I toss the empty cardboard box on the kitchen counter, retrieving a fresh trash bag from the bottom drawer.
“You think someone else set the explosion in the paint room.”
I nod. “Yeah, I do. Bianca is many things, but at the end of the day, I just don’t think she’d deliberately hurt someone.”
“So why did you need to get into her computer?” he asks.
“Because, if she did hack the squadron, there’ll be a trail. I need to know if she did—and why she did—before I go to anyone about it. I know what it’s like when one rash, impulsive decision ruins your whole life. I’m not willing to put that on her if it was some kind of prank or desperate move that went too far. Especially if she’s not the one who set up the explosion. Now, if it’s more than that, if she’s serious about selling the hack or something, I’ll take what I have and hand it over to the authorities.”
He nods. “That’s fair, I suppose. What about the person who set up the explosion?’
I rake my fingers through my hair, tugging on the strands as frustration bubbles under my skin. “I honestly don’t know. I think I know how they got into and out of the building, but that’s it. It’s worse than nothing.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, let’s focus on what we can do, and leave the rest to the authorities.”
I nod, patting his hand.
“Hey, on the upside, Kayla’s mom said I could stay with them during the deployment,” I offer, trying to perk myself up.
“That’s cool,” he says. “Once my parents are gone, I’ll have my house all to myself. We’ll have to throw a raging party.”
I feel myself laugh. “In that house? They’d kill you.”
He shrugs. “What they don’t know can’t hurt me. Besides, I gotta do something. Being on my own for that long gets old fast.”
Now it’s my turn to comfort him. I hand him the last can of soda, raising my own in a toast. “To those of us left behind.”
He smiles, tapping the cans together.
After taking him home I head to Kayla’s house. Her mother, Mae, is a petite Korean woman, a seamstress who makes extra cash mending uniforms and sewing patches and things for the personnel. Kayla’s dad, Staff Sergeant Pierce, works in the Rapids office making IDs and stuff. Their house is cozy with an Asian flair, with lots of brass knickknacks and beautifully elaborate paintings. Kayla’s bedroom walls are plastered with posters for various bands, with one entire wall dedicated to pictures of her and Derek, all taped together into a massive collage. Her bed is small, twin size, with neon-green bedding. The floor is littered with papers, clothes, and Hot Pockets wrappers, and there’s a powerful scent of lavender incense in the air.
“This is where you’ll be staying,” Mae says, opening the adjacent door.
The guest room is a warm, latte-brown with brightly colored fans on the wall. The bed is small, like Kayla’s, but with a rich, chocolate-brown coverlet and off-white sheets. Her mom seems excited about the idea of me staying with them for a few months. I offer up some extra cash to help with household expenses while I stay there, a condition from my father, but she refuses.
“No, no. Don’t even think of it.” She smiles warmly before turning to chase a puffy, white cat down the hall.
I get the impression that Kayla and her family like to take in strays. Kayla’s cat, Morpheus, is curled up on the spare bed. She’s a ratty-looking creature with one eye and long, matted, ginger fur, but that doesn’t keep Kayla from picking the poor feline up and snuggling her.
I don’t stay long. Dad texts to say he’s on his way home and I really want to catch him before he turns in for the night. With a hug and a promise to come again soon, Mae releases me, and Kayla walks me to the door.
When I arrive home, Dad is just pulling in. I catch him outside his sedan and we walk inside together.
“So what have you been up to?” he asks, opening the front door.
“Kayla’s mom wanted to give me the tour. She’s really sweet. I think it’ll be good,” I say, stepping inside and flipping the light switch.
“That’s great, kid,” he says, stripping off his jacket and draping it over a kitchen chair. “Any pizza left?” he asks, poking at the empty box. “There’s a game on I wanna watch.”
“No, sorry. I can go pick something up for you or make you a sandwich.”
He waves me off. “I’m good. I’ll have some leftovers.”
I shift my weight from left to right and back again, the jump drive in my pocket beginning to burn a hole in my brain. “I need to go study. You sure you don’t need anything?”
He leans down headfirst in the fridge. “I can feed myself, you know.”
I shrug. “It’s your health.”
Heading to the office, I grab my tablet from my bag, setting it to charge on the desk beside me as I plug in the jump drive and start opening files. Once I have the log-in info, I pull up the Omega Portal and log in as Bianca, backtracking through the history. Sure enough, Splice has a private email account deep in the corner of the dark web. I open it, logging back through sent files. There, deleted but not erased, is the email to my dad. I scroll back further and find another email; this sent to a series of social media profiles.
That’s how they got into the system. They sent it around on September eleventh, a jpeg file of an eagle superimposed on a patriotic message. It got passed around social sites, ending up in some random email. When opened inside the UNIX mainframe, it released a hidden Trojan that hacked the system. I open the code, looking at the design. The code itself is elegant, both subtle and fierce. Normal virus blockers wouldn’t even pick it up. Then there’s another section of code, and it’s so far beyond me, I can’t even tell what it’s designed to do.
Then it clicks into place. It’s an Ouroboros virus. I’ve heard of them but never seen the guts of one. It slithers into the system through the security cracks, creates a back door into the system, and then eats itself before anyone can discover it.
