by Lynn Sholes
She nodded affirmatively.
The president leaned forward and looked down his side of the table at Mace. “Secretary Mace, thank you for the in-depth follow-up report on the recent Internet global cyber attack. I think I can speak for everyone that we are relieved at the news that there was so little damage to this country’s networks and virtual infrastructure.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” Mace said, knowing most of his report had been carefully fabricated to diminish the recent flood attack and hide the widespread propagation of the Hades Worm. If the president and his advisors had seen Tor’s latest progress report, they would have called for an emergency meeting of the National Security Council.
Everyone in the Cabinet Room stood as the president rose and strode out. While most of the attendees remained to chat, Mace went into the corridor and pulled the cell phone from his suit jacket pocket. It had started vibrating ten minutes before the end of the meeting.
Knowing that the press secretary was still in the Cabinet Room, Mace walked down the hall and ducked inside the man’s empty office.
“Yes?” he said, just above a whisper.
“Do you still have Stone’s cell phone?” It was Mace’s key advisor inside the Department of Homeland Security.
“Yes,” Mace said, watching the hall in case the press secretary headed his way.
“Dump it! The surveillance division of the Venatori just ran a real-time GPS locator trace on it.”
Mace snapped the phone shut with enough force to send it in for warranty service. He stepped into the hallway and walked toward the corridor leading to the cloak room in the first floor, West Wing lobby. Entering the large walk-in closet, he pulled his heavy overcoat from the hanger and slipped it on. He knew he had to get rid of Stone’s phone, but doing so would mean losing all contact with Lindsay Jordan and her daughter in the event they left any more messages. Without their voicemail messages, there would be little he could do to track their whereabouts. He had no choice. The phone was a direct link to him.
“Rizben, can you grab mine while you’re at it?” It was his single adversary in the cabinet, National Security Advisor Philip Miller.
Mace turned to Miller, knowing in an instant that he had found his dumping ground. “Sure, Phil. Which one is it?”
“The navy one, two down from where yours was hanging.”
Mace turned his back to Miller. As he pulled the presidential advisor’s coat from the rack, he reached inside his own and grabbed Cotten Stone’s cell. In one swift motion, he dropped it into the deep side pocket of Miller’s heavy woolen coat.
“Here you go.” Mace handed the overcoat to his colleague. “Stay warm out there.”
_____
“Ted, I want to see Tera Jordan’s face all over SNN,” Cotten said into John’s phone. “Give her so much air time that whoever is hunting her and Lindsay will see it and start pissing blood.”
“Jesus, Cotten,” Ted Casselman said. “Calm down.”
Cotten and John were speeding down the Bee Line Expressway on their way to the Orlando International Airport.
“I don’t want to calm down.” She realized she was close to yelling.
“I’ve got a good bit of sway around here,” Ted said, “but I don’t know how much I can do outside of the normal channels.”
“Ted, I don’t ask for much.” She heard John give a nervous cough. “But whoever stole my phone—whoever threatened my life—whoever burnt down Lindsay’s farm—is in Washington. The Venatori trace placed my cell in the White House, for Christ’s sake. How much more newsworthy do you want?”
Cotten glanced at John who was trying to maneuver through the heavy traffic. She held her palm over the phone. “How much longer?”
He pointed to the sign indicating the off ramp to the airport. “Just got to drop the car off. We’ll make our flight with a few minutes to spare.”
“Ted, we’ll be landing in Washington at 3:47. Get a crew and remote truck ready to meet me at curbside.”
“We can’t go live with this, you know that,” Ted said.
“Not asking you to. We’ll tape it, and I’ll send you a final edit as soon as we get back to the local affiliate.”
“A White House connection could be big, Cotten, or it could burn your ass to dust.”
“Just have the crew ready. Once John has the Venatori run the trace on the phone again and we know the exact location, I’m going to find out who’s at the bottom of this.”
