"Come out," a woman's voice reaches me.
I stay motionless except for shallow sips of air.
A whisper of movement behind a tree. Sweat stings my eyes. A figure appears covered in armor and camouflage. Its helmet is plumed with leaves. Its rifle long and deadly. I don't move. It is looking down the path I abandoned to retrieve the pack.
Hard, dark eyes scan the forest. It's a woman. Her face is painted the same mix of greens and black as the jungle around us. My heart hammers in my chest. Sweat soaks my tank top. Bugs circle me, buzzing in my ear.
The baby spins, kicking out. My need to survive pulses in my throat. The soldier’s eyes level on the space above me and keep scanning. She walks forward, disappearing from view.
I wait. Time slides by. My heart slows down, my breath evens, the rushing in my ears quiets. My grip on the knife's handle loosens. Blue's nose taps my ankle. I look down at him. His ears are flat. There is no one close now.
I rise up to my knees, placing my knife next to me on the ground, and then open the pack. So well organized. First, I pull out the waist holster—one side for a handgun, the other for the machete. The pistol is secured in a foam-lined case. I check the weapon before holstering it. Next, I pull out the machete, the long, wide blade is sheathed in soft leather. I stand to properly attach it to my waist, tying the string around my thigh so that it won't bump against me if I run. When the blade is out, the soft leather allows me free movement.
I holster my smaller blade again and return to the pack, pulling out the map to the meet location and the compass. There is a GPS unit as well, but it won't be useful unless the people hunting me give up—its signal is too easy to trace. I check the rest of the supplies. Where is the radio? There is supposed to be a handheld radio in here.
I open Blue's pack, but the radio isn't there either. I'll have to make do without it. Blue pushes up against my arm as I pour him some fresh water. He laps at it while I settle the pack onto his back. With two zipper compartments, one on either side of his back, I have to be careful to keep the weight even. When he is done drinking, I return the bowl to the side it came out of and eyeball the assemblage to make sure it is balanced.
I heft my own pack, pulling the water tube free and taking a long draw from the interior bladder. I clip the hip support of the bag under my belly and tighten the chest strap. The pack lies tight against me so that I can still jog with it on.
Blue nuzzles my hip, and we move back to the narrow path as I orient with the compass and map. We have a few miles to go, and I want to make it to my meet point before darkness falls, staying alert to my pursuers. I break into a light jog, moving carefully through the jungle.
Following the map leads me off the trail and slows our progress as we have to hack through the jungle. Hours later my shoulder is aching, but the avoidance of the trails seems to have achieved its purpose of evading our attackers. I pause at a fallen tree, slipping off the pack and giving Blue more water and some kibble, watching the pink hues of sunset fade into the dusty blues of dusk.
I check the map again. We are not far now, but exhaustion is tugging at me. I gnaw at a protein bar. Darkness creeps in from between the trees. I let out a pathetic sigh as I pull out the headlamp. Bugs are going to swarm my head. Blue looks up at me from where he is lying next to the tree.
Should we just stay here tonight? I check the map again. No. We are close. "We can do it," I tell Blue. He cocks his head, as if that is obvious. I laugh and heft the machete.
It takes another forty-five minutes before I get to the rendezvous point. It's at the bottom of a cliff, so the vegetation is not as thick. I check the map again, swatting at the bugs swarming my light, then click it off and stare at the rocky ledge. I'm the only one here.
Too tired to think anymore, I set up the small tent included in my pack and curl up with Blue before falling into a deep sleep.
The howler monkeys wake me—their penetrating bellow pulling me from a dream that fades quickly, leaving me with a sense of unease. Blue sits up and presses his nose to the bottom of the zippered door of the tent. He looks back at me, his eyes glinting in the dark.
I reach for my gun, taking off the safety, and wait, straining to hear over the sounds of the jungle. Blue releases a quiet growl. There is someone out there. Could be other members of Joyful Justice who have arrived at the meet spot… or it could be someone else.