Well, it’s not a surprise, really. That’s how I would have done it.
From there, I begin back tracing all the chat and private messaging activity. There’s very little. As Bianca had said, the most recent chats are all in forums with people looking to buy and sell their virginity. The chats seem harmless, research, as she’d claimed. I go back further. There’s no chatter about the squadron, nothing about buying or selling viruses or anything of the sort. But something does flag red. It’s a series of random videos. I click the first one.
The screen fills with images of flaming wreckage. A tall, slender reporter speaking in solemn tones.
“There is no confirmation yet, but it’s believed that three Army servicemen perished in the wreck,” he says as the flames behind him lick skyward.
I click the second. It’s a piece of a horror movie from the late seventies. I recognize one of the actresses creeping down the stairs, a bright red fire axe in her hand.
When I click the third, my heart drops into my stomach. It’s a grainy web video of my dad’s office. I recognize the photo on the wall behind his chair. The room is empty, as far as I can tell, but as I keep watching, Dad’s assistant comes in, sets a stack of papers next to his keyboard, and walks out. A few more minutes pass and Dad comes into frame. With one burly hand, he pulls his chair out and takes a seat. He takes a sip of coffee and starts hammering at the keyboard, completely unaware that he’s being recorded by his own webcam. There are dozens of other videos, each various work station computers inside the building.
The screen goes dark and a wave of dread washes over me.
Bianca—Splice—may not be selling secrets, but we need to have a very serious conversation.
Then something else dawns on me. If I hand this over, innocent prank or not, the NSA or some other alphabet agency is going to scoop her up and put her somewhere she may never see daylight again.
My hands hover over the keyboard. If I delete it, then what? Even if they trace it back, there’s nothing to f
ind at that point. How much am I willing to risk to protect someone I’m not even sure if I like?
Though I close the computer and go to bed, I don’t sleep. I spend the night tossing and turning, my mind racing a thousand miles an hour. Un-rested but somehow still alert, I dress and head to school the next morning, a double espresso in a white paper cup in hand as I pick up my group.
“Long night?” Derek asks. “Or did you lose a fight with your eyeliner?”
I smirk humorlessly. “Decided to go for heroin sheik today.”
He grins. “It works for you.”
I salute him with my espresso and take a sip, maneuvering one handed into a parking spot.
By second period, I’m crashing, doodling absently in my notebook when a shrill, earsplitting alarm rings through the air.
“Okay, class. Don’t panic. Gather your things and head to the gym. No pushing!” My teacher, Mr. White, ushers us from the room.
I scoop up my books and toss them into my bag. In the hall, Reid grabs me by the arm, offering me a look that’s part concern, part determination.
We veer left, down the hall, ducking into an alcove as a group of students pass. Checking to make sure the hall is clear, we head away from the gym and toward the parking lot.
“Where are we going?” I ask as we slip outside through the west doors unnoticed.
“To your car. We need to get out of here,” he whispers urgently. “I want to make sure our parents are all right, and you drove.”
“Farris!”
I spin around when I hear my name from across the parking lot. “Oliver, what are you doing?” I ask as he jogs up to me.
He hasn’t paid any attention to me for days, opting instead to give me a well-deserved cold shoulder. What can he possibly want now?
Reid steps between us. “We don’t have time for this right now, Oliver,” he challenges, spitting out the name like it’s a bad word.
“I need to talk to Farris,” he answers, pushing Reid to the side. “It’s none of your business.”
Before I realize what’s going on, Reid grabs Oliver’s arm and twists it around, pinning it to his back.
“Don’t push me,” Reid threatens, his face a twisting mask of hatred. I’d never seen that look on Reid’s face before and I’m not quite sure how to react.
He drops Oliver’s arm and pushes him forward. Oliver turns, his arm drawing back as if he’s about to throw a punch, when I step between them.
“That’s enough!” I shout, pulling Oliver away.
“Reid, wait for me in the car. I’ll just be a minute.”
He huffs but does as he’s told. I tug Oliver’s arm until we stand a few feet away.
“What is it?” I ask, trying not to let my annoyance creep into my voice.
“Don’t go,” he begs, his eyes pleading.
In some dizzy daydream, this would be the part where he forgives me and I throw myself into his arms, letting him kiss me until everything is alright again. But his next words shatter the illusion.
“At least, not with him.”
That’s it. A deep-seated rage boils inside me. I don’t know if he ever really liked me or if it is just some stupid contest between them, but I’m done with it.
I point into the air. “Those sirens, that’s the sound of my dad, of his parents, possibly being hurt or worse. And you’re going to step up to me, after throwing shade at me for days, and give me some macho crap about not leaving with my friend?” I pause to lick my lips, a well-deserved look of regret washing across his face. “This is me, being completely done with you.”
When I walk away, I don’t look back. But some small, sad part of me really wants to.
***
We drive straight to the squadron. It’s a testament to the fact that all the MPs are occupied that I don’t get a speeding ticket as I race through the mostly empty streets. My engine roars as we fly across the base, as if my anxiety has leached through the vinyl seats and straight into the injectors.
