Cyber Warfare (INTERCEPT: A Jack Coyote Thriller Book 2)

by J. S. Chapman

  Fifteen minutes later, Sam rang him back and gave him an address.

  “I owe you,” Jack said.

  “It’s me who owes you.”

  After breaking the connection, Jack looked left, then right, inserted a slim jim through the window of a parked car, used the tip to tap the lock button, pulled open the door, and smoothly climbed inside. He brought up an app on his cell phone and pointed it like a radio beacon beneath the steering column. Within a minute, the ignition’s electronic code was triggered and the engine turned over.

  Thirty minutes later, Jack arrived at a vintage two-storey colonial on a commercial street in Georgetown. It had been converted years before when the once-genteel neighborhood was rezoned for mixed use. A storefront boutique occupied the ground floor. Two residential apartments took up the second and third floors, giving the owner triple income for the cost of a single investment. In the side vestibule, he pushed the buzzers for both apartments. No one answered. He was about to try again when the proprietor opened the connecting door from the shop. She pointed upstairs. “Here about the rental?”

  “Looking for Duncan. Duncan Spears. Does he still live here? He’s a friend.”

  Her face sagged with disappointment. “He has the other apartment. Haven’t seen him in a while.”

  Jack didn’t say anything, letting the silence compel her to fill the unsettling quiet.

  She was looking him over, making an assessment, deciding if he was safe enough to trust with some truth. “Fact is, I haven’t seen him for more than a while. Not unusual. I don’t care where he is, so long as he pays the rent on time.” She must have caught an odd expression on his face. Or possibly his bruises gave her cause for concern. “Is something wrong? Is he in any trouble? Say, who are you anyway?”

  “Like I said, a friend.” Jack looked at her directly, putting on his flirtatious face, the one that said he found her attractive. It wasn’t a lie. Blonde and blue-eyed, she had an old-fashioned look about her that was an asset when it could have been a liability. “Do you smell something?”

  Regarding him with rounded eyes, she tilted her head. “Now you mention ….” She held up an expectant finger, retreated into the shop, returned seconds later, and unlocked the connecting door to the apartments.

  As they climbed, the odor intensified. It was an odd combination. The putridness of rotting meat. The stink of feces. The causticness of mothballs. The stench of rotten eggs. And the pungency of sauerkraut and garlic. The higher they climbed, the more disagreeable the odors became. She started to gag, slapped a hand to her mouth, and looked at Jack, first with shock and then with panic. She bolted downstairs, yelling back, “I’m calling the police! Don’t go anywhere!”

  Jack continued climbing. The odor became stomach churning, even while mixed with a pleasant fragrance, a bit like raspberries or apples left overlong on the counter. He covered his mouth and nose. The door to the third-floor apartment was ajar, explaining why the stink reached ground level. He kicked the door all the way open and stepped inside. The floorboards creaked beneath his measured footfalls. Hazy daylight seeped through russet drapes. He paused in the middle of the front room and lingered, getting his bearings, acclimating himself to the layout, and making sure he wasn’t walking into a trap.

  He wasn’t alone. Someone … or something … was watching. He ventured farther, lured by the stench.

  In the bedroom, the windows blinds were closed but allowed enough daylight inside for him to make out a decorative light fixture affixed to the middle of the ceiling by a brass chain. The chandelier twisted a scant forty-five degrees to the right, lingered in momentary suspension, and slowly twisted in the opposite direction, the chain creaking from its heavy weight. The body hanging from the makeshift rope of knotted bedclothing was discolored and bloated, its eyes bulging from sockets and its swollen tongue protruding past parted lips.

  Jack gave Duncan Spears a salute to speedily send him on his way, with any luck to a better place. Then he calmly walked down the stairs and out of the building.

  32

  Georgetown, Washington D. C.

  Wednesday, July 30

  MIXING IN WITH shoppers, students, and residents, Jack meandered at a halting gait, peering behind his back, favoring the limp acquired back at the Virginia house, nursing his injured arm, and surely looking as pathetic as a homeless man forced to live on the streets. Until he reminded himself with a twist of irony that he was a homeless man.

