by Tina Folsom
Why hadn’t she thought of this earlier? He must have had tabs on her all along, having her watched every moment just in case she didn’t comply with his demands. How stupid had she been! Nick running into her at the coffee shop and then, later, when she’d nearly stepped in the path of the taxi couldn’t be a coincidence. Smith had set it up. And for all she knew, he’d even orchestrated it so that the taxi would almost hit her so Nick could save her and thus gain her confidence.
And she’d fallen for that cheap trick. Hadn’t she seen this kind of thing happening countless times in movies and TV shows? She should have recognized it for what it was: a ploy. A trick for Nick to get close so he could watch her, maybe even gain her trust so she would tell him what she was planning.
She wanted to curse, to scream, but she couldn’t. She had to play along now, not let him know that she knew, that she’d discovered his deception and was onto him. She had to remain calm and behave as if nothing had happened.
The door of the bathroom opening nearly made her jump out of her skin.
Way to go, Michelle, she chastised herself silently. That’ll look normal.
Nick didn’t come into the living room, but headed straight for the bedroom. She heard him get dressed. She used the little time it bought her to take deep breaths and calm herself. When she heard his footsteps again, she quickly slammed the lid of her laptop shut and stood up.
“Michelle.” His voice was hesitant.
Slowly, she turned, facing him. She tried a smile but failed.
“Sorry, I, uh… didn’t mean to frighten you earlier.” He ran a hand through his damp hair, looking utterly crushed. “The nightmares, they’ve become less frequent.”
“Nightmares?” she echoed.
“Yeah. I was in Iraq. It was hell.” He dropped his gaze to his feet.
“Iraq? You were in the war?” Did that explain at least his nightmares? It could. And oddly enough it could also explain other things. If he was ex-military, then it made even more sense that Smith had hired him to keep tabs on her.
“Yeah. One tour, but it was enough.” He paused. “Listen, I’d better go. I’ve got work to do. I’ll call you tonight?”
She nodded quickly, eager for him to leave her apartment. When he walked up to her instead, she tensed. He froze a foot away from her, clearly having noticed her apprehension.
“I’m sorry again, I know it must have scared you.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek.
“It’s okay.” Michelle forced a smile.
“Talk later, okay?”
Nick turned and walked to the door, grabbing his backpack on the way out. Only when the door snapped shut behind him was she able to breathe again.
“Oh God,” she murmured to herself. “I’ve slept with the enemy.”
13
Nick pulled his laptop from its compartment and placed it on his desk, before he tossed the backpack in the corner, angry at himself.
He was used to lying to cover his ass, but by God, he’d hated lying to Michelle, telling her he was an Iraq vet suffering from post traumatic stress. What a cheap shot that had been. There were lots of real Iraq vets out there dealing with PTSD and worse. And there he was, using them to cover up his real issues.
He’d never served in the military, though he’d served his country as a CIA agent for many years. He’d sacrificed his life to keep the people of this country safe, and how had they repaid him? By chasing him down like a dog. It was time to fight back.
But first things first.
Nick navigated to the folder where he’d saved the information from Michelle’s flash drive and looked at the files. One was a picture file. He clicked it open. It was a portrait of Michelle. He recognized immediately what it was for, the lack of a smile and the way her head was turned, giving away its purpose. It was a passport picture. Only, why would she have a digital version of it? Passport pictures were normally submitted in printed form when applying through the post office.
Curious, Nick perused the other files.
One was a resume. He scanned it quickly. There wasn’t much. A few jobs as a software consultant and a degree from an online university, as well as a list of computer programs Michelle was proficient in: C, Fortran, JavaScript, Lisp, Python. She clearly knew her stuff.
Nick closed the document and continued. A small text file drew his attention. He opened it and read the two lines of information: Jennifer Miller, birth date: May 5, 1991, hair: dark blond, eyes: blue, height: 5’7”. All information needed for a passport, though the name didn’t match. Was Michelle Andrews trying to become Jennifer Miller? To what purpose? He opened the next text file. It only contained one item: an email address.
Nick logged into one of his bogus email accounts and drafted a message, leaving the text blank and only putting one word into the subject line: Inquiry. He pressed Send and waited. Sixty seconds later, his email account pinged. The message landing in his inbox was from System Administrator, and the subject line said Undeliverable. The text stated that the email address didn’t exist. Just as he’d suspected. Whoever had used this email address had already deactivated it.
“What are you up to, Michelle?” he murmured.
He opened document after document. Job applications and documents with hyperlinks. He followed the links and reviewed them in his browser: research on different countries, one leading directly to a PDF document. He flew over the text, wondering what she was looking for, when one word stuck out: Extradition. He read the sentence. There is no extradition treaty in place with the U.S.
It was clear now: Michelle was running from the law.
He tried to piece together what he knew about her so far: a past with Anonymous that could have gotten her into trouble with the authorities; electronic files that could be used to get a fake passport; a bogus email address that most likely put her in touch with a person who could procure such a passport; research on countries that didn’t extradite criminals back to the US; and Michelle being the prime suspect for trying to keep him out of the CIA’s servers. It all fit. Somebody who knew about her past had to have hired her. Had that person offered her a large sum of money, maybe even provided the contact to get a fake passport so she could start a life far away from here?
