This was different. He had no experience in this. No statistics or tactical recommendations could blunt the cold hard truth.
Your father is dead, he thought. I watched him die in a dark, dirty hole.
He looked Sean in the eye. “I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was flat, almost monotone. “Jack is gone.”
Jia opened her mouth as if to speak, but the words seemed to die in her throat.
“Gone? What do you mean gone?” Sean asked.
Caine’s emerald eyes burned into the young man, cold and unyielding. “You know what I mean.”
Sean stood up in the tiny cabin. “This is crazy. I haven’t seen my father since … I can't even remember. Now you show up in the middle of China, bust me out of jail, and tell me he’s dead? Oh, and someone wants to kill me as well?”
“I know it must be hard to hear, but it’s true. All of it.”
Sean shook his head. “Can’t handle this. Nope. Not happening.”
He slid open the cabin door. As he moved out the exit, Caine clamped his hand down on the young man’s arm.
“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice taut as steel cable.
Sean looked down at him. He no longer looked scared or nervous. He looked angry. Defiant.
To Caine, it looked like Jack staring down at him.
“I just found out I’m an orphan," Sean said. "I need a drink. You mind?”
“Tom,” Jia said softly.
Caine let go of Sean’s arm. The young man glared around the cabin one last time, then stormed out the door.
Alton shoveled another mound of food into his mouth and stood up. “He need to blow off steam. No worries, I go with him, make sure he okay.”
“Get him back here," Caine growled. "Our faces might be on the news. If someone recognizes him …"
“No problem.” Alton left the cabin and slid the door closed behind him.
Jia was silent for a moment, then she focused her large, luminous eyes on Caine’s brooding face. “Is it true? He has no family?”
“I didn’t know about his mother. Until a few days ago, I didn’t know anything about him, I guess.”
“But the father? He was your friend?”
“One of the few. But like I said, he’s gone now.”
Jia rested her hand on his knee. “Then you are like Sean … you have both lost someone. You have that in common, among other things.”
Caine tossed the empty green tea bottle into a small trash bin in the corner of the cabin.
“What other things?”
“When you told him just now … the memories it brought back, they were painful, yes?”
Caine looked out the window. The misty green countryside streaked by. He said nothing.
“That’s what I mean,” Jia said as she lay down on the bunk and closed her eyes. “You both react to pain the same way. With anger.”
Her words faded to a whisper. Caine looked over at her and watched her breathe. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. It matched the cadence of the train’s wheels jetting along the tracks.
Within minutes, she was fast asleep.
Caine’s body ached, and his head raced with memories and doubts. The sound of Jia’s breathing was relaxing, and he longed to lay down on the other bunk and rest across from her.
Instead, he continued to stare out the window. The speeding train painted the scenery outside in the window’s frame. The blurred images felt like fragments from some hazy, long-forgotten dream.
The warm, welcome oblivion of sleep refused him.
Chapter Twenty
Ted swirled the ice in his drink, listening to the cubes of frozen water clink against the glass. He swigged down the last dregs of the bitter, cheap vodka, wincing as it slid down his throat. The progress bar on his computer screen read seventy percent.
The powerful machine chugged away. Its CPU sifted through the mountain of data he had ordered it to collate. Ted unlocked one of the large file drawers in the bottom of his desk. There, next to a slim, black leather case, he spotted the half-empty jug of vodka. He removed the vodka and refilled his drink. It was warm, and the ice was almost gone, but he didn’t care.
He replaced the bottle and locked the drawer. As he took a sip, the machine finished its analysis. The data points were almost infinite. A sprawling cross-section of credit card terminals, traffic camera coverage, online dating profiles. But infinity was next to useless. The first, and most important step, was to prune the massive information map. He had to break it down into segments, areas of affect, likely points of intersection.
He brought up a map of the DC/Georgetown area. A sea of glowing red circles began to expand from each node of information. As they crossed each other, the overlap turned green. The green sectors began to shift and converge.
A few remote patches of green withered and fell off the map as Ted entered more search criteria. The computer recalculated and filtered the results. Finally, he was left with a green area that covered roughly a five-mile radius in North West Washington DC.
Doable, he thought. He took another sip of warm vodka. Jesus, I gotta put a freezer in here.
Tapping more keys, he ran a social media crawler. Poor Avi, he thought. Those algorithms he was so proud of were old news. Similar software had been developed by another tech company two years ago. That company … what was its name, Delphi? Dolphin? They were defunct now, at any rate. TANGENT had seen to that.
Ted had offered to invest in the company through a series of fronts and shell corporations as usual. The CEO refused, leaving him with no choice. Soon after, the company was hit with a mysterious security breach. The malware spilled their entire catalog of IPs onto the net for all to see. Except, of course, the social media algorithms the NSA had wanted in the first place. Those found their way to Ted and his Tailored Access Ops branch. There, they were further modified and refined from their original source code.
Russian hackers, the FBI said. Ted smiled, remembering the news reports. That was the beauty of TANGENT. That was why TANGENT was Priority One.
