by Juno Rushdan
This woman had ambushed his heart with the little sneak attacks of an insurgent. She owned him now, from skin to viscera to bone.
32
Grand Cayman Island
Sunday, July 7, 7:35 p.m. EST/8:35 p.m. EDT
Gideon had slept a total of eight hours in the last forty-seven. With twin 550 horsepower engines and a tank capacity of 525 gallons, they’d only made two pit stops at small fuel docks that wouldn’t have surveillance cameras linked to a real-time facial recognition system and then pressed on wide-open throttle.
Docking at Grand Cayman Island was a sobering dose of reality. The journey had been a reprieve Willow needed, and the languid interludes of honesty and sharing in a manner that was foreign to him had been…nice.
But the vacay vibe dulled his edge. He needed to be wired, sharp, and hard. No room for softness.
He’d steered clear of customs, avoiding the harbors packed with cruise ships, and picked a smaller one for locals. Stealing a car would’ve been simple. A plethora of older models lined the streets. It’d been a while since he’d driven on the left side of the road—though like riding a bike, he’d pick it up again—but no need to draw unnecessary attention to themselves. The British territory provided conveniences such as a public bus system, and a sign indicated a stop a short walk from the residential harbor. He slung the backpack over his shoulder and helped Willow off the boat onto the dock.
The pink sundress clung to her, draping her curves and showing off her legs. He must’ve gotten the size wrong, too small. The fabric looked airbrushed on.
At the bus stop, they caught the shuttle, a glorified van with seats for twelve. He steered Willow to a rear seat by a window and sat next to her, settling the backpack on his lap. Angled to leap into action at a nanosecond of notice, he gave everyone who boarded the once-over.
There were no security cameras on the van and no CCTV on the roads. If the Gray Box or whoever else was after Willow tried to tap into any surveillance feeds here, the coverage would be limited and easy to evade on the streets.
The bank was a wild card. A thirty-minute drive away, considering the island’s sluggish speed limit of twenty-five miles per hour, the bank wouldn’t open for another thirteen hours, but he wanted to scope out the exits and windows before they walked in. They needed the passport with Willow’s real name to access the account, but he’d have to devise an exit strategy and get her a passport with a fake name to leave later.
Willow gazed out the window, fiddling with the hem of her dress and balling her fingers into knots. If the situation were different, not overcast with danger, he would’ve taken her hand in his. They’d enjoy the long drive down the coast, gazing at the sparkling sea, her warm body nuzzled against him. She’d let her inner starling out, snap pictures of the clusters of houses that adorned the landscape in a vivid palette of color. He’d offer to take her parasailing or snorkeling, or if she preferred, they’d simply laze around.
He shoved the quiet longing into the darkness. Time for indulging in fantasies was done.
* * *
In the heart of bustling George Town, they passed the Nova World Bank, a two-story building on a busy corner. Gideon didn’t see any traffic cams and no security camera above the front entrance. He still needed to do a walk-by.
He signaled Willow, and they hopped off at the next stop on the long drag of Church Street adjacent to the beach. The bank was two blocks back to the north on the main strip. Shops, restaurants, and hotels dotted the road in splashes of color, prodding his spirit to lift, but he tuned it out. He needed detachment to stay focused.
She pointed out an electronics store and he followed her inside. Back on the boat, he’d explained his rough plan, but she’d had a better one. He didn’t understand the technical jargon, but she needed a laptop, thumb drive, and had to create something called a rootkit to pull it off.
While she collected the items in the store, he blocked her profile from the security cameras. They paid in cash and ventured outside. With his hand pressed to the small of her back, they meandered south through a stream of pedestrians, past a side street lined with stores and restaurants.
The first accommodation they came upon was a behemoth resort on the busy corner of the shopping row. Too much activity. Low-key was better.
They crossed the congested street to a modest four-story hotel on the beach. Nothing flashy. A good place to hole up until morning.
“What are we doing here?” she asked. “I thought we were staying on the boat tonight.”