Or was somebody using her past against her, forcing her to flush him out, and she was doing this against her will? Either scenario was possible. In any case, it meant he couldn’t trust Michelle, though he’d already known that from the start. The information he’d uncovered from her flash drive only cemented what he’d already suspected: that she was trying to get the drop on him. But he was smarter.
Just as he was opening the next document from Michelle’s drive, an alert pinged in his inbox. He switched screens and read it.
Finally.
The notification was from an advertisement he’d placed on the Dark Web. He logged off his current internet connection. From his desk drawer he retrieved a pre-paid jetpack and jammed it into one of the slots in his laptop, then connected to the web from there. He would dispose of the jetpack to ensure his IP address remained secret after he was done so nobody would be able to trace him to his current location.
It took only moments until he was in the right place on the Dark Web to retrieve the message that had been sent to him. There was no sender’s name. But the message itself was compelling. Somebody had seen his meeting request and wanted to set up a time and place. All keywords the person used were the right ones. Keywords the members of Stargate used. While some of them could of course be used by anybody, the fact that all of them were in the message pointed to the conclusion that the person who was contacting him was a fellow Stargate agent.
Still, Nick knew to be careful. There was always a chance that an enemy was coercing a Stargate agent to reveal his secrets by whatever means necessary. Not even a Stargate agent was immune to torture. Therefore, he’d take all necessary precautions before he set the meet. He wouldn’t go in unarmed.
But he had to go. He couldn
’t let this opportunity go by. For too long he’d been searching for his fellow agents so he could finally unravel the mystery in his darkest premonition. He needed to stop whatever was going to happen. It was big. He knew that instinctively, bigger than what he could handle himself.
He needed help.
Help only another trusted Stargate agent could provide. It was worth the risk.
14
The message had been clear. Michelle was to go to a specific spot in Constitution Gardens tonight and record what she saw. There would be a clandestine meeting. If she performed well, Smith had texted her, maybe she’d even be rewarded for it. Michelle scoffed at that. What kind of reward was Smith thinking of? To kill her quickly should the people who were meeting clandestinely in some deserted corner of Washington discover her and try to torture her to tell them what she knew—which was nothing—so she wouldn’t have to suffer?
Great. It was bad enough that she had to spy on some hacker online, now Smith actively put her in harm’s way by sending her out on a nightly mission. Hell, she wasn’t trained for this. Why didn’t he use one of his covert agents—which he surely had, Nick being one of them!—or do the dirty job himself? No, he had to use a weak woman for that, one who didn’t even know karate or any other form of self-defense. A fat chance in hell—that’s all she’d have when it came to survival.
Damn it.
In her hiding place, behind a bush, she kept quiet though she wanted to scream at the injustice of it all. Wasn’t it enough that Smith had assigned her a watcher?
Michelle had arrived under cover of darkness only moments after the sun had gone down and it was dark enough so nobody would notice her creeping around and get suspicious. Hours before the presumed meeting was to take place, she was already waiting, poised to record whatever she saw.
Meanwhile, the mosquitoes swirled around her, eating her alive. It hadn’t cooled down despite the thunderstorm the night before. In her black, long-sleeved T-shirt and her dark pants, she felt too hot and woefully overdressed, though it meant that the mosquitoes only caught her hands, neck, and face, although she could swear that some were trying to work their way up her pant leg. She slapped at her lower leg, where she felt the sting, and cursed under her breath.
Bloodsuckers!
There were still tourists around, taking pictures of the various monuments in the park, which were lit up by strong spotlights. Lincoln Memorial, of which she had a good view across the Reflecting Pool, was one of them. People were taking pictures on the stairs, selfies with the sitting statue of President Lincoln behind them, or group photos, asking other tourists for help. But the longer she waited, the less people she saw. The tourists finally withdrew, returning to their hotels or other, more interesting sights by night.
Michelle crouched between the bushes, looking around herself. She didn’t want to miss the arrival of the mysterious strangers or be spotted by them.
The silence in the large park was eerie. There was the sound of birds fluttering in the dark, and the annoying buzzing of some overeager flies and mosquitoes, but all human-made sounds were in the distance. Cars driving on Constitution and Independence Avenues, others crossing Arlington Memorial Bridge. In the dark, the sounds carried far. But they were also soothing, almost comforting, because they confirmed that normal life continued—while her life was taking a turn for the worse. She knew it. She could sense it in her bones, feel it by the way the hairs at her nape stood up as if to protest.
She shouldn’t be here. She should be on a plane to South America, fake passport in hand. But she was still waiting for that fake passport. Her contact—recommended by an old friend from Anonymous—had urged her to be patient. If the passport needed to pass federal inspection at a US airport, it needed to be perfect. He couldn’t rush it, but he’d promised to deliver it in two days, just before her ultimatum with the mysterious Mr. Smith ran out. She would be out of here before he could throw her into prison. And he would, given half a chance, because the hacker she’d been so close to nailing, had gone dark. The entire week, she’d not seen his digital signature anywhere. As if he knew she was onto him.
