As far as his missions went, this was far down in the risk scale. It was basically an employee making an after-hours visit to her workplace. And what she did in that workplace, and at her boss’ computer, would look quite benign to even the most skeptical of janitors. So why was he so worried? He wondered about that, trying not to settle on the easy conclusion that he had been snake-bitten in some way, tainted with bad luck since his last mission as a SEAL. He’d certainly felt the residual effects, the lingering doubts, the pessimism.
The fear.
All of that was new to him. And he’d only just realized it tonight, on his first real test since.
The low risk level of this first test wasn’t much of a relief, either. The fact that he’d once again put someone in any amount of risk at all, was enough to make him feel at least a little sick to his stomach. Sitting there, he tried once again to convince himself that it was necessary, that this was a test for Annica. How she responded would tell him a lot about how genuine she’d been so far, and how much he could trust and tell her. But after this—assuming that everything went smoothly—he would never put so much on her shoulders again.
But who the hell was this girl? Through their hours of discussions so far, and through several fun minutes of what appeared to be her overtly saucy flirtations, he still hadn’t felt like he’d gotten to know her. He knew the shell, certainly. That beautifully sculpted exterior. He knew the professional. And he knew a little bit about the bad girl who lurked underneath the professionalism. But he also knew that for who she really was, including, possibly, her flirtations, it was only the tip of the iceberg.
He looked down at his laptop screen. She’d made contact with the computer fifteen minutes ago.
Half of the mission was complete.
But the most important half, her safe return to the getaway vehicle, was yet to be completed. The sick worry rose again, the cold creepy-crawly emptiness in his stomach. He looked out the window, to the ally. How much of the iceberg did he really know, and how much of it might be lying out there, melting right now in the rain?
He couldn’t wait any longer.
His time away from the military had taken its toll, and now he was undisciplined, impatient, and about to do something really stupid. Jackson folded his jacket hood over his head and slipped out of the car, careful not to make a sound with the door or with his boots on the puddled pavement. The rain was cold, with shrill blasts of wind off the Atlantic. A long, steady rain, too, the skies having darkened before sunset, before he and Annica made their plans for Veteran’s Valor. Before she finally agreed.
God damn, she better be alright.
He hurried his pace. When he entered the alley, a strange sound echoed off the walls. It was coming from the second stretch of alley beyond a ninety-degree corner. It was getting louder, and closer—the staticky squawking sound of a police radio. Jackson kept his stride, kept his body loose and natural, innocent-looking. He hadn’t broken into a newspaper office. And neither had his friend. So what was the cop looking at?
Oh.
It was a rent-a-cop.
“Keep on the south side,” the security guard said into the receiver clipped to his shoulder. “I’m heading toward the corner, so we’ll flush him out either way.”
The guard looked over Jackson as the two crossed paths, his eyes darting quickly, rain dribbling off the beak of his hat. Jackson nodded to him and kept on walking. He wasn’t sure how close he’d get to the office. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing exactly. He just needed to get out of the car and start his search, starting with a casual stroll around the block. He could get a good look at the front of the building, see if any lights were on, if there were any more security guards scurrying about. He was surprised to find even one. Maybe Annica was more prepared for that. Either way, he knew the drill with security guards. If they suspected anything, the police had already been contacted. It was time to act fast.
He sped up into a jog, rounding the corner to find another empty alley, this one smelling almost nauseatingly strong of baked goods. Donuts or something. Combined with the wormy smell of the rain, it turned his already agitated stomach.
Where the hell was Annica?
She wasn’t in the front of the building, either, the whole place looking as dark and sleepy as it should. No lights. No more security guards. No promising young journalist who might finally break the Tripoli story.
Before he turned the second-to-last corner of his block tour, the voices reached his ears. Muffled anger, someone struggling, groaning. And then a loud, commanding tone, an angry voice saying, “Stay on the ground!”
His heart was pounding already.
He ran to the street corner, looked around it, and quickly spotted two guards trying to pin down some dark shape against the rainy street. A large, dark, struggling shape. It couldn’t have been Annica. It better not be Annica.
As he approached closer, he almost exhaled audibly in relief. There was a third voice, belonging to the person face down in the puddle, and it wasn’t Annica. He walked by the struggle. Pinned underneath one of the security guard’s knees was what appeared to be a scruffy, disheveled derelict.
“Hey, take it easy,” Jackson said as he walked by. “He’s not even resisting.”
“Mind your own fuckin’ business, buddy.”
Jackson stepped quickly away. As much as the whole situation pissed him off, as much as he’d like to make it his business, Jackson had to find Annica. With the hope that he would find her standing impatiently by the car, he forged on, turning that last corner and spotting her car, with no one standing near it.
Okay . . . She might have been hiding somewhere, waiting for him. She might have been a little annoyed that he’d left the car. That wasn’t part of the plan. But it was part of his newly acquired lack of confidence. How did he let himself become so ineffectual and scared?