Light seeps through the tent slowly. I had slept in my clothing and now pull my boots close, tying them on quickly before picking up my gun again. Birds announce the sun cresting the horizon, their songs loud and gleeful.
The tent opens on both sides. Blue's focus remains on the south entrance, so I unzip the northern exposure. Blue tries to brush past me, but I stop him with a small gesture. If enemies are out there, I don't want them shooting Blue. I roll out of the tent, popping up in firing position—one knee down, the other leg bent, the pistol extended straight back in the direction that Blue growled in.
I'm aiming at a wall of vegetation. I scan my environment. Blue comes out of the tent and sits by my side. No one’s out here. Maybe he was just growling at the monkeys.
I stand and slowly lower my weapon. But when Blue barks, I turn quickly, raising the pistol.
The woman who almost found us near the camp stands in the shadows. Her rifle is aimed at my head. But she doesn’t fire. She wants me alive.
Our weapons trained on each other, eyes locked, we both just breathe for a moment.
Blue's growl rumbles low and deep. The insects whine and buzz, their song rising and falling. "I have to take you in," she says.
"Is it worth dying over or killing?"
"I'm not afraid of either of those outcomes."
"You should be. Have you ever killed anyone before?" She doesn't answer. "Ever killed a pregnant woman?" Her eyes flicker for just a second to my belly. "Or a dog? You'll never be the same. We will haunt you forever."
"I don't believe in ghosts."
"You should." Time stretches, my arm muscles begin to ache from holding the gun. An idea begins to form. "Why do you want me so badly?" Her brow furrows. "This isn't random. That you and I are here—and no one else. You planned this—me specifically being taken in." Something moves behind her eyes. Guilt maybe. Her jaw tenses, and her eyes drop to my belly again before she answers. "They told you not to hurt me." She still doesn't answer. "Was it Robert Maxim?" Her eyes flicker again, but she doesn't speak. "You promised to take me in personally. What do you get out of it?"
Her lips purse for a moment, and then she finally answers. "I got Dan Burke. Robert told me how to lure him back to the States."
"You're Consuela Sanchez." She nods. "Dan told me about you." I smile. "He likes you." Her eyes narrow. "So in exchange for Dan, Robert gets me."
"You're part of a larger deal."
"A deal?"
"A package."
"Like a present."
"A compensation package. We promised you'd be apprehended."
"Because he wants to save me." I almost laugh, but I'm too pissed. "He got someone to fuck with my pack. To remove my radio, change the map..." She doesn't answer. "What if…?" My voice trails off as an idea starts to crystalize.
"What?" she asks, curiosity softening her tone.
"What if I could help you? What if we worked together?"
"How?"
"Lower your weapon. I'll lower mine. We can talk." Her eyes narrow. I gesture with my chin at my pack. "I can make us coffee." She still doesn't move. "Look, reality check, Consuela. You're not going to shoot me. I'm not going with you unless I choose to; you can see that." She doesn't answer, but we both know I'm right. She might have the weight of the US government with her, but she can't hurt me. And, if necessary, I will hurt her.
She begins to lower her gun, and I mirror her movements. We slowly holster our weapons. "Do you have cream and sugar?" she asks.
This is going to work out just fine.
Chapter Thirty
Dan
>
The key-code lock disengages, and I ease the door open. Consuela's apartment lies mostly in darkness—the only light a diffuse pale yellow from the street lamps outside her windows. A white cat strides out from the bedroom, its eyes flashing iridescent green in the half light. It sits and watches as I close the door quietly behind me. I tried not to come back here. To stay on the island. I really did. But I couldn’t resist. This is necessary.
I stand at the threshold of her living room and take a deep breath. It smells like her—that sweet vanilla and metallic edge of fresh thyme. The cat moves forward and winds between my legs. I squat down and rub the top of its head with my gloved hand. I find a collar and turn over the name tag. Fuzzy Face Franny.