The sound of a twig breaking shattered the silence and made her snap her head in the other direction. She tried to adjust her eyes, searching in the dark for the person who’d created that sound, but saw nothing. The area it had come from was too dark—not lit up like the monuments around her. She would need night-vision goggles. Smith should have thought of that. Clearly, her blackmailer wasn’t quite as smart as he pretended to be. How was she going to see anything, and know what to record? Hell, her cell phone wouldn’t be able to pick up anything if she didn’t even know which direction to point it in.
There, another sound! This time, it was clearly footsteps. Their echo was difficult to pinpoint. Was the sound coming from the right or the left? She shifted, and her T-shirt got snagged on a branch. She jerked back. The ripping sound resonated in the silence.
Shit!
~ ~ ~
The person hiding in the bushes was no Stargate agent, Nick assessed immediately. He was close enough that he would have been able to sense the special aura a Stargate member gave off. It was something he’d discovered early on after he’d been recruited by Henry Sheppard. He’d instantly felt a kindred spirit with the older man, as if he’d known him a long time.
Sheppard had told him that it was like recognizing like. One Stargate agent recognizing another. It was a survival instinct. Nature had made sure that some of its special children knew each other and could come to each other’s aid should it be necessary.
Nick had no illusions that the person hiding in the darkness meant him harm and wasn’t just a lost tourist. He recognized that the stranger was holding his breath, trying not to be heard. But he couldn’t see his would-be assailant, because the area was pitch-black, while only a few yards away there was sufficient light from the monuments and the city itself to see outlines and shapes.
Not knowing what training the person lying in wait had, Nick took no chances. One wrong move and he could have a bullet in his brain or a knife in his heart. And he was rather fond of his life and not ready to trade it in for an eternal sojourn in a wooden box six feet under.
Nick had undergone basic CIA training at The Farm, training that encompassed self-defense, hand-to-hand combat, and weaponry, even before he’d been recruited into the Stargate program by Sheppard. He’d been selected by a CIA recruiter for his computer skills right out of college and assigned to data security at Langley a full two years before Henry Sheppard had taken notice of him. Even after being drafted in the Stargate program, he’d continued to work at Langley in his less secret capacity as a data security analyst.
Nick had become particularly fond of his Glock, a handgun that handled well and was currently holstered under his left arm, ready to be deployed at a moment’s notice.
Setting one foot in front of the other, treading lightly so as not to make any sounds, Nick stalked toward the copse of trees and bushes. He circled to the left, slowly approaching. His breathing was even and silent, his eyes trained on the target in front of him. While night-vision goggles would have come in handy and given him a definite advantage, he knew he could make up for this lack of equipment with his other senses—including his impeccable sharpshooting skills.
Calmly, he reached into his jacket and pulled the Glock from its holster. A few more steps. He was close.
A rustle in the bushes as if the assailant was moving, shifting, sensing that he’d been discovered.
But it was too late. Nick was already onto him. Behind him. Only a few feet now. Nick lifted his leg, set it down a foot ahead of him. He felt the twig beneath his sole too late and cracked it. The sound echoed in the night.
A sharp intake of air was the response, then a sudden movement right in front of him: the stranger spinning around to face him. He wasn’t tall for a man, average in fact, and lightly built.
Nick lunged forward, slamming the man into the tree. A split seco
nd later, he pressed the Glock’s cold barrel to the would-be assailant’s forehead, cocking it.
“One wrong move, and this bullet will make mush out of your brain.”
A loud gasp, the sound too high-pitched to come from a man, startled him for a second. Just as the uncontrollable trembling did.
“Nick! Don’t!”
Shock charged through his bones, paralyzing him for an instant. But then his training kicked in.
“Michelle!” he ground out. He hadn’t expected her, though he should have.
“Oh God, thank you,” she let out, seemingly relieved. “Please, take that gun away. You’re scaring me.”
“Am I?” It could all be a ploy to get him to lower his gun so she could take him out. He moved closer. “Are you armed?”
“Armed? No!”
He used his free hand to frisk her, first her front, then he reached behind her to check if she’d tucked a gun into the back of her jeans. She hadn’t.
“What are you doing?” Panic laced her voice. “Nick, tell me what’s going on!”
“I was gonna ask you the same question.” He moved closer now, close enough so he could make out her facial features.
Yeah, it was definitely Michelle, dressed all in black like a ninja, her dark blond hair hidden under a scarf she’d tied at her nape. At least she hadn’t blackened her cheeks with shoe polish.
“I was just, uh, you know, going for a walk,” she mumbled.
He pressed her harder against the tree trunk. “Try again, honey!”
She pulled her shoulders down, puffing up her chest. “I swear! I was just minding my own business, and then I heard something, so I figured, I’d hide. You know, there are muggers in the park at night.”
