Dark Secret (DARC Ops Book 1)

by Jamie Garrett

  She loved thinking of that lip sliding between hers, and how hard she'd suck on it.

  “You could translate,” Jackson said. “And I could mingle and keep an ear out. Maybe plant some bugs.”

  “See?” Mira said with a smirk. “We needed some inside access.”

  She'd love for Jackson to have some, too.

  “I still don't like putting you in danger, though.”

  “It's a totally public event. What could happen?”

  “I don't know.” Jackson went quiet. There was the sound of a fish jumping up and splashing back into the water, and then the mournful call of a distant fog horn. And then Jackson suddenly stood up from the bench. “Let's head back.”

  It was an abrupt turn, as if someone had whispered some urgent information into a small device in his ear. Maybe they had. Maybe someone who had mind-reading access to Mira's dirty, unprofessional thoughts.

  On their walk back, she noticed that he'd gone a little cold and quiet, the Embassy Ball perhaps weighing on his mind. Or maybe something, like an irk or an urge to flee, stemming from her asking him on a date. But it wasn't really a date... No. What the fuck? He thought she meant a real date? No, Jackson. She’d meant it as purely business, right?

  “There was something else I wanted to ask you about,” he said, waving a hand at another flying insect buzzing near his perfect face. “We've uncovered some sexual misconduct stuff happening in Langhorne's office.”

  Now that was news to Mira.

  “With his staffers,” Jackson continued. “Pretty young girls, like you.”

  Jackson was staring at her again. Mira turned to face him head on. “So?”

  “So he's not trying to buy you off, is he?”

  She stopped and glared at him.

  Jackson looked away. “I'm just... Um...”

  “You've got to be kidding, Jackson... What are you insinuating? That he... And that I'm making all this up to frame and defame him?”

  “I know you're not making this up. And I thought you said we're starting over. We're past that.”

  “Past what?”

  “Me not believing you,” said Jackson, this time swatting a mosquito near Mira's shoulder until his hand got swatted away by Mira. “Anyway, it's not about me. It's the optics of it. How it looks to the public.”

  “How what looks?” she asked.

  “I saw a press release about an unprecedentedly large donation to Swanson's Hope. It might look like he's trying to buy your silence.”

  “My silence about what?”

  “Whatever it was... Is...” He glanced over her shoulder, and then back to Mira. “I already feel like I want to do serious bodily harm to this guy. But if he touched you...”

  Mira turned and began walking back to the stone archway, the rowing club, her car, leaving Jackson behind her.

  “Wait,” he called, his tactical boots clunking fast against the asphalt of the jogging path. He pulled abreast of Mira and said, “I've got these for you.”

  Mira looked at his outstretched hand and saw a cluster of little round electronic devices.

  “Bugs,” he said. “Useful ones. Not like the ones I've been swatting at all night.”

  She held out her hand and he poured them in. They felt like breath mints.

  “If you ever get a good opportunity, put one in Langhorne's office,” he said. “Or anywhere else you think might help.”

  “There's absolutely nothing going on between Langhorne and me. That's the last thing I'll say about it.”

  “I know, I know. But if this thing comes to light, and he starts feeling the heat...”

  “And?” said Mira.

  “Well, who knows what he'll say about you. Just prepare yourself for the worst.”

  Mira hadn’t thought about that, about what Langhorne would do to her personally if he found out what she was up to. Vile as he was internationally, he'd been a saint domestically. Especially in the office. And he'd always been so good to Mira. He seemed incapable of doing anything even remotely malicious to his prized translator. But maybe that was his tactic. Surprise attack, a useful strategy for his blood-soaked African safaris. She suddenly felt as naive as a water buffalo.

  “So how do I work these things?” she rolled the bugs around in her hand. “How do I turn them on?”

  “Don't worry about it. They're always on.”

  She laughed quietly and slipped the small handful of electronics into a pocket.

  “And we're always listening,” he said in a diabolical, big-brotherish voice. In an attempt to walk in the stilted strides of an evil authoritarian robot, he lost his balance and swayed into Mira, his thigh brushing against her hip. Laughing, she braced the impact by reaching out her arm, her hand palming against the muscular side of Jackson's midsection. Her hand lingered there, the current of electricity keeping it in place. With the current finally completed, running from Jackson's body and into hers, through her brain and down through her toes, Mira was incapacitated. All she could do was want more, more of him, her fingers curling into his warm body and grabbing a firm hold before Jackson's balance tilted him away in the opposite direction. Then they laughed like nothing happened. Whatever.

  But she was burning for him.

  13

  Jackson

  The creature of Cathedral Heights could be spotted at daybreak. 5:25 a.m., to be exact, when the quiet mechanical humming of a retracting wrought iron gate signified the emergence of the elusive Langhorne. In a sky-blue BMW it would migrate southeast from its gated community, speeding all the way through Embassy Row, slowing a bit for the ornamental traffic circles of Downtown, and then driving 'round and 'round a single block like a complete asshole. Here, the creature foraged for the most convenient parking space imaginable, lest it be faced with the perils of walking more than 15 feet. When the ritual was finally complete and its territory claimed, the hungry Langhorne would move on to more important matters—the high-fructose, cholesterol, and caffeine of Bluebird cafe, a Greek-owned greasy spoon that had been serving up downtown D.C.'s finest flapjacks since 1959.