Your data is our data …
A collage of pictures began to fill his screen. Geo-tagged social media posts, hundreds of them. The crawler sorted through the posts. It cross-referenced the photos' metadata data with friends nearby, established patterns, restaurant reviews … each point of intersection narrowed the search.
After a few minutes, the computer beeped and displayed a single photo. According to the algorithm, the subject in the photo was a ninety-two-percent match to Ted’s target. He sipped more vodka and peered at the screen.
The foreground of the photo displayed a sliver of peach pie. Its crust was dotted with caramelized sugar and fruit juice. He looked closer. There … she was a blurry, indistinct face in the background. Just another anonymous patron at a crowded, popular restaurant.
Not anonymous anymore, Ted thought. The concept of anonymity was now as quaint and outdated as rotary phones and pagers. Privacy was obsolete.
He examined the GPS data of the photo, then pressed the talk button on his communications rig.
“I have her. Restaurant Nora. Florida Avenue.”
“Roger that. On our way now, over.” The contractor’s voice was gruff and short. He did not use a voice mask like Red Phoenix did. Ted knew the man was not in that asset’s league, not even close. But he had worked with these people before. They were more than capable of a simple task like this.
He leaned back in his chair and sighed. He had meant what he had said about Rebecca earlier; he truly did respect her. She was smart, resourceful, and tougher than he would have imagined. He even respected her idealism, as inconvenient as it might be. She didn't hide her beliefs, or pretend she was something she wasn't.
He downed the rest of the vodka and frowned. His admiration of her didn’t matter. His feelings didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was securing TANGENT.
TANGENT was Priority One.
The narrow room was dim, lit only by flickeri
ng candles. But to Rebecca, the light seemed blinding. Dark, brick walls surrounded her, stretching for an eternity into the shadows. She could hear muted words echoing around her, but she could not focus on them. They faded into background gibberish as her mind raced. Beads of sweat dripped down her forehead. Her pulse beat faster and faster. She had to get out. Escape … There had to be a way!
The man sitting across from her smiled. He’s going to ask me another question, she thought. There’s nothing I can do about it …
“So what exactly is it you do again?” he asked after swallowing another sip of wine. Rebecca noted the greasy residue his lips left on the edge of the glass. “I think your dating profile said ‘civil servant’?”
She forced herself to smile. It was a common myth that officers of the CIA were not allowed to disclose their occupation. True, she was forbidden from discussing operation details and matters pertaining to national security. However, her position with the agency was a matter of public record.
The truth was, she preferred not to bring it up. She knew once she mentioned it, a barrage of questions would inevitably follow.
“I work in intelligence,” she said. She used her fork to break off a piece of the plump scallop sitting on her plate. “And believe me, it’s not as exciting as you might think.”
“Well, it sure beats being a lawyer,” the man chuckled. “So wait, are you telling me you’re a spy? Are you even allowed to say that?”
Rebecca wiped her mouth with her napkin. The flavors of butter, sage, and thyme exploded across her taste buds. The food at Nora’s was spectacular, even if the company left something to be desired.
You’re being a bitch, she thought. There was nothing wrong with the man sitting across from her … what was his name? Mitch? Matthew? A successful defense attorney, he seemed polite and friendly, without being lecherous. Sharp dresser too. Blue suit, black shoes, good skin. Too bad about the thinning hair. But he was in pretty good shape. Maybe spent a few hours each week at the gym. Probably some racketball games at a sports club thrown into the mix.
He was perfectly normal.
Nothing wrong with him at all. So why are you mentally marking exit routes? She had no answer to her question. Just about every woman she knew was looking for someone exactly like him. But to her, he seemed like a mirage. She was looking through him, not seeing him. She was searching for something else.
And the questions … God, how she hated the questions.
She shook her head. “No, hate to break it to you, but I’m not a spy. I’m more like middle management. I mean, you’re a lawyer, right? I’m sure people thank that’s more exciting than it really is, don’t they? Like you must run around the city solving crimes, and all your cases settle in an hour or less?”
Her date laughed and took a bite of his steak. As she watched him eat, she recalled an article she had once read. It suggested that food should be chewed thirty times before swallowing for optimal digestion. She noticed he took his time, mashing the food between his teeth for several minutes.
He chewed it thirty times exactly. She counted.
“Well, have you ever been in a dangerous situation?”
She stabbed at the scallop with her fork, but lacked the energy to take another bite. She pushed the plump white fragment around on her plate. It left trails of risotto sauce across the white porcelain surface.
“Sometimes there’s an element of risk,” she said. “It goes with the job.” She looked up and laughed. “I mean, before, when I was in the field. Now, there’s not, obviously. I work behind a desk, I’m not running around, out there …” she gestured with her free hand.
Not out there … not running around anywhere
He reached out and set his hand on her wrist. “You seem nervous. I’m having a great time. I hope you are too.”
She grabbed her glass of wine and took a long drink, letting the buttery, oaky taste relax her.
“Mmmm,” she said. “The food is really good. Thank you for choosing this place.”
He date looked down at the table for a moment. Then he looked up at her and smiled. “Is that how you got hurt? Was it your job?”
Rebecca set down her fork. “I can’t talk about that.”