He’d gotten blown up and concussed and he’d lost his job and his faith in the military. So what? It could have been a lot worse.
Toughen up. He demanded it of himself, to get his head on straight. There was no other option.
Returning to Annica’s car, Jackson willed these phrases through his head in a silent rage. He slipped into the passenger seat and muttered, “Sorry,” to Annica, who had been sitting inside, hidden from view by the dark and tinted windows. Swiping up the laptop he’d at least been careful enough not to sit on, he opened up the screen to check what—if anything—had been transferred. “I went looking for you,” he said, while clicking through a few windows.
“Why?”
Jackson’s eyes were glued to the screen as he looked for their new data. It had arrived, a full folder with over a terabyte of files. “I saw some security guards,” he said, reading through a random sample of file names. “And I thought you were in trouble . . .” Most of the contents would be garbage and could be easily sorted aside, but for that possible one percent of incriminating evidence, it was all worth it. But he could feel Annica just sitting there, waiting for some kind of explanation, or maybe even a thank-you for what she’d just done. An acknowledgment of how well she’d passed his loyalty test. He looked over to her and was about to say something, but she was on her phone, reading something, her finger flipping across her screen.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Annica kept looking down to her phone. “Yeah.”
“We should probably get out of here.”
As they drove off, Jackson folded the laptop and placed it on the seat behind him. He turned to her again, hoping she’d feel his gaze, hoping he could break through the barrier she’d just seemed to have put up. “We did it,” he said. “Well, you did it. You were great. We got it.”
“What does that mean for me, now?”
“We can go on and do our story,” he said.
“I don’t want this coming around back at me, and getting in shit for what I just did.”
“Did you take the USB out with you?”
“Yeah.”
“Then we’re good.”
“And so now you trust me?” The bitterness in her voice was new.
“Annica, when you find out about it, you’ll know why I’m being so careful.”
“Just as long as I find out about it.”
“You will.”
“When?”
He didn’t say anything. Instead, Jackson watched the brake lights of the car ahead of them, and how that car’s rear bumper came closer and closer and—holy shit!—closer.
Annica stomped onto the brakes and Jackson was pushed into his locked seatbelt as the car skidded to a stop narrowly close to the car ahead.
“Fuckin’ asshole,” Anncia said, slamming her palm into the steering wheel. “You see that? He just brake-checked me.”
The car ahead started driving again.
“Give him room,” Jackson said. What the hell?
They dropped back a little on the two-lane, coastal highway. There was no room to pass or get around the car.
“That’s the last thing I need right now,” Annica said, getting up to speed once again.
It had happened out of nowhere, the car ahead slamming on its brakes. But it could have been for anything. An animal crossing the road, perhaps. Jackson hoped it was as simple as that.
“So where are we going?” Annica asked before finally looking to him. “Jackson?”
He had turned his head to look at the car behind theirs. The lights were coming close.
“What’s going on?” She asked. “Now what, we’re being followed? Oh shit!”
Their car braked hard and Jackson lurched into the seat belt again, his hands stretching out and holding on to the dashboard. Another angry set of taillights in their faces. And behind, in the mirrors, were headlights getting brighter, closer.
Annica tried swerving around the car ahead, but it moved into her way, defensively, blocking. “Fuck!” she cried.
“Don’t stop!” Jackson yelled.
Annica steered left, drawing the car ahead to move in that direction just enough to make an opening on the right, through which she swerved and sped and skidded over the crushed stone of the shoulder, one tire even clipping through grass, the engine roaring, until Annica swerved back onto the road and finally, with a few jerks of the wheel, steadied the weight of the car until they were back driving in a straight line, and, thankfully, within lines of their own lane.
“Jackson?”
He was looking over his shoulder again. The headlights behind were getting more dim.
“Jackson? What the hell was that?” She sounded scared.
“That was . . . a maneuver.”
“What?”
“They were trying to block and pin us.”
“Were they cops?” She was looking up in the rearview mirror, her face lit up, eyes reflecting the headlights. “I didn’t see any markings or flashing lights or anything.”
“Just keep driving.”
“No shit.”
She steered around a sweeping bend and the cars behind them vanished for a moment. Jackson could hear her take a deep breath before some more muttering.
“Do you know any places to hide?” he asked. “Anything close?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
He glanced up at the rearview mirror, expecting to see headlights emerge from out of the curve. But the road behind them stayed dark. “We should get off the roads for a little bit.”
“I know,” Annica said. “I’m trying.”
“Nice driving, by the way.”
“Yeah,” she said with a nervous laugh. “You know, one of these days you’ll have to get me out of a jam. Think you can ever do that?”
He wanted nothing more than to return the favor, to repay her for all her hard work. And again he felt that twinge of guilt, for letting her simple journalism assignment turn into a much more serious matter. A legal matter, for one, but now with this car, it could possibly become one of life or death.