  No one notices homeless men. They’re like lampposts or mangy dogs, disagreeable objects people step around.

  The limp gave him an excuse to linger every few yards, picking out shady spots beneath storefront canopies or beside building entrances. Across the street, the owner of the boutique had posted herself outside, nervously smoking and waiting rather impatiently for law enforcement to arrive. She hadn’t spotted him, probably didn’t give a damn where he had gotten off to, and almost certainly hadn’t taken a good look at him. He took precautions by clipping the sunglasses from the neck of his t-shirt, tying the military shirt around his waist, and stuffing the tactical operator hat into his waistband. She wouldn’t have made him if he were standing right in front of her.

  His vantage point allowed him to discreetly case the street for danger. Being on the run was a hell of a life. Survivalist habits were becoming ingrained, like putting clothes on in the morning or brushing his teeth. Self-preservation was the motivating factor. When he thought about it, most people are scared shitless. He was just the most recent member to join the club.

  He put in a call he meant to make for days but hadn’t had the guts. When the other party picked up, he said, “Recognize my voice?”

  The connection hushed before Annie Tobias answered with a simple, “Yes.”

  “Heard from Harry?”

  “No.” Annie was one of those sunny women who was always animated and constantly cheerful. Today her voice was listless. “Something you should know. My line is being tapped. Don’t ask how I know. I just do.”

  “Not surprised. How’re the kids?”

  “We’re falling apart. But forget about me. It’s you and Harry I’m worried about.”

  “Worry about Harry. Forget about me.”

  “I can’t. I won’t. Is it safe to talk?”

  “That’s for you to say.”

  “I don’t give a shit anymore.” She related what Camilla told her, only that Harry was on special assignment and it was in his best interest for her to keep quiet about it. “I called her on it. Told her to go to hell.” Her voice wavered. Then she said she knew he didn’t do what they said he did and that she’d been praying for him, for all the good it would do since it wasn’t helping Harry. “You know something, don’t you? You and Harry both.” Hers were rhetorical questions. She really didn’t expect answers. There was nothing Jack could tell her, he wished there were. She understood. They told each other to take care before disconnecting. Their conversation lasted less than five minutes.

  A homeless man toting yellow plastic bags stuffed in one large yellow plastic bag—all the stuffed bags together containing the entirety of his earthly possessions—showed Jack his yellowing teeth before wariness pushed him along. A pit bull being walked on a pronged choke collar growled and snarled at Jack before its owner cruelly yanked the beast back, the look in his eyes saying he would bite Jack, too, if he got too close. A college girl dressed in white capris pants and sleeveless pink blouse gamily stepped around Jack, her minty lime eyes holding contempt for him but her saucy expression telling him to watch his step.

  Being a bum was a comedy act. People accept the price you give yourself. Right about now, he wasn’t worth the slimmest of dimes. He had to give kudos to the girl in pink, though. Unlike him, she would probably thrive in this callous society and come out a winner, whereas he had more than enough misgivings and self-blame to be the worst of losers, not so much for the things he had done, but for the things he hadn’t done.

  Several doors down, a black
SUV backed into a parking space. Two men sat upfront, their outlines indistinct behind tinted windows. They didn’t get out. Jack wondered if it was Benedicto and one of his deputies. It was hard to tell. They were big men. Hulking men. While traffic zipped past in both directions, they stared at the car Jack had pinched outside the bus station. It was parked it at the end of the block in a no-parking zone. The men waited, engine rumbling, smoke from the exhaust pipe filling the air.

  Sirens disrupted the genial atmosphere. A squad car arrived, bubble lights flashing. It braked at an oblique angle in front of the boutique. The proprietress approached and spoke to the officer behind the wheel, pointing towards the top floor of her building. An ambulance arrived behind the squad car. A crowd formed.