He held the door open for her. “Docked in the harbor, someone might nose around. Better to be close to the bank, and I could use a shower where I’m not cramped.”
Strolling across the polished floor of the lobby, he scanned for surveillance cameras. He noted elevators, stairwells, an exit to the beach, sign for a restaurant, and two bellboys.
At the reception desk, he turned, facing Willow. His back to one camera, limited profile to the other, he screened her partially from both.
“Good evening,” said a middle-aged man with inky curls. “How may I help you?”
“Checking in. No reservation. One room. One night. Top floor, if you have it available. Something with easy access to the elevators and stairs, but away from ice or vending machines.”
More than one egress point was essential, and those machines made too much noise. More important, they provided a plausible reason for someone to loiter.
“Ocean or pool view, sir?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Willow took his hand, drawing his gaze, stirring his blood. “I’d like the ocean view.”
The honed instinct to break free of the physical contact wrestled with the impulse to tug her closer. He’d never worn two hats in mission mode before, and he didn’t know how to label the second hat. Playing a role for an op was natural, but his ability to compartmentalize with Willow had malfunctioned.
Straddling the chasm was a tricky spot. The gateway to mistakes.
She was as dangerous to him as he was bad for her. He couldn’t risk alienating her or ratcheting up her nerves to a precarious high. Keeping her calm, close, and safe mattered most.
He curled his fingers around hers. “Ocean view it is.”
* * *
The seaside hotel sat on the beach, their room facing the water. As Gideon showered, Willow opened every window, drawing the balcony doors wide. A warm cross-flow breeze whipped the white gossamer curtains into the air. Waves broke on the sandy beach below.
She peeled off the scratchy, plastered-on dress, tossing it to the bed. Briny air danced across her skin like brushed silk, and the smell of sea salt curled around her until she tasted it.
The bathroom door flew open, and she turned. Gideon hovered in the threshold, dressed, steam snaking out from behind him. His golden hair shone like a halo, his pale-blue gaze hard as bulletproof glass. She stilled.
He stalked across the room and slammed all the windows shut. Reaper was back.
The tender man who’d made love to her and cooked for her on the boat was gone. This other side of him she respected, even admired, but she didn’t like it one on one.
She’d never get over how easily he shifted from giving off so much heat he could melt the polar ice caps when he touched her to being agent-on-duty, radiating an arctic chill.
“I’m going to scope out the bank.” He locked the last window, drawing the curtains. “When I get back, I’ll grab food from the restaurant. We’ll eat in the room. While I’m gone, windows and balcony doors stay shut, babe.” The biting tone he used when barking out orders was worse than fingernails scraping chalkboard.
Lobbing in a babe didn’t do a smidge to soften it.
“What’s wrong with fresh air? We’re on the top floor. There’s no fire escape for someone to climb up, and no one knows we’re here. We’re safe. Aren’t we?”
>
In two long strides, he crossed the distance separating them, snatching the oxygen from her lungs. “It’s easy to jump from one balcony to another.”
There were too many factors throwing off her equilibrium, wreaking havoc on her brain waves, while he circumnavigated everything fearlessly.
“The windows stay locked, curtains closed while I’m out.” His tone was caustic.
“I know you’re trying to keep me safe, and I can follow orders. I take them from the chief all the time. But I won’t be ordered about. There’s a difference.” She rubbed her arms, glancing around the small room, not much larger than the quarters on the boat. “I want to eat in the restaurant. Not cooped up in here.”
Eyeing her, he went motionless, growing so rigid that she had to look away from the unearthliness of him.
“Please.” She stared at her feet, suddenly self-conscious about her nudity. “I need it. My life is in pieces. I have no idea what’s going to happen. I had to leave my father, everything familiar behind, with nothing certain. I was confined on the boat, then the ride in the little van, now this room.” Anxiety spiraled inside her, her mind racing. The walls were closing in. “I need a long walk, but I know it’s too risky. Please, let’s eat in the restaurant.”