_____
The constant hum of Interstate 395 a block away drifted along South 28th Street in Arlington as National Security Advisor Philip Miller emerged from the Carlyle Restaurant. Beside him was his wife—two FBI agents had been waiting outside for the couple. The Millers were heading home after dining on jambalaya pasta and Hong Kong–style sea bass. The temperature had dropped below freezing, and Miller was wrapped tightly in his heavy overcoat.
As his Lincoln Town Car pulled up to the curb, the bright floodlights mounted atop a Sony DVCAM came to life, bathing the sidewalk in white light.
“Dr. Miller.”
The National Security Advisor turned toward the camera light.
Cotten approached Miller with a mic in her extended hand. “Do you have a moment to answer questions this evening?”
An agent stepped between them, but Miller held up his hand indicating there was no threat. “Hello, Ms. Stone,” Miller said. “It’s good to see you back safe and sound from your Russian adventure. If your question concerns what I think of the excellent cuisine here at Carlyle, I can assure you that Mrs. Miller and I enjoyed every bite, especially the vanilla bean crème brulee.” He started to turn toward his car, obviously wanting his action to signal the end of the impromptu interview.
“Actually, I was wondering why you are trying to harm an eight-year-old child.”
Miller had motioned his wife toward the car, but he turned to stare at Cotten. “Excuse me?”
“Tera Jordan? And her mother, Lindsay? Do their names sound familiar?”
Miller faced Cotten. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“So you’re denying responsibility for burning down their farm in Kentucky?”
He shook his head. “I can honestly say that I’ve never been to the great state of Kentucky. What’s this all about?” He stiffened and crossed his arms. “And can we please turn off the camera?”
“So you did not have my cell phone stolen from my car in Loretto, Kentucky, then used it to call Cardinal John Tyler, a Vatican diplomat, and convey to him that I was to back off in my search for Tera and Lindsay Jordan or else?” Despite the rage building to a boiling point inside her, Cotten worked at remaining calm and steady. “What exactly did you mean by ‘or else’ when you threatened me, Dr. Miller?”
“Ms. Stone.” His words had the subtleness of a leaking steam pipe. “I have never threatened you. I don’t even know you except by reputation. I had nothing to do with any fires on any Kentucky farms. I don’t know anybody named Tera Lindsay.”
“Tera Jordan,” she said.
“Whatever.” He flipped his hand in a patronizing manner. “And I absolutely did not steal your cell phone. This is ridiculous. Now, if you will excuse me . . .”
Cotten nodded to her producer, standing a few feet away. The woman punched a number into a phone she held.
“Dr. Miller,” Cotten said. “She is dialing my number right now.”
There were five seconds of silence on the freezing sidewalk outside Carlyle Restaurant as the hum of the traffic filled the void.
Miller shrugged. “What does that mean?”
Cotten listened for the ring of her cell, but only silence followed. She dropped the mic away from Miller. They’d screwed up somehow. They’d traced the phone here to the Carlyle, and Miller was the obvious White House connection. How could they have been wrong?
escape
Devin stood in the doorway, coughing and rocking from side to side—his hands covering his ears to block out the horrific sound of the alarms. Reacting to the strobes, he blinked repeatedly. His overloaded senses induced a state of panic and he panted, causing his nose and throat to dry out and hurt.
With a heavy thud, he saw Ben kick the door, slamming it shut. Devin heard the familiar clunk of the lock, leaving him alone outside on the second floor open hallway. He froze, his body stiffening, his hands still clamped over his ears. Finally, he spun around and raced to the head of the metal stairs. The blare of the siren and the pulse of the lights herded his focus to a single compulsive need to get away.
Devin scrambled down the stairs, each footstep clanging, echoing in the icy-cold mainframe room. He ran from wall to wall, searching for a way out, an escape from the terrible shriek and flashing lights.
Finally, he spotted a door at the end of the last row of electronics racks. It was ajar, automatically unlocked to allow an emergency escape from the building. Devin heaved it wide open and burst into the sunshine. The sirens dampened without the echo inside the building.
He didn’t stop to look back, but followed Ben’s last orders and ran as hard as he could, avoiding the dirt road and heading across a wide expanse of fields toward the far-off timberline.
