“The diary's gone,” I said, dripping and burning, all at once. “A meta came in and attacked me. Kicked my ass. Stole it.”
“Turned her into an ice sculpture,” Hilton added, oh-so-helpfully. “But with, like Munch's The Scream expression on it. It was horrifying.”
“And that, yeah,” I said, tossing stray wet locks over my shoulder so that the splash got Hilton on the back swing.
Chalke was tough to read in this, as usual. There was none of the obvious panic that had been present in the Oval Office, but neither did she show pleasure. “Who – or what – did this?”
“Some meta, we think,” I said.
Chalke looked from me to Hilton. “What kind?”
“Never seen it before,” I said. “Looked like a glob of shadows. Threw fire. Created ice.” I threw aside my jacket, because it was not helping me get warm. It made a plopping noise where it landed on the carpet. I doubted my neighborhood dry cleaner possessed the skill to ever make it look functional as work attire again.
“I couldn't lay a hand on it.” This, to me, was the more urgent point.
Chalke nodded slowly. “Did you get the digital backup done?”
“Yes,” I said, preparing myself, “but...”
Chalke stared me down. She still hadn't left the entryway. “But what?”
“It seems to have been deleted during the fracas,” I said. Hilton stayed quiet. Thankfully.
Chalke still didn't show much reaction. “How?”
“Don't know,” I said.
Chalke took that on board. “I'll need a cybersecurity team to take a look at your computer.”
“Probably my phone, too, then,” I said. “Because I had the photos on that and they're just...gone.”
Chalke's eyes moved left, then right, settling on the giant hole in the office wall. “All right. This is a crime scene now.” She flicked her cool gaze to me. “You're moving offices to the Hoover Building. My floor. I'll have my assistant get you the details.” She looked around as if taking in this disaster. “Leave everything behind you can for forensics. Phones, computers, all of it. We'll get you new at HQ.”
“Aw, man,” Hilton moaned under her breath. “I just got the new iPhone. What do you bet the Bureau downgrades me?”
I ignored her First World problem in favor of a bigger one on my mind. “Boss, without the diary, my investigation into this Network is–”
Chalke held up a hand to stay me. “We'll sort it out later.” She stared at me for a moment, and I thought I caught a flicker of...concern? Something. From her. Weird. “I'm just glad you're all right. Get your statements sorted out and get back to HQ.” And with that, she left.
And I was left dripping, cold, like a wet dog, the most critical element of my investigation gone like it had never even existed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Chapman
Jaime had been in the middle of a perfectly good meeting about ad revenues when the phone had beeped off signaling another Network confab. He debated ignoring it as it rattled on the glass surface of his desk, but it shut up the director of finance mid-sentence, and so he leaned over and checked it.
Time to Play!
Of course. “Excuse me,” he said, smiling tightly, and logged in, keeping the phone's screen against his body as he entered his passcode. It unlocked and shot straight into the Escapade app. “Just...getting the coins on my pet store while they're up.”
“Uh...sure,” the director of finance said, clearly taken aback at being second in line after a game. Well, to hell with him. If Jaime wanted to play a game and run a virtual pet store, this dumbass could take a backseat to it.
As it happened, though, this was way more important than some dumb virtual pet store.
CHALKE: Not sure which one of you did it, but Nealon's lost the entire digital backup to the diary AND had the original ripped away from her by a meta attack. Kudos to the responsible party.
Chapman did not bother to hide his reaction. Who in the damned Network would have sent a meta after Sienna Nealon in such an obvious – bordering on vulgar – display of power?
CHAPMAN: Who did the snatch and grab? I took care of the digital backups as promised, but I thought you were dealing with the diary itself, Chalke?
Jaime forced a smile, looking up from his phone. “I'm going to have to reschedule with you.”
The director of finance, poor dumb bastard, just stared at him blankly. “Because...of your virtual pet store?”