  The black van drove off. Jack continued loitering. He made another call. No one answered; it went to generic voicemail. He made a second call to a different phone number. Again no one answered, but this time the voicemail message explained the recipient would not be available today but to contact one of three specific persons should the caller require immediate assistance. He removed the back of the cell phone, yanked the memory card out of the slot, and tossed the pieces into the gutter. He ambled down the street. Using the gathering crowd as cover, he efficiently hotwired a minicar that had seen better days, doing it out in the open for everybody to witness should they chance to look his way, including the female driver, who had joined the ambulance chasers and was craning her neck above the crowd to get a better view. This would be her unlucky day, but probably she wouldn’t miss the car, at least for the next five minutes.

  As Jack sped away, he tossed the memory card out the window. It landed in a litter basket. A three-pointer. You had to take your wins whenever possible.

  The black SUV roared onto the boulevard. Fishtailed. Put pedal to metal and drew alongside the minicar. The driver powered down the side window, a tanned guy in short sleeves, his muscled partner in a black T. Both tatted. Both wearing bandanas around their heads. They exchanged grins. Too nasty to be police. The black guy laughed. The white guy leered. With a quick maneuver, the driver swerved sharply with a jarring BANG. The minicar skidded sideways, Jack fighting the wheel, avoiding a head-on collision by inches. Cars honked. Drivers swore. Fists punched the air. The moment passed. The van zoomed ahead, ran a red light, and sped on, disappearing into traffic, the roar of its engine fading into the distance.

  Jack kept driving, getting a grip. Eyes everywhere. Wondering if he imagined what just happened. The four-lane street narrowed to two. Traffic lightened. The air was clear and the sun bright. Heat mirages rose from the asphalt roadbed. People went about their business. A cirrus cloud skittered across the sun. The street darkened, penciling in pedestrians like sketches on a drawing pad.

  The black van loomed ahead. It was double parked on the side of the street, engine gunning, exhaust pipe vibrating. The minicar approached under the speed limit, closing the gap to fifty yards … thirty … ten. The van jackrabbited onto the roadbed and cut off the mini before zooming ahead and zipping around the corner. Gone again.

  Jack pulled over, heart racing, brain cogitating, eyes on lookout. He let a full minute elapse before cautiously merging into traffic. He turned onto a side street and drove west, holding his breath.

  The van bolted out of an alley, motor snarling, front grill looming in the rearview mirror. The driver decided to have a little fun. He tapped the minicar’s bumper. Repeated the action more than once before falling back and blocking traffic to the rear. Revved the engine for another attack. Swam forward like a shark on a kill run. A banging jolt this time. He dropped back again, playing a game of chicken. Two blocks sped by. Three. Jack ignored stop signs. Punched the car horn with the heel of his hand. Pedestrians scrambled. Cross traffic braked. Every time Jack tried to sprint away, the van was there, crowding him, daring him, taunting him, the driver howling and using his truck as a battering ram to mercilessly pound the minicar.

  The next time the truck retreated, Jack floored the accelerator. Raced ahead. Blew through a four-way stop. And kept on going, leaving the truck in a cloud of exhaust. The rôles had reversed. The van was forced to play its own game of catch-up. When its big hulking shape came within fifty yards, Jack went into action. Braked to a full stop. Shifted gears into reverse. Floored the accelerator. Reached cruising speed. Released the accelerator. Put the car into neutral. Twirled the steering wheel full radius. Engaged the handbrake. Sensed the wheels locking. Centered the steering wheel. Spun the minicar a hundred and eighty degrees. Released the handbrake. Regained control. Applied just enough pressure to the brake pedal. Aligned the trajectory. And sped straight toward a head-on collision.

  The van’s driver saw his life flash before his eyes. His partner raised his hands to protect his face. Jack kept on coming, stopping for nothing. The driver hauled the vehicle right and sideswiped several parked cars in quick succession … CRACK, THWACK, BAM, BANG … the crunch of metal reverberating with sonic booms. Miscalculating, he moved up on a parked car and plowed straight into it. The truck’s big wheels skimmed up and over the hatchback before skyrocketing like a jet plane, becoming airborne, and plummeting back to earth with a thunderous thump. The truck landed on its front left tire, tipped sideways, lost traction, flipped upside down, and settled onto its hood in a gentle rocking motion.