Heavy silence followed—a gaping hole where the conversation should’ve continued. A shiver ran through her. You could hear a pin drop. She pulled at the skin on the back of her hand, taking comfort in the slight pain from the pinch.
“Dangerous.” His voice was low, harsh.
Her gaze flickered to him. He looked like a terrifying, beautiful god ready to smite a wayward mortal.
“The restaurant’s dangerous?”
“No.” The icy word pierced the air, and she was lost as to what he was talking about. “We’ll eat in the restaurant.” He pulled out the gun tucked against the small of his back. A sci-fi looking 9mm with built-in silencer. “Do you remember how to fire one?”
Her eyes went wide, pulse skipping a beat. “Uh. Remove the safety. Aim. Breathe. Exhale, put my finger on the trigger. Second exhale, fire.”
He thumbed off the safety and chambered a round. The sharp sound made her flinch.
“Keep your eyes open no matter what. Aim for the head or chest. Don’t hesitate.”
She took the gun, disliking the weight of the steel in her hands and the bitter taste filling her mouth. “You might need this out there.”
“I’ll be fine.” He took the hammer from the bag he’d packed, slipped it through a belt loop, and shoved the screwdriver into his pocket, then concealed the tools with a long-sleeved shirt. “I won’t be long.”
She walked toward him, the gun shaking in her hand. At the door, he looked down at her, his eyes fixed on her mouth. She hoped he was going to kiss her, and her lips tingled at the thought.
“Lock it behind me.” He gave her a peck on the forehead and shut the door.
Beating back disappointment, she turned the deadbolt and exhaled the breath she’d been holding.
“Chain,” he said from the other side of the door.
She threw the chain on and set the gun on the nightstand. In four days, her entire world had been pulverized to so many unrecognizable bits, nothing left was tangible.
Finally, everything was hitting her at once. She might go to prison for something she didn’t do. Assassins were hunting her, and her father…
Willow sat on the bed and stared at the new laptop. She needed to get her life back, starting by taking care of her end of the plan.
In the electronic store they’d stopped at, she had bought a pair of high-fidelity earplugs designed for concert goers, but they should filter sound the same. She was so used to the comforting feel of the earbuds while working at the office that she used them at home as well.
She set up the laptop, logged into the hotel Wi-Fi, and downloaded Tor—the onion router. The program allowed her to surf the darknet. In Onionland, as it was also known, people traded in Bitcoin, bought hacking services, and hired contract killers, and she’d even discovered a nasty bioweapon for sale.
Which was precisely how all this trouble started less than a month ago, when she stumbled upon the auction of weaponized smallpox that had led the Gray Box to Aleksander “the Ghost” Novak. In a roundabout way, she was responsible for putting herself dead center in the mole’s crosshairs and for jeopardizing Gideon’s life. She had to do everything in her power to save herself and give him any possible assistance.
Surfing the layers of the dark web, she nosed around in one of her peer-to-peer networks. She wasn’t friends or colleagues with anyone on here—at least she didn’t think so. Everyone hid their identity. She fished through the available files and found the illegal kernel-mode rootkit.
The clandestine software wasn’t malware on its own but had the stealth capability to make the malicious payload bundled with it undetectable. The program was complex, highly sophisticated. It would run as part of the operating system itself on the targeted computer, opening a back door and giving her carte blanche security access.
Willow embedded the program in a link in an email, which wouldn’t be flagged by IT, unlike some attachments, and sent it to every offshore-accounts manager at the bank. She and Gideon would sit with one of those managers in the morning, and as a million-dollar client, she could ensure that they not only opened the email but also clicked the link.
Tomorrow, they just had to distract the account manager outside the office long enough for her to get onto their computer and copy the relevant files. To pull this off, every detail had to be perfectly synchronized.
Willow rubbed her eyes and glanced at the clock. Her sister should’ve made it to Virginia. Hopefully, she wasn’t in any danger and their father was recovering.