“Yeah, the snake got loose,” Jaime said glibly, really not giving a shit what this guy thought of him. “He's tearing through the whole place and I'm losing salable merchandise like crazy. I've got to stop him before he gets into the bird section.”
The older man's mouth quivered, lips flapping open and closed as he composed a reply. “What...game is this? It sounds...interesting.”
“I said fuck off!” Jaime said, waving a hand at him. Text was scrolling, words were exchanged, and he was wasting time with this dipshit.
BYRD: wasn't me
KORY: Not really my style, hiring meta...uh, hired guns...to do things like this.
The door to Jaime's office slammed, and the conversation was still moving fast. Jaime tried logging into his computer one-handed – and succeeded. With a snort, he realized all those teenage years of cyber chat were still paying dividends.
CHALKE: So no one is going to take credit for this?
JOHANNSEN: I think you all know I wasn't responsible. Flanagan? As an attorney, you must know some shady characters of the sort that would do this.
FLANAGAN: Not me. I do mostly civil law, btw.
Chapman wanted to scream. He had his screen up now, and was logging into a familiar network via a VPN. He'd hacked the DC camera system only a few days earlier, and was doing the same again, now, though covering his tracks to make it look like he was someone completely different. He was in the camera system in seconds, and rolling back surveillance footage from on the street outside Nealon's office–
There.
She came flying out through the wall, tossed like a sack of shit. Hit a car. He watched it play in fast motion, some...what the hell was that? Like a pile of black slime moving around, it battered her until she tried to counter with a fire hydrant.
That...did not really go her way.
Chapman shook his head. He'd just watched Sienna Nealon get thoroughly shellacked – again – yet there was zero satisfaction in it because whatever the hell had done the shellacking had stolen the damned diary. He returned to his phone's screen and vented pure spleen.
CHAPMAN: What in the actual hell is going on in DC right now? It seems like every single thing happening in our capital at the moment is the Midas crap-touch – as in everything is turning to shit. The China deal, Bilson getting snuffed, and now the sole evidence that we exist as a collective has disappeared...after the president found out about us. Chalke...do you need help? Because this is not the way to cry for help. The way to do that is to ask. This is like pulling the fire alarm in the dorm while your bestie is in the middle of a late night conjugal visit with their long-time crush.
That off his chest, Chapman sat back to await a reply. Except he was too damned hot under the collar to wait to see what she said. He lit off again.
CHAPMAN: Do you need me to come up there and help you manage this now that Bilson is gone? Because I will. I will absolutely get in my Gulfstream and come to DC on a “lobbying visit.” I'll shake every connection I've got, call in every paid political favor, do whatever it takes if you need a hand. But this bullshit has got to end. The point of this Network is to help us achieve our objectives, not to constantly explode in our faces like a never-ending series of pies with a bunch of cherry bombs and dog shit stuffed into them.
CHALKE: If I knew what was going on, I might be better able to answer whether I need help. This – whatever it is – that attacked Nealon – came out of nowhere. Not on my radar. Same with the kill on Bilson. Forgive me for not having my shit completely toge
ther in the wake of two discrete and surprising events in the last day. Couple it with the setbacks WE ALL EXPERIENCED during the China debacle and...gosh, yes, Jaime, I'd love some help. That'd be great. Because as Director of the FBI, while I'm managing the investigation, it's really hard to manage the political side of DC. Especially since that was always Bilson's job and I've got more than I can handle in my own field at the moment.
Chapman seethed. He could sense the sarcasm Chalke had poured into her reply. Of course she was overwhelmed; she was incompetent. This was the problem with teaming up with people in Washington's elite – they were all idiots. As much as Jaime wanted to believe in the concept of meritocracy at the top of the societal pyramid, he'd met enough dunces that had secured access to top universities and then coasted on the web of connections that provided that he should have realized that those very people were among even the members of the Network. Byrd should have been a stark reminder of that, if Kory's presence hadn't already made it clear.