  A quiet aftermath. Time compressed. Oxygen sucked out of the air. Utter stillness before the gas tank exploded. Screams filled the air. Fire engulfed the van’s interior. Flames licked the windows. Both men scrabbled from opposite doors, bloodied, tumbling to the ground, grappling to get away, a mass of gashes and sweat and bile, crawling on their bellies, pitiful crybabies. Bystanders rushed to their rescue and dragged the useless piles of shit away from the heat. The big he-man driver still had enough piss left to locate the minicar. He cast fearful glances in Jack’s direction.

  Jack had been watching, quietly contemplating. Calmly, he put the minicar into reverse, braked to a stop, made a ninety-degree turn, and went back the way he had come, croaking with delight.

  33

  Annapolis, Maryland

  Wednesday, July 30

  JACK DIDN’T NOTICE the new knocks and muscle pulls amassed from those multiple collisions until thirty minutes later, when he arrived by taxicab at an apartment building just outside Annapolis. He rang every bell on the lobby panel. More than one buzzer let him in. When Aneila answered the pounding at her door, he grabbed her arm and pushed her back inside.

  She flung herself back, slightly off balance. “What are you doing here? Who do you think you are? Barging in here like … like you own the place … like you own me?!”

  He closed the door quietly and just as quietly said, “We have to talk.”

  She rubbed her arm. “We already did plenty of that!”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He was taking her in. Her hair was damp, her face moist, her clothing sparse. A man’s extra-large t-shirt reached just short of her knees. “You didn’t answer your phone.”

  She stared blankly at him. “Was that you?”

  “I tried reaching you at the office.”

  She backed away, ballerina toe to ballerina heel. “I’m sick, if it’s all the same to you.”

  He followed her step for step. “Pneumonia?”

  “None of your goddamn business.” She coughed for effect. Her guard was down, and because it was down, she looked fetching enough to make a play for. “What happened to you? You look even worse than before.”

  “You should see the other guys.”

  Her chest was heaving. “I … I think you better go.” Anger had turned to fear.

  “I came to warn you.”

  She was hesitant, leery, her eyes shifting back and forth. “About what?”

  “You have to go home.” He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, almost a chaste kiss, as if what they had between them were only a fantasy, the kind of romance found in Jane Austen novels, short but sweet, accompanied by pining, longi
ng, and violin strings, but propriety and honor standing in the way. The kiss ended. “It’s dangerous for you to be here.”

  She shoved him away, the heels of her hands pounding his chest. He grunted and doubled up, clutching his bad arm, the wind knocked out of him, the pain as searing as being stabbed again, this time with a rusty nail.

  “What is it? What did I do?”

  “Not you,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I got into a knife fight.”

  “Really.” She didn’t believe him. “A knife fight.”

  Why should she believe him? He could hardly believe it himself. The throbbing subsided. He caught his breath. “Another woman is dead because of me. The count is up to three.”

  A vacuum of silence filled the space between them: Aneila on one side, Jack on the other, and dead people filling the void. Processing the information, she tilted her head at an angle, pondering. She still didn’t want to believe him, but she was starting to. “Did you get what you wanted while you were snooping around on my laptop?”

  “More than I bargained for.”

  She looked worried. “Will anybody ask questions?”

  He shook his head. “I hacked into Camilla’s logon and surfed from there. There won’t be a trail back to you. Otherwise, you’d have to turn me in.”

  She gave him a sidelong look. “You are the devil.”

  “Something you should know. About the reason I needed your laptop. Before, while I was looking around, someone started ghosting me, logging everything I did. A hacker. He put out the bait, hooked me, and reeled me in. I tracked him down today. Don’t ask me how. He hanged himself. Or it was made to look that way.”