Finally, within the shadows of the forest, Devin took his hands from his ears—the sound of his blood drumming in his head was louder than the alarms he left behind. His heartbeat thudded in his chest, his neck, his temples, his calves—and his lungs stung with each frenzied gulp of air. A muscle cramp in his side made him stagger. Exhausted, depleted, and confused, he plunged deeper into the cover of the woods. Soon, he could go no farther, and he collapsed.
Devin sprawled face down, and his nose filled with the dank odor of humid soil and decomposing vegetation hidden beneath the brittle crust of recently fallen leaves. He sputtered and spit a scrap of debris from his lips.
Once his breathing became calm, Devin crawled up beside a tree and propped himself against the rough-barked trunk. For over an hour, he sat and counted the autumn leaves—something he never saw in South Florida—stacking them in heaps of one hundred each. Small mounds, vibrant with the blends of gold, and red, and orange encircled him.
Devin’s stomach growled and he became aware that he was hungry. He stood and turned in a circle, as if searching for a landmark or clue as to which way to go. But there were no landmarks, nothing familiar, only endless dark woods. Choosing a direction opposite from the one he had come, he started walking.
Hours passed, and the forest grew denser, thickening with coarse underbrush, brambles, and spent berry bushes with needle-like thorns that pricked and snared his jeans.
As the sun went down, Devin succumbed to his weariness. He chose a place between the sturdy trunks of two trees and cleared himself a spot on the ground. A thorn caught his thumb, ripping a stinging thin line in his flesh. Devin let out a hollow-sounding yowl, then put the tip of his thumb in his mouth and sucked away the tiny beads of blood.
Finally, he curled on his side, frantically shaking his left hand next to his ear. Devin’s belly grumbled with hunger, and gooseflesh broke out on his skin as the temperature dropped. He drew into a tight ball, stilling his left hand and tucking it under his chin. He turned his head so he could see a small swatch of sky above. When the heavens darkened he found some solace counting the stars, whimpering until he drifted into sleep.
Devin woke with the first stab of light through the trees. He became so cold during the night that he gathered the leaves around him and brushed as many over him as he could. He needed to pee, but it was too cold and too dark to get up. But he couldn’t control his bladder. He’d been off the bathroom routine for days now. Devin felt the warmth of his urine on his legs as it seeped beneath him. There was some comfort in the warmth at first, but it quickly transformed to cold moisture that permeated his body to the bone.
Devin sat up, the leaves cascading off like molting feathers. The earth was steeped in fog so thick that he could see the fine droplets of water in the air. It was still so cold, and he was still so hungry. Devin huddled, his hands rubbing his upper arms. He had to pee again, but held it, thinking of the cold. Finally, he could wait no longer.
Devin got up and walked several yards from his makeshift forest bed. As he reached for his fly, he heard a loud pop. A sudden stab of pain struck beneath his right collarbone, searing all the way through to his back. Stunned, he saw a perfectly round hole, about the diameter of a pencil, in his shirt at his upper right chest. A small red stain rimmed it that started to soak the front right side of his shirt.
He heard voices nearby and looked up for a moment. Shouts of profanity rang over the crunch and swish of the brush being trampled.
Devin cupped his hand over the hole in the fabric and stared at the rim of his palm that was spidering with streaks of blood. Perplexed, he gawked at the sight for a moment before his knees buckled.
_____
Alan burst through the glass lobby doors on Stone Creek Medical Center, Kai trailing a few feet behind. The room’s tile floor, a glossy gray, seemed to stretch for acres between him and the information desk.
“Devin Olsen,” he told the lady in the pink volunteer uniform.
Kai came beside him entwining her arm with his. She held his hand and they laced fingers.
“Room four-o-six,” the woman said after looking at a clipboard. “Pediatrics.”
Alan turned away from the volunteer and scanned the lobby, quickly spotting the elevators.
Kai picked up the slack in his manners. “Thank you,” she said, then matched Alan’s stride.
