White Knights

by Julie Moffett

  What’s this I hear about the Avenger offering us info on a terrorist group via a back door into ShadowCrypt?

  End of Message

  Candace Kim was getting out of her car in front of her house when her secure phone dinged. Her Secret Service tail, the one that always followed her around for her protection like she was the president, pulled up to the curb beside her house and turned off the engine. She was in for the night, so this team would take the first shift. She couldn’t imagine a more boring job.

  She fumbled in her purse, pulling out the phone and pressing her finger to the scanner. After typing in her password, she read the text, seeing it was from Isaac Remington, the executive director of the NSA’s Research Directorate. She didn’t know Isaac well, but what she knew was that he was exceptionally tight-lipped and ambitious. In terms of seniority, they were on the same level, which meant she’d be required by professional courtesy to share at least some of the information she’d gleaned so far. She’d been poised to contact him tomorrow, but since he’d asked, she’d bring him up to speed now.

  She considered a response before typing.

  How did you find out?

  She watched the phone until the message came.

  Norton’s deputy asked me if the Research Directorate was aware the Avenger had contacted us.

  Candace walked to the front door, unlocking the door and turning off the alarm. Norton’s deputy was a busybody. How he’d risen to the rank of deputy director was another of the NSA’s greatest mysteries. Once inside the house, she set her purse on a small table in the foyer and reset her alarm before typing an answer.

  He has. We’ve done what we could so far to verify it’s him, and it looks like it is.

  Isaac’s response was almost instantaneous.

  What does he have, and what does he want?

  Candace sat down at the kitchen table and took off her shoes. She wiggled her toes with a sigh. It felt good to be barefoot. Setting her phone on the table, she tapped out a reply.

  He says he has information on plans for a terrorist attack. Says he intercepted encrypted messages from the group and uncovered the plot. I had to get authorization from the director to set up a mutually agreed upon method of secure communication so we can get a couple of files from him. We’re still in the process of working that out. The Avenger also apparently has an unusual list of demands—and we don’t know all of them. But one of them does include immunity.

  From what?

  I don’t know. Hacking, presumably. That’s yet to be determined. He also wants protection for his family. There has been another interesting development. I was going contact you about it tomorrow, but since we’re talking…it was brought to my attention today that one of our own may be the rogue Avenger. Someone who used to be in the Research Directorate. Have you ever heard of a man named Ethan Sinclair?

  Candace pressed Send and waited, curious to see how he responded. When told, she’d been stunned. How was it that this had never been mentioned to anyone before? Now she wanted to see how Isaac would react, especially because the suspected individual had once been in his division.

  When she received no immediate response, she went to the fridge and pulled out a Lean Cuisine and a bottle of wine. After pouring herself a glass of merlot and putting the frozen dinner in the microwave, she sat back down. There still wasn’t an answer to her text. She was checking to make sure her phone was still connected when a response abruptly showed up.

  Who told you that?

  Does it matter?

  Maybe.

  She didn’t offer up her source and instead waited. Again, there was a longer than usual delay before his response arrived. She wondered what it meant that Isaac was taking so long to answer.

  I’ve always wondered, from looking at his code, if Ethan was the Avenger.

  Candace angrily blew out a breath. Isaac had suspected, too? She tapped a little too hard on the screen.

  Why on earth didn’t you voice your concerns?

  Why would I? Accuse one of our own without proof? This is speculation only.

  Leaning over her phone, she tempered her frustration and typed another text.

  Can you get me his file?

  She took a sip of her wine while she waited for his answer. When her phone dinged, she picked it up.

  I can. But in return, I want in on this investigation. If Ethan is the Avenger, I deserve to be in on this. I knew him. Not well, but he was in my division. This investigation is as much mine as yours now.

  Candace swallowed her annoyance at Isaac’s blatant muscling in. However, seeing as he was her equal in terms of position, she couldn’t ignore or refuse him. Diplomacy would be the best approach.

  The investigation is mine, but I’ll share what I can.

  He apparently didn’t like her answer.

  It’s going to have to be more than that. You’ll need me. I’ll be your best resource in finding him, so keep that in mind.

  It wasn’t quite a threat, but the implication was there. Not that he was the first man to try to intimidate her. She’d taken on a lot more powerful and ambitious people than him and come out on top. But this was going to be a delicate operation, and Isaac was right that she might need him. She’d have to play this carefully.

  I appreciate your offer and am looking forward to having the file on my desk in the morning. I’ll let you know if I have anything else I need you to do.

  There was at least a minute’s pause before another message appeared.

  I’ll remain available.

  Without responding, she clicked off her phone. The hunt for the Avenger was heating up.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ANGEL SINCLAIR

  I looked at the earnest faces of Wally and Frankie and hoped I was doing the right thing by revealing highly personal information about Mr. Matthews. The truth was, I needed them to know. We all had to know so we could help him.