He thudded a clenched fist against his desk. This wasn't the vision he'd had in mind when Bilson had recruited him to this group. It was supposed to be a chance to influence national policy, a sort of Davos writ small, each member at the top of their respective sphere, and each with their own web of connections to employ in the service of others – and the goal.
But then Bilson had stupidly invested too much time and weight in bringing in these numbskulls from the press, and now look – they had the FBI Director, the top lawyer in the country, himself as the King of Silicon Valley, basically...and then three lunkheads representing newspaper, TV, and...whatever Flashforce was. Clickbait.
Where was the real power here? Where was the ability to enforce their will? That was supposed to be what Sienna Nealon was for, to do those things on the occasions when soft power failed.
But instead of flipping Nealon to their will, she seemed to have become a wild card that randomly played itself for and against them. Mostly against, if he was totally clear-eyed about things. Which he was, even though the rest of them weren't.
This was intolerable. And it required him taking a hand to make sure things got done properly.
Chapman hit the button on his desk to buzz through to his assistants. “Get the plane fueled and ready to leave within the hour. Destination is Washington DC. I need a couple meetings with lobbyists, as well as meetings with congresspeople and senators we've donated to.” He cut off the intercom mid-way through his assistant's acknowledgment and turned his focus back to the phone.
BYRD: seems like this is getting crazy u guys
KORY: Okay, I mean...what's the worst that can happen if Bilson's diary does somehow get out?
CHALKE: Why do you assume that this...meta...is going to release it? I think your natural reporter's bias is affecting your thinking.
KORY: Fine, what do you think this thing stole it for?
CHALKE: Think about it. Bilson was the top dirty tricks political operator in DC. He knew a million secrets no one wanted to get out. Ran a thousand smears that destroyed a ton of people. This meta probably thought it was a golden ticket. And maybe it was. Too bad SOMEONE deleted the entire thing.
Chapman almost fired back an angry reply, but there was really no point. He just smiled to himself, because of course these people were idiots when it came to tech. Just because he'd deleted it off the FBI servers, Nealon's phone and her computer, didn't mean he didn't keep a copy for himself. He tapped open a window to the group of files in question and downloaded them to his phone, intending to parse them during the flight.
No need to mention that to the Network, though. At least not until he'd read them and figured out how much exposure he actually had. If any.
JOHANNSEN: If I might divert our attention from chasing our tails on this matter – of which we know vanishingly little and thus have little movement to act – and back to an earlier matter of concord, in which we have great freedom of action?
Chapman rolled his eyes. Johannsen was a classic newspaperman, or at least fancied himself such. The evidence was that he occasionally lapsed into these moments when he thought inflating his words made him look smarter rather than just pretentious as all hell.
BYRD: lol whut
JOHANNSEN: Recall that we had marked a particular (former) White House staffer named Julie Blair for personal destruction?
Oh. Right. Her. Well, they'd gotten her fired, hadn't they? Not exactly what he'd promised in the heat of the moment, but still...not bad.
KORY: Yeah, that bitch. What about her?
JOHANNSEN: I had one of my reporters follow her after her unceremonious sacking yesterday? She went immediately to a bar, where she proceeded to mainline Cosmos until after midnight.
BYRD: wheeee getting drunkkkkk
JOHANNSEN: It gets better (for us, worse for her). Cursory examination of her social media accounts has allowed us to identify some...mutual acquaintances in Washington. Turns out Mrs. Blair has a history of embarrassing drinking-related experiences in her past.
KORY: You want to break this or is it too tabloid for you? Because I would run that shit. I would run that shit every day of the week and twice on Sundays just for kicks.
JOHANNSEN: You can run that if you'd like. I'm working on something a little deeper that dovetails with the firing: malfeasance. There's also a certain co-worker we've identified that might be...morally flexible enough to make certain statements to the effect that Mrs. Blair is both swift to turn to alcohol and loose with her morals, as it were.