He nodded. “Right, of course. Look, I hope … I’m just gonna come out and say it. I hope you’re not worried about what I think.”
“What you think?” she repeated slowly.
“About the chair. I know it must be hard. But you strike me as a strong woman. I know—”
She grabbed the wheels of her chair. “Would you please excuse me a minute? I have to go outside.”
“What?”
Her eyes spied a door to the rear of the narrow dining room they were seated in. It was between the kitchen and the restrooms.
“A cigarette. I have to smoke.”
A frown crossed her date’s face. “Your profile said you were a non-smoker.”
Your profile pic said you had hair, she thought. “I’m sorry, Matt, I just need a minute. I’ll be right back.
She pushed herself away from the table.
Her date stood up, and set his napkin on the table. “Michael.”
“Huh?”
“My name is Michael, not Matt.”
“Right. Michael, sorry. I’ll be right back, I promise.”
She rolled away from the table, towards the door at the rear of the restaurant. She fumbled with the door handle as the front of her chair banged into the door.
A waiter stepping out of the kitchen saw her struggling, and stopped. “Ma’am, please, let me help.”
“No!” She realized her voice sounded harsh, strident. She took a deep breath. “I’ve got it. Thank you.” She backed up her chair and pulled the door open.
She was out. Free. The cool night air washed over her, driving the hot flush of panic from her face. Her hands were shaking. She gripped the wheels of her chair. A low brick wall sectioned off the rear patio of the restaurant. She could hear murmurs of conversation drifting up from the diners there. She wanted to be alone.
She pushed herself past the patio, into the darkness. The air became dank. She wheeled herself behind a dumpster. The metal container was packed with rotting food and bulging plastic trash bags. It stank of rot and mold.
She forced herself to breathe. This must be some kind of panic attack, she decided. She shook her head. She just had to breathe.
You know what he was going to say, she thought. You’re strong. You’re young. There’s still hope. You can fight this.
You will walk again.
She had said those same words to herself, over and over. Day in and day out since the injury had left her paralyzed. Not a moment went by that she did not repeat the mantra, remind herself mentally that she was strong. She could fight this. There was still hope.
But when she heard those words spoken from someone else’s mouth … when she saw their sympathetic smiles, felt their pity …
Then those words of strength became trite and meaningless. They had no more weight or substance than the saccharine wishes of a greeting card. And all the doubts and fears they suppressed rushed to the surface at once.
Fighting back tears, she pulled her phone from her purse. She erased the dating app she had used to meet Michael. She couldn’t do it anymore. The doctors had told her she had to adapt, had to re-learn to live a normal life. Do normal things, connect with people.
This is normal? she thought. Hiding behind a dumpster, blubbering my eyes out over a random date? This is not normal.
She wiped her eyes, Enough, she decided. I decide what normal is. I decide when to adapt, and when to fight. And I’m not done fighting.
She sighed and pushed herself out from behind the dumpster. The dark alley stretched away from her in either direction. As she pushed herself closer to the restaurant, she saw a figure emerge from the door and walk towards her. Probably my date, she thought. She had been outside for some time. He must have come to check on her. Nice guy. Normal.
“Ma’am, are you all right?” the shadowy figure spoke as he stepped closer to her. She realized it wasn’t her date. It was the waiter, from inside, the one who had tried to help her with the door.
He continued walking closer, stepping into the light. His jacket was open, revealing a clean, spotless white shirt underneath. No sweat stains. That’s wrong, she thought. She had waited tables in college, and she knew the job was grueling. The heat from the kitchen, the constant motion, back and forth carrying heavy trays of food. Even a half shift left her exhausted and drenched in perspiration.
The man walked closer. His face was lined and hard, and he looked older than the other waiters she had seen in the dining room. A dark layer of stubble covered his chin. Rebecca fumbled her phone back into her purse and snapped it closed.
“Ma’am?” he repeated. “I heard noises out here.”
A distant voice screamed in the back of Rebecca’s brain. It took her a second to realize it was instinct.
It was one second too late.
The man stepped behind her wheelchair and grabbed the handles. “Please, let me help you.”
He began to roll her back to the restaurant.
“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“It’s all right, ma’am. I’ve got you.”
He was pushing her faster now. She felt a cold pang of fear gnawing at her gut. She had been in danger before. She knew the signs, and she had ignored them.
He wheeled her past the restaurant door, farther down the alley. The wheels of the chair clattered against the pavement.
“Where are you taking me?” she shouted. “Stop!”
The man picked up the pace. She turned her head, trying to get a glimpse of his face. She heard the screech of brakes. A black van pulled to a stop ahead of them, and its tail lights filled the alley with a crimson glow. The rear door slid open with a loud thunk. The man pushed her towards the pitch-black space within.
“Help! Someone help!”
The man clamped a hand over her face and pressed a rag against her mouth. She gagged as a dense, sickly sweet smell overpowered her senses. A thick, translucent haze fell over her vision. The lights up ahead bloomed into beautiful red starbursts. They glowed in the darkness like neon poppy flowers.
Red Phoenix: A Thomas Caine Thriller (The Thomas Caine Series Book 2) Page 16