  I pushed aside any feelings of guilt. “I’m going to start with the police report, which was updated about three hours ago,” I said. “The mechanics could not find anything wrong with his car. But they are still investigating that avenue of possibility.”

  “That’s going to be a tough one to go his way,” Wally said. “But you’re right. It’s not impossible there could be something wrong with his car.”

  “Let’s hope. Now here’s the personal stuff. The toxicology report has not been returned yet, and it looks like it could be another week before it’s back. The police report, however, indicates a search of his apartment turned up no illegal drugs. That’s a good thing. However, one prescribed drug was found in his medicine cabinet. It’s called Prazosin.”

  “What’s that?” Frankie asked.

  “According to the Internet, it reduces nightmares. I can’t vouch for the accuracy of the information—it’s from WebMD.”

  “There’s a medicine for nightmares?” Frankie asked.

  “I guess. It says it’s used primarily for people suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  “Oh, wow,” Frankie whispered. “PTSD. Mr. Matthews? That’s heartbreaking.”

  “Yeah.” I imagined Mr. Matthews waking up alone from nightmares in his apartment. Sadness swamped me. I knew he wouldn’t want my pity, and the truth was, I didn’t pity him. I only wanted to help him. We had to clear his name so he could resume his regularly scheduled life. He deserved that for his service to his country, and we needed him back at school.

  “Other than over-the-counter medicine, that’s it in terms of prescribed medications found at his apartment,” I continued. “From what I can tell—based on the contents of his medicine cabinet as listed by the police report—he wasn’t suffering from depression, hallucinations, or anything like that.”

  “That’s good, right?” Frankie asked.

  “I’m not a doctor, but I think the fact that no illegal drugs, or illegally prescribed drugs, were found in his place is a good thing.”

  “Find anything else?” Wally asked
.

  “Yeah. The woman he hit is recovering. Her name is Anna di Polo. Looks like she is going to pull through, which is excellent news for Mr. Matthews. We met her mother in the waiting room a few hours ago.”

  Frankie shifted, and Mr. Toodles woke up. “The nice woman who was knitting?”

  “Yes.”

  Wally popped a couple chips in his mouth and munched. “Well, if Anna di Polo survives, at least they can’t charge Mr. Matthews with manslaughter.”

  “What does that even mean?” Frankie asked.

  “It means he watches Law & Order,” I said.

  Wally grinned. “Hey, it’s a thought-provoking show. But you can’t charge someone with manslaughter if the victim is still alive. At least the police have found no connection whatsoever between Anna di Polo and Mr. Matthews. No premeditation. It looks like she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Are they still insisting Mr. Matthews accelerated through the light?” Frankie asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes. That’s the determination of the police report, based on witness reports and the accident investigation. That’s all I’ve got so far. The other stuff is a bit more interesting.”

  “What other stuff?” Wally asked.

  “I did some digging on his prostheses. There are several companies that are experimenting with cutting-edge prosthetic devices that are remarkably natural looking and can act as fully functioning limbs.”

  “That might explain why no one even knew he had prosthetics,” Wally said.

  “Right.” I tucked my hair behind my ears. “It gets a bit more interesting from here. The technology uses something called implantable myoelectric sensors, or IMES.”

  “Translate, please,” Frankie said.

  “IMES is a new technology that allows veterans to use their own muscles to control their limbs with their minds.”

  “Is that even possible?” Frankie asked.

  Wally had crashed on the couch when I started talking, but now he sat up and leaned forward, his eyes flashing with interest. I liked that he got as excited about technology as I did.

  “Yeah, give us details,” he said.

  “Well, this is how it was laid out in the article I read. Electromagnetic sensors are implanted in the patient and provide control signals for each limb. Most of the explanation was over my head, but the bottom line is sensors are implanted in what is left of the patient’s muscle mass in the limb. The sensors are so tiny they don’t interfere with normal muscle movement. In turn, soft tissue holds the sensors in place without the need for big or bulky machines. The sensors are wirelessly powered and can send the electromyography, or EMG, a signal, as needed.”

  “Wait.” Wally held up a hand, trying to process. “The brain itself actually triggers the muscle in the limb and the EMG sensors take it from there?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What are you getting at?” Wally asked. “Are you thinking someone made Mr. Matthews stomp on the gas using his prosthesis?”

  “It would be a great theory, but how? The sensors are implanted in the patient and respond directly to the patient’s brain. No one can control someone else’s brain. That’s science fiction.”

  “Agreed. How does the IMES tech work?”

  “Well, it permits the limb to have multiple degrees of freedom. In the old days, amputees could only do one thing at a time—for example, grasp a plate and then release it. A single simple function. The new IMES technology allows people to have multiple movements—like being able to rotate a wrist while grasping. It is definitely amazing.”