The cat purrs deeply and flops onto her back, offering a white belly for further ministrations. I smile—Fuzzy Face Franny does not belong to Consuela. She is cat sitting for her sister who is on a cruise with their mother. Consuela got back from the raid in Costa Rica two nights ago, so couldn't make the trip, but did swing by her sister’s place to pick up Franny on her way home. She's a good sister.
My watch face glows softly. Consuela will be home in an hour—she's at her favorite spin class. It's time to get to work. I cross to the windows and pull the thick drapes before getting my nonlinear junction detector out of my backpack. It detects electronic semiconductor components through dense materials such as bricks, concrete, and soil. Mine is made to detect and locate hidden cameras, microphones, and other electronic devices regardless of whether the surveillance device is radiating, hardwired, or turned off.
I extend the telescoping arm and press it to the closest wall. The touchscreen display shows nothing unusual as I scan the area. I move through the living room then round the kitchen island. Nothing in there either.
I find the router in the bedroom and unscrew the cable link even though any government device will use its own radio frequency; I like to follow best practices. Consuela's queen-sized bed is neatly made. There is a hamper with laundry in it and none on the floor. I pull the drapes closed before moving on.
Opening her bathroom door, that vanilla scent wafts out. While scanning the room, I discover the source of the smell. Her body lotion. The shampoo is herbal and explains the aroma of thyme that lingers around her.
There is nothing in the bathroom to suggest her fiancé spends time here.
I find no evidence of surveillance equipment in her apartment either. Her phone will need to be neutralized immediately upon entry. She can't keep her phone clean… I should know.
It is impossible to believe that the woman set to marry the head of the Senate Intelligence Committee is not being watched. Consuela probably does her own sweeps regularly though, and I doubt they'd waste the energy to put a unit on her. I set up a white noise machine in the living room that will block any long-range microphones just in case… best practices again.
Twenty minutes left to look for the diary. I start in her bedroom, opening the bedside table drawer. Next to a Bible is a black bound notebook. That was easy. She obviously doesn’t expect to have her home invaded by someone searching for her most intimate thoughts.
I pick up the notebook, my heart beating furiously. Sitting on the bed, I open to the first page, recognizing her neat cursive writing. The first entry is from the time we started working together several months ago. I start to read.
Eighteen minutes later my phone alerts me that Consuela is close. I move to the couch. Fuzzy joins me, settling into my lap. Images of Dr. Evil flash through my mind as my gloved hand pets the white cat. I don't want world domination. Just a conversation… an explanation.
The door opens, and Consuela tosses her keys onto the table by the front door, continuing into the living room, her head bowed over her phone. She stops to finish typing. The cat leaps off my lap and stalks over, winding between Consuela's ankles.
I drink her in. Her hair is up in a high ponytail that is still swaying from her entry. Consuela's down jacket is unzipped. Her leggings hug her like a second skin. My eyes can't help but drift over them, setting off an ache in my chest. Enough.
I stand slowly.
Consuela’s eyes find me in the dark, and she startles, dropping her phone and reaching for her gun before she's recognized me. I hold my finger to my lips. I've got to get her phone neutralized before she makes a sound.
Recognition blooms in her gaze, and her eyes narrow. But she doesn’t speak. I hold up the Faraday box I brought with me—a black cell phone size case that distributes electrostatic charge around the exterior, acting as a shield. Nothing gets in or out. I point to the phone where she dropped it on the floor. She darts her eyes to it, keeping the barrel of her gun aimed at my chest.
I silently ask for permission. She kicks the device over to me. I pick up the phone and slip it into the box. I tip it toward her so she can see mine is in there too. I close the box.
"What are you doing here?" she asks.
"We need to talk. Can you put the gun away?"
She slowly lowers it but does not re-holster the weapon. "You spoke to Sydney about the raid in Costa Rica,” she says.
"All is fair in love and war."
She tilts her chin up so she can look down her nose at me. "This isn't another declaration, is it?"
"No. I recognize that you're engaged to Senator Chiles."