Bright-yellow Crash Fire Rescue trucks sit scattered throughout the parking lot, their lights flashing. Someone has cut the wire fence to allow emergency personnel in and out without having to squeeze through the turnstile. Marines, both enlisted and officers, congregate in the parking lot, spilling onto the flight line. The smoke is thin and quickly blowing away with the breeze, but even as I pull in and slam on my brakes, I see what’s happened. The right side of the building is collapsed, the mangled steel and brick mixing in a kaleidoscope of flaming wreckage. I’m out of the car before the engine even dies, sprinting through the chaos. I get as far as the front gate before a pair of arms grabs me, holding me back.
“Miss, you can’t go in there!” the voice belonging to the arms yells over the chaos.
I struggle against his vice grip on my arm. “My dad’s in there!”
Two more guards rush over to help restrain me. My mind reels, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of my father and finding none.
Time slows down around me. My pulse beats wildly in my own ears, blocking out the sirens and the voices of the men holding me. It’s a familiar, disconnected feeling, as if I’m outside the scene, looking in, detached from what’s going on around me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Reid talking to a man in yellow firefighter pants, his face blank. In a rush of sound, time catches up with itself and the hysteria floods back in.
“You need to go back to your car, ma’am,” the guard is telling me. “You can’t be here.”
A familiar woman shuffles up to me, her khaki uniform singed and blackened in places, her red curls disheveled. The admin clerk from Dad’s office.
“Miss Barnett?” she asks.
I stop struggling. She waves her hand, and the guard releases me.
“Where’s my father?” I demand, my voice sharp and penetrating.
“The Lieutenant Colonel was taken to the hospital with minor injuries,” she says. “The crash…” she hesitates, glancing back over her shoulder. “The pilots ejected safely. No one was in the area of the building that took the most damage.”
Spots burst into my vision. I clutch at her shirt to keep myself from falling. She misunderstands my movement and pulls me into a hug, stroking my hair like a child.
“He’s okay?” I push the words through my constricted throat before pulling away. Her red curls feel like steel wool on my face.
She chokes back a sob, taking a deep, rattling breath as she speaks. “We were going to a meeting in Maintenance Control. Your father wanted to go through the hangar and see how some drop tank repairs were going. As soon as he opened the door, the building shook. A steel rafter came down; it missed him but caught the door. It slammed back and hit him pretty hard. He was bleeding…” She trails off, as if realizing she shouldn’t be saying any of this to me.
I grab her by her upper arms, shaking her hard. “You’re sure he’s okay?”
She seems to focus, visibly pulling herself together. “He was unconscious, but stable when they took him out.”
Before I can ask anything else, an EMT throws a wool blanket over her shoulders and leads her away to an ambulance, slipping an oxygen mask over her face. She shoots me a concerned look over her shoulder as she walks away.
I glance back at the building just in time to see two firefighters in full gear running through the door. They’re shouting something I can’t make out. Less than a heartbeat later, a loud boom that rocks the whole parking lot knocks me onto the ground. I watch as a cloud of dense black smoke rises into the sky. I can’t hear anything for a minute but the beating of my own pulse in my ears. When the sound comes back with a pop, I get up, looking around in a daze.
As I watch, one of the fire crew pulls off his helmet and yells, “Another wall went down, south side of the building. It’s pretty unstable back there.”
I run across the street and back to my car, where Reid is already waiting for me, leaning against my door.
“Are your parents all right?” I ask sliding into the car.
I clutch the wheel with white, trembling fingers. The scrapes on my palms ache from where I tried to break my fall. Grit clings to the flesh. I’m bleeding, I can tell, but I refuse to look. My eyes go in and out of focus, the window in front of me going blurry as I try to focus past it, to the street ahead. I blink back the tears. Reid reaches over, trying to clutch my hands with his own, but I jerk them away and tuck them between my legs.
“Your dad?” he asks softly.
I shake my head, trying to bring myself out of the panicked state I’ve slipped into. “At the hospital. I need to go see him. You want me to drop you at home on the way?” And just like that, the world snaps back into focus like a rubber band releasing itself. Suddenly, my brain is processing at full speed, every synapse firing in a chaotic stream. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and count to five, knowing that if I don’t get myself under control, I’ll hyperventilate and pass out.
“Why don’t you let me drive you to the hospital?” Reid offers, keeping his voice calm. “I’ll walk from there; it’s not far.”
I look up at him and see the concern in his expression. Catching a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror, I understand why. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes wide and wild. Stray strands of hair hang from my disheveled ponytail and there’s a smudge of soot on my chin.
“It’s ok,” I say firmly, as if trying to force myself to believe it. “I’m ok. Just buckle up.”
He’ll be fine, I tell myself over and over in my head as we pull out onto the street, tires squealing against the pavement.
He has to be.
The on-base hospital is like any other: cold, sterile, and smelling vaguely of bleach cleaner. The corpsman at the front desk is supremely unhelpful when I arrive, already short on patience and half looking for a fight.
Playing with Fire Page 17