Jackson looked at the backseat, making sure the laptop was still there and in one piece after all the emergency maneuvering. “There must be something pretty important on your boss’ computer.”
“So you think they sent someone to go get us? What if it was just some random idiot? Road rage. I mean, it happens sometimes.”
Two idiots? Unlikely.
“I still think we should pull off the road for a bit.”
She sighed again. “Yeah, I know.”
Annica had clearly been a little rattled by the mission, and by the road rage. She had both hands on the wheel, still in that tight white-knuckled grip.
“You sure you’re okay?” Jackson asked.
“Yeah. I just need to pull over.”
A moment later they were onto two quieter roads, and then into a narrow dirt path through a wooded area by the ocean. After all the excitement and the recent detour, Jackson felt more than a little lost in this strange city. And it actually felt good. He was glad to be off the grid and hopefully off the radar of whomever it was that was trying to stop them.
Sure, it could have been some random road-rage incident.
But it could also have been something much more sinister. Jackson was compelled to believe the latter.
“This looks good,” he said as they pulled into a small gravel parking lot. “Do you know where this is?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Annica? Have you been here?”
“Back in high school,” she said.
“What is it? A party spot?”
“No. Make-Out Point.”
9
JACKSON
So far they’d been forced to hide two vehicles. First, Jackson’s car, in the safety of Annica’s residential garage. And now this, the two of them coasting down a service path which opened up into a small parking lot at the foot of a cell tower overlooking the Atlantic. They parked at the edge of a cliff, with just a single spray-painted and stickered guardrail separating them from the steep drop to the ocean. Annica cut the engine and turned to him with a smirk.
“Has it been as exciting as you imagined?” Jackson asked.
“Much more,” she said. “And not in a good way.”
“But just think of the story you’ll get out of all this.”
“So there’s still a story? You’ll finally talk to me?”
“Of course,” Jackson said, reaching back and pulling the laptop over the seat. He placed it on his lap and opened the lid, his gaze never leaving hers.
“No wonder this is the first time you’re breaking this story. I can’t imagine any other journalist going through with all this stuff.”
“Neither can I,” he said. “Which is a testament to you.”
“To how crazy I am?”
“No, it’s a testament to good journalism.”
“Good journalism?” She laughed. “Breaking into my editor’s office and stealing his files?”
“Well, you’re definitely investigating and doing some serious muckraking. That’s what it’s all about. Old-school journalism at its best. It’s an art form that’s been forgotten.”
“The reason why journalists aren’t doing this kind of stuff anymore is because it gets them fired. I can’t imagine what they’ll say when they read my first draft.”
“Didn’t they pick this story for you?”
“They did. But they probably had some serious doubts that I could even get ahold of you.”
“You’ve got a hold.”
She looked him up and down and smiled. “I’ve got your car in my garage.”
“That, too.”
“So,”—she pointed to the laptop—“What’s the story with the files? Anything good?”
“I’m going to send it to one of my associates.”
“Who? Stanton?”
Jackson laughed. “I don’t like that you know so much about us.”
“I thought you said you trusted me now.”
He nodded, looking at his screen. “I trust you.”
“Good,” she said.
“And I trust you.”
“Good.”
“So why don’t you tell me what’s in those files?”
“It’ll take a minute . . .” He looked up to the cell tower, wondering if he could use it. This little hideaway might actually be a great spot for a data transfer. “In the meantime, why don’t you tell me about what kind of stuff usually goes down at Make-Out Point?”
“Use your imagination.”
“You really want me to do that?” he asked, grinning.
“Don’t act like you haven’t already.”
Jackson looked up at her, a little surprised she’d said it. How could she have known about the little fantasies that had been building up inside his head? How could she have known about his unruly appetites, and his weakness for smart, sexy women?
Tansy . . .
Tansy must have spilled the beans.
“The rumors aren’t true, you know.”
“What rumors?” she asked.
“The ones about me. The stuff Stanton probably said.”
“You know, I don’t need to be told everything. That’s part of my profession, too, being perceptive.”
The rain had stopped. Their windows were rolled down to accept the ocean breeze, the scent of fresh wild flowers along the coast. Everything livened up with the rain. Even Jackson’s mind felt almost relaxed, like his slate—or at least a portion of it—had been wiped clean. It was just so refreshing to be able to trust someone again. And with Annica, he’d struck gold, like he’d met his own hero. She was charming, beautiful, smart, and she wanted to help him.
“What are you looking at, Jackson?”
He was looking out at the cell tower, how its blinking lights ate through the fog in five-second intervals. He knew just how much information it was processing at that very moment, how many conversations it had linked, and how helpful it might be to his efforts tonight.
“We have to transmit this data right now, so that the guys can start analyzing it, get the algorithms on to it. But if someone’s following us, then that means they know what we know. Which also means they know what to look for if we try sending this out using normal methods. But if we use that cell tower . . .”
Darkest Hour Page 7