"Good."
"You'd make a captivating first lady some day. Give him a lot of credibility with people of color and law enforcement."
"He will make an excellent president."
"Not with my algorithms he won't."
Her head shakes slightly, setting the ponytail off. "He is what is best for America. As you've pointed out so many times, Dan, there is nothing illegal about your algorithms." She holsters her weapon and puts her hands on her hips. She might get off legally if she shot a man who surprised her in her darkened living room, but days of tabloid coverage would be politically damaging.
I glance at my watch. The self-destruct sequence in my algorithm has begun. Her phone is in the Faraday box, so she won't know until I'm gone.
"You're so loyal to your nation that you'll sacrifice your own happiness?" I ask.
"I'm not sacrificing anything."
"Really? I read your diary."
Her eyes go round. "What right—" She cuts herself off.
"You have feelings for me. We both know it. Let's not pretend."
She shakes her head, setting off the ponytail again. "I'm not going to be in a relationship with a criminal, Dan." There is acid in her voice.
I meet her gaze. "A freedom fighter. A brilliant coder. A man who can love you more than your senator."
Her eyes flash in the near darkness. "Get out."
"Come with me."
"Get out." Her voice slices through the air, cutting right down my center.
"I don't think that's what you really want."
She steps to the side, almost tripping over the cat and cursing. "I—" She takes a deep breath but does not meet my eyes. "I had feelings for you. That happens when you're working closely with someone. But…" Now she meets my gaze. Even in the dark I can see her determination. "I have made my choice."
"You won't be able to live with it," I warn her. "You're too passionate to subjugate yourself for anything—not even your own purposes."
"You"—she points at me—"you don't actually know me."
I laugh, harsh and short. "I know you better than your senator. Does he know how you feel about me? What you wrote in your diary? That you've never felt this before—the butterflies." I take a step toward her. She backs up, her lips pursing.
"I'm not throwing away everything I've worked for, my family, everything I believe in for butterflies!"
I want to kiss her so badly that I have to turn away from her to stop myself. "It's more than butterflies." I take a calming breath and turn back to face her. "Can't you see that we are in love?"
"It doesn't matter what I feel for you." Her voice is choked. "I can't. I won't
be with you. Ever."
Pain stings my eyes. "Okay," I say. "If that's what you really want, I'll leave." My heart beats like a hammer.
"Go." The word is as heavy as a punch.
I pick up my backpack, leaving the Faraday box on the table. The phone in there is for her… so that we can communicate without others knowing.
I turn and head to the door. "Dan..." Her voice is choked. I turn back. Consuela looks so confused it almost breaks my heart all over again. She licks her lips. Before I even realize what I'm doing, I've closed the space between us and pulled her close, crashing my lips onto hers. Consuela ignites in my arms, wrapping herself around me as though she plans to never let me go.
We hit the wall hard enough to knock a painting down. My bag drops off my arm. As I pick her up, legs wrap around my waist. We are lost in each other. Totally destroyed.
Chapter Thirty-One
Lenox
At the age of five, an octopus in a glass bottle washes up at my feet. The creature pulses a rainbow of colors, its suckers pressed against the clear glass. I stare down at where it lies between my feet, mesmerized.
The next wave rushes in a frothy white over my feet, stealing the new prize away. I go after it.
My mother calls out, but her words are lost in my excited race after the bottle into the bubbling foaming sea—it pulls me along, invites me in. The bottle rises in front of me, caught in the next cresting wave. It towers above me, a sheer gleaming wall of blue topped with white sprays. The bottle rises above my head as the water arches over me.
The wave takes me. It tumbles me. I don’t know which way is up or down. Even as my cheek grates against the sand, I cannot figure out where the surface—the air—has gone.
I hit something hard, my shoulders striking twin pillars. Strong hands grip my arms and heave me up. My mother clutches me close; water streams off us both. "Don't do that again, Lenox."
I promise I won't. I believe I've learned my lesson. I never want that to happen again.
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