pointed it toward a safe, contained area on the server, and allowed it to run.
The dual monitors fed her information about various aspects of the program as it executed. She watched as it tried to connect to another system, creating a temporary file and deleting it a few minutes later. Running another tool, she attempted to recover the contents of the transitory file.
While the tool ran, she returned to her assessment of her nemesis. The perpetrator of the massive theft of mob money obviously knew enough about her to know her signature hacks. She mentally sorted them into three columns: No Way, On the Fence, and Ratfinks. She immediately moved ChaosCowboy into the No Way column. Ditto for Zane Quimby, aka Hermitage. Sammi Stasis, a husband-and-wife team from Iceland, went into the On the Fence column. She added London-based Habib Amari to the No Way column, and moved Firecr@cker and Bear, both gray hat hackers, to On the Fence. She’d met them in the Darknet, but knew virtually nothing about their true identities.