He repeatedly punched the up button until the elevator door finally slid open.
The ride to the fourth floor was silent, Kai leaning her head on Alan’s shoulder, stroking his arm. He stared at their reflection in the stainless steel. He was lucky in so many ways. Thank God his son was going to be all right. The bullet had passed straight through his shoulder, miraculously missing all vital organs and bone. Alan had plenty of questions for the police, but first he just wanted to see his son.
The doors opened. Rooms 400 through 418 were to the right. Alan glanced down the corridor and immediately knew which door belonged to Devin’s room. A uniformed police officer sat in a chair beside it.
“I’m Alan Olsen,” he said as he approached.
The man stood. “Detective Zimmer is inside.”
Alan nodded a thank-you and entered Devin’s room. Kai fell behind, their arms stretched apart, but hands still linked.
At Alan’s arrival, the man sitting in the corner of the room rose to his feet.
“Alan Olsen,” Alan said, raising his hand to whom he assumed was Detective Zimmer.
“Can I speak to you outside?” Zimmer asked.
Alan’s eyes fired at the man. What was the cop thinking? This was the first time Alan would see his son since the kidnapping.
Kai extended her arm across Alan’s chest and placed her hand over his heart, a silent signal of support as well as a reminder of keeping in control. Her simple gesture soothed him, and instead of responding to the detective, Alan moved to Devin’s bedside.
Asleep, he appeared so pale and small in the whiteness of the tightly drawn sheets and grayscale-colored, sterile hospital room. Alan brushed the hair from his son’s face.
“Hey, sport,” he said. “Dad’s here.”
Slowly, Devin opened his eyes. He blinked twice, each time pinching his face and eyes.
“It’s okay, Devin. It’s me,” Alan said, leaning close. He scooted a metal frame chair under him so he could sit beside his son. That’s when he noticed the restraints. He touched Devin’s hand. Jesus, why had they done this?
Devin’s eyes closed, and he slipped back into sleep.
Alan stood and lo
oked at Kai. “Stay with him. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Mr. Olsen,” Zimmer said. “We need to talk.”
“Just give me one fucking minute, will you?” Alan whispered. He stalked out of the room and headed to the nurses’ station.
“I want the restraints off my son,” he said to the nurse at the desk. “You can’t do that to him. You don’t understand.”
“I’m sorry sir, you are . . . ?”
“My son is in 406, and his hands are tied down. I want the restraints off.”
“Devin is sedated, Mr. Olsen, because sometimes he thrashes and rips out the IV lines.” She looked at Alan. “The name is Mr. Olsen, right?”
Alan nodded. “If he’s sedated, then why the hell do you need the restraints?” Alan shoved his fingers through his hair.
“It’s for his own safety, sir.”
“No, no, no,” Alan said shifting. “Devin is autistic. Didn’t anybody tell you that?” She was shaking her head.
“Who is the idiot who gave the orders?” As soon as he asked, he knew it didn’t matter at this point. “Look, Devin has some little quirky things he does . . . has to do . . . like shaking his hands beside his head. Preventing him from doing that will cause an unbearable amount of frustration. What if you had an excruciating itch and somebody bound your hands so you couldn’t scratch. What would that do to you after hours of being tied down? It’s the same thing. You need to talk to somebody right now, because I’m going back in there and cut off the restraints. You do whatever you have to do to keep the IV lines in, but tying him down is not going to be an option. Have I made my point?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the nurse said.
“Good.” Alan marched back to Devin’s room, already fishing his pocket knife out of his pants. If he had flown on a commercial airliner rather than the CyberSys corporate jet, the knife would be in his luggage.
Detective Zimmer waited outside Devin’s room. “I didn’t mean to rush you.”
Alan passed him without acknowledging the comment and went inside. Kai nodded and smiled. Devin was still sleeping peacefully. Without saying anything, Alan cut the restraints. “There you go, sport,” he whispered. Turning to Kai, he said, “If he wakes, come get me. I’ll just be in the hall.”