She needed to call, but it wasn’t safe to do so from a landline that would give away her location instantly if Laurel’s phone was being monitored. A voice-over-IP call through the computer, on the other hand, would be difficult to trace.
Laurel had the Viber app on her cell phone, same as Willow, allowing them to speak to Ivy overseas for free. The app also enabled VoIP-to-mobile calls.
She installed the necessary plug-ins on the computer for Viber along with a virtual private network software that’d hide her real IP address and assign a fake one tied to a country of her choosing.
Casablanca, Morocco, seemed plausible. Lots of flights in and out, large enough city to disappear, and the country had no formal extradition treaty with the United States.
Once everything was set up, she placed the call. The line rang and rang. Finally, her sister answered.
“Hello. Willow?” Laurel’s voice was brittle, sending a flicker of fear through her.
She prayed their father’s condition hadn’t worsened. “It’s me. Are you with Dad? How is he?”
33
Near the Potomac River, Virginia
Sunday, July 7, 10:10 p.m. EDT
Omega nodded, prompting the woman to continue.
“Dad is in a coma,” the bound woman said into the cell phone on speaker that one of his men held in front of her mouth. “They’re not sure what’s causing it. Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you,” Willow Harper said. “Thanks for driving out. I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important. I’m in trouble. Some bad people are after me. I think they hurt Dad, burned down the house. If you see anything suspicious, go to hospital security and call the police.”
Dead silence as the sister shut her eyes and pressed her lips in a grim line.
“Laurel? Are you okay?”
Omega had prepped the woman for this very call. Rho, his second in charge and topnotch techie, was ready to track it. Omega pressed the muzzle of his gun to the woman’s temple.
“Willow, I’m worried about Dad. He might not recover. I don’t want you to miss a chance to say goodbye. Wher
e are you? When are you coming back?”
He looked to his tech guru. Rho shook his head. Omega went to him, out of range of the phone.
“What’s the hold up?” he mouthed.
“She’s calling over the Internet and masking her IP,” Rho whispered. “I need time.”
“I’m not sure when I’ll be back,” Willow said. “I can’t stay on the phone much longer.”
Omega gestured with his gun to keep the conversation going.
“Wait. Wait…I love you. I’m sorry for giving you a hard time when we were younger. I was pretty mean sometimes, and now I have kids…” The sister sobbed into the phone. “My sweet girls…I miss my girls. And Daddy might die. I’m counting on you to come home soon.”
Omega could tell Rho was close—the dude’s face was twisted in an intense expression like he was jerking off and about to blow a load as his fingers flew across the keyboard.
“I’m trying, Laurel. Thank you for—”
“What happened to the house? And to Dad? The cops are saying you did it. But you wouldn’t, would you? Mom loved that house. You were born there. And you’re Dad’s favorite—you wouldn’t hurt him. Would you?”
Rho threw his head back with an ecstatic look, raising his hands from the laptop. Omega would swear Rho enjoyed hacking more than fucking.
“I didn’t do it, Laurel. I have to go. Give Dad a kiss from me. I love you.”
The line went dead.
“You got it?” Omega asked.
Rho nodded, grinning like the cat who swallowed the canary. “There’s a new security flaw in Web Real-Time Communication. The vulnerability is browser-based in Chrome, Firefox, Internet Explorer, and Opera. She was on one of them. I had to use JavaScript to send a STUN request through WebRTC to the third-party network server on the other side of NAT. It returned her real IP address.”
Yada, yada, nerd speak—whatever. “Where are they?”
“A hotel on Grand Cayman Island,” Rho said.
“They’re going after the money.” Drawing in a breath, Omega did a rough flight-time calculation. Eight to nine hours by helicopter. A commercial flight was exponentially faster, but they’d be hard-pressed to get a flight this late, and they’d have to contend with securing weapons on the island. Taking the helo gave them the ability to travel anonymously and carry all their gear and the flexibility to touch down as close to the bank as possible. Hell, if he wanted, he could land on the beach.