Chapman rolled his eyes. What a pompous ass. Just say it: they were going to paint her as a slut. Whatever. That'd play well in the heartland, though he didn't much care given it didn't seem to have much truth to it.
KORY: This is the kind of salacious shit that I love.
CHALKE: That's fun and all, but hardly germane to the matter at hand. That said, if you can find enough pretext for your malfeasance, I'll throw a couple agents at her and see if we can round up anything else of interest. But it's not something I'm going to concentrate on.
CHAPMAN: Good, because we have bigger fish to fry. Push her to the backburner and let her boil there while we get this other thing under control. I'll be in Washington in a few hours. Let me know what bushes you need me to shake and I'll do it. I have a few ideas of my own as to where to start looking for info on our mystery man. Also, I might “hire” Bilson's firm – assuming it's still running without him.
FLANAGAN: Why?
This was the problem with these idiots. No vision, really.
CHAPMAN: Because I can use them to prepare the spin in case we get outed – or worse, dragged into the investigation into Bilson's death. It's not like you three yahoos completely hold the power of all media, and it'd be nice to have a synergistic narrative prepped if this happens. Bilson's crew was the top damage control team in the country, and while it's lost the star talent, having them in our back pocket would be useful.
Plus, he still had the fallout from the Lineage theft break to account for, though that had mostly been managed in-house thus far. Using Bilson's firm under the pretense of hiring outside help to investigate would sound nice, though, and give him another reason to get closer to that group. Which would let him do a little sniffing around of his own into reasons Bilson might have gotten whacked.
CHALKE: All right, well...I'm not totally satisfied with the spin of events, but I like that we have a basic direction to head. I've got to get back to it. I'm moving Nealon into my offices so I can watch her more closely.
CHAPMAN: Any chance you could get her to actually...y'know...work for us? Because so far she's just a bomb that goes off wherever it rolls.
CHALKE: I'll try.
And the bitch signed off on that note.
Chapman swore, not bothering to see what anyone else said. Slamming his phone down, he thought about it for a minute or two, then pressed the button on his desk to call his assistants.
“I need you to call Bernice Adams of Inquest for me.” Chapman didn't w
ait for the inevitable explanation request. “She hired some metahuman mercenaries during that crisis with the attacks out here earlier this year. I want those metas names and phone numbers. Before I get on the plane.” He cut them off before they could speak or confirm they'd heard him. They had. And he was already two steps past in his planning of how to deal with this crisis.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Julie Blair
The headache was pounding, punishing, the light streaming in through the blinds in her bedroom. Slitting her eyelids was painful to the skull, that steady ache behind her eyes like someone had managed to slip a spoon into her brain and was steadily tapping away with it somewhere in the middle of her head.
“Coffee?” came Dominic's sly voice from the door. There was noise somewhere beyond him, a peal of a child's laughter as Paige let loose about something funny.
“Please.” Julie's throat was dry, scratchy, felt like it had been filled with sand in the night. She didn't dare open her eyes again, though the strong smell of good coffee permeated the air. Was it here? The rich scent of creamer joined the coffee smell, and she realized from the radiating warmth that yes, it was here, in front of her very face if she but opened her eyes.
She did. It was still not pleasant, but soon enough there was a warm mug of coffee in her hands and she was sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes strangely sticky as she took her first, second and third sips in relative silence.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Dom asked, maintaining a safe distance. Because she hadn't had enough coffee yet.
“Didn't we kind of hash it over last night?” Julie asked between sips four and five. She kept her head hung. Because it hurt, because there was light, and because...she didn't want to look Dom in the eye right now.
The coffee brought warmth to the tight area behind her sinuses, galvanizing her brain slowly. The pain was still there. If only he had offered her some ibuprofen, he would be near perfect. Except for the lack of sex lately. But that was because of her work, and hey, she was out of that now...
Control: Out of the Box (The Girl in the Box Book 38) Page 6