  Frankie held up her hands in a time-out signal. The movement caused Mr. Toodles to jump to the floor. “Mr. Matthews has this IMES technology?”

  “That’s what it looks like.” I rolled my shoulders to try to release the tension stored there. “There’s still a lot more to learn about this, but my mom is coming home soon, so we should close up for now.”

  We were packing up our laptops when my mom waked in. I was under the table, so I greeted her as I crawled out holding a couple of cords. She was so surprised to see kids in the apartment with me, she almost tripped over the rug.

  Happiness bloomed across her face. It was painful to see, especially because I hoped she wasn’t getting the wrong idea. This was not going to be a regular occurrence. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “We’re studying. Meet Frankie and Wally. They’re kids from school.”

  “Oh, how wonderful. You invited friends home.”

  My cheeks heated. “They’re not friends. Not exactly.”

  My mom gave me a look that said I was being rude, so I clamped my mouth shut and we all endured an awkward moment until Frankie and her abilities to be nice to anyone at any time saved the day.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Sinclair. I’m Frankie—that’s short for Frances. You have such a nice apartment. I adore Mr. Toodles, too. What a sweet dog. Thank you for letting us use your apartment to study.” Mr. Toodles, hearing his name, started yipping and circling around Frankie’s feet.

  My mom beamed. “Oh, it’s so nice to meet you, Frankie. I love that nickname. And you are…?” She turned to Wally.

  “Wally Harris, ma’am.” He politely shook her hand, too.

  “Would you kids like to stay for dinner?” my mom blurted out.

  “Wait. What?” I stared at her in disbelief. My mother was inviting people to dinner on my behalf? Did she think I was ten years old? Could my mortification get any deeper?

  “What are you having?” Wally asked.

  “Chicken casserole with green beans,” my mom replied. “Interested?”

  “It happens to be my favorite.”

  “Sounds delicious,” Frankie said happily. “I’d love to.”

  “It’s settled, then.” My mom laid her pharmacist coat over the back of the couch. “Check with your folks, and if they are okay with it, you’re welcome to stay. Angel, can I see you in the kitchen for a moment?”

  Blowing out a breath, I followed her into the kitchen. As soon we were out of earshot, she turned to me and lowered her voice. “Why are you being rude?”

  “Me? I’m not being rude. You invited kids I barely know to dinner. Could you make things just a little more awkward?”

  “What’s awkward about inviting someone to dinner?”

  “I know what you’re doing. I can make my own friends.”

  “I’m sure you can. In the meantime, maybe you could start with these two. Luckily, they are willing to stay, despite your rudeness.”

  I started to retort but was smart enough to know I wasn’t going to win this argument. “Fine, they can stay.”

  After Frankie and Wally got the okay from their parents, we helped my mom in the kitchen. Within minutes, Frankie and my mom were new best friends. Wally made major points of his own by cheerfully chopping the beans.

  “Where are you from?” my mom asked Frankie as she put the casserole in the oven.

  “We’re a military family, so we’ve lived all over the world. We recently came to Washington. We rarely live in one place longer than two years, but my dad has promised to let me finish my senior year here.”

  “Oh, dear. All that moving around. It must be hard.”

  “Not really. I like traveling and meeting new people. Angel is my first friend here. She stood up to a bully for me on my first day.”

  Mom looked over in surprise at me where I was grating the cheese. “Angel did?”

  “She’s exaggerating.” I shook the grater until the cheese fell out. “It was nothing.”

  “Nothing is not a six-foot athletic girl,” Frankie said. “Angel was very brave.”

  My mom put her hand on her hip and stared at me. Uh, oh. Mama bear mode had moved to the on position. “Angel, do I need to talk to Headmistress Swanson about this?”

  I was beyond horrified at the thought. But I couldn’t overreact or she’d be all over it. “No. Mom, it’s okay. Really.”

  My mom met my eyes for a long tim
e before nodding. “I’ll drop it for now. But if I get wind of anything else like this, I’m going to speak with her.”

  “It’s completely over. There’s nothing to be worried about.”

  Thankfully, she moved on. Dinner turned out to be surprisingly fun. Frankie got the brilliant idea to ask us Jeopardy!-style trivia questions on topics ranging from world geography to movie lines to help us get to know each other better. Wally charmed my mother with dumb jokes, and Frankie was Frankie. After watching her chat about every possible topic under the sun, I was certain there wasn’t a person alive she couldn’t get to like her.

  We all helped my mom clear the table and do the dishes before Wally and Frankie left. My mom looked happier than she had in a long time.

  “Those two kids are nice. They would be great friends to have, if you decide to keep them.”

  I appreciated the fact that she at least conceded the choice was mine. “They’re okay.” I sounded a bit crabby, but it was the best I could muster. “Don’t get all excited. They probably won’t come over again.”

  “You can have them over as often as you like. They’re good for you. It’s nice to have friends. To put yourself out there.”