  Three plates and a heart attack later, the creature would reappear tired and slow-moving. It would make an audible groaning sound when bending over to sit in its BMW. Careful observers would note the slumping movement of the car as it shuddered under the added weight. Careful observers would also know how to slide into traffic behind the creature's car without garnering suspicion. But now, for the over-stuffed and food-sleepy Langhorne, precaution was hardly needed. The tailing itself had become effortless. The creature, whose primary urge had just been satisfied with a double stack of pancakes, seemed content with slower speeds and far less erratic lane changes. Everything was merely routine now, and almost superfluous, like Langhorne's lazy wave to the security guard in the parking booth at the Hart Senate Building. Unfortunately for Jackson, it would take more than a wave.

  “Media? What media?” asked the skinhead-looking security guard behind a kiosk at the building's main entrance.

  “Action News Network,” said Jackson, making sure to sound bored and bothered.

  “What?” The guard winced as his radio came warbling to life in loud burps of static. He promptly twisted down the volume knob at his waist and said, “Never heard of it.”

  “It's online only.”

  “That's probably why you don't have a pass.”

  Jackson reached into his suit-jacket pocket, feeling around as if he’d misplaced something.

  “I can't let you in without a pass,” the guard said while reading something on his computer screen. “And why are you using the front entrance?”

  “Come on man, can you give me a break?” Jackson checked a different pocket. “It's my first day. Just tell me where I need to go and I'll go.”

  “I don't care where you need to go. Just where I need you not to go.”

  Jackson finally handed the surly guard a laminated card. “Mark Applewood. ANN. I'm here for the Langhorne donation.”

  The guard he
ld the fake press pass, turning it over and over, and then tilting the plastic card in the light to search for its reflective authenticity strip. It was there. Matthias was too good for it not to be. He handed it back to Jackson with a shrug. “Just use the side entrance next time, all right?”

  Inside the senate building, Jackson used a few direction placards to find the stairs, and then the second mezzanine, and then the small room with rows of chairs and a temporary stage below an American flagged backdrop. The space had all the makings of a clichéd PR spectacle. It was quickly filling with journalists and their coffees and chatter, their tripoded equipment being hastily erected along the front row. These were supposedly Jackson's people, his colleagues. He was supposed to be among the frenzied scrum, fighting for the best real estate, the best sightlines. But he was happy to stand back. Far back.

  His name and face weren’t exactly famous, although his profile had been heating up with publicity in recent years. A blessing and a curse. Sure, it attracted more business. But it also made undercover ops annoyingly complicated at best, and super risky at worst.

  The current situation wasn't such a big deal. Low risk. And hardly a reward, aside from seeing Mira. It only called for a fake mustache. Jackson had a whole suitcase of Hollywood-grade facial hair "stickers" to choose from, and a more than willing receptionist to laugh hysterically while applying them. Today it was the thin-strip intellectual plus grungy soul-patch. Something only Mark Applewood would wear. Whenever Jackson donned any of these stickers he'd just assume, no matter which variation his receptionist had picked, that he looked like a pretentious douche bag – especially when she'd disagree and say, “No, no, you look awesome.”

  Douche bag or not, he just wanted to be anonymous. Even for just a morning, it felt good not to be known by anyone. It felt good to be a lonely loser like Mark Applewood. Someone with no life and no enemies.

  His latest enemy, or soon-to-be enemy, was this morning's prey, Langhorne. The charismatic senator would be the star of the show soon, smiling in front of working class nobodies like Mark Applewood and all their hungry cameras. Soon he'd wield around a super-sized cardboard check to the obligatory chorus of oohs and ahhs, and then wave it over Mira's head like a guillotine, his eyes trained on hers, his tight expression urging her to smile god dammit because it's a lot of money. It's the least she could do. Smile. And ignore his illegal dealings with East African warlords.

  Where was Mira?

  He was hoping to at least say a quick "Hi" to her before the press conference, to offer his support. A friendly face in the crowd. Someone who understood the true weight of the event. He also needed to give her Tansy's latest weapon, a Swiss Army knife USB stick. It contained the code that would systematically dismantle Langhorne's smuggling infrastructure by hijacking its encryption engines. All Mira had to do was plug it into one of his computers and the infection would turn Langhorne's encrypted messages into actual gibberish.

  That was the official reason for his coming to the press conference. But computers, USB's and Tansy's tricks were the furthest things from his mind.

  Today was all about Mira.

  He knew it would be an emotional clusterfuck for her. Her mother's cancer crossing paths with her boss's deceit. Jackson had anticipated Langhorne's PR spectacle to be a tough, miserable, and lonely experience for his special client.

  Yes, special. And not just because of her live-decrypting abilities.

  Slowly and steadily, she'd made him ignore his better judgment, his personal rule about becoming personally involved with anyone associated with DARC Ops. It happened almost imperceptibly, with each smile and noticeable lip bite, each of her blushes projecting Jackson's thoughts to the bedroom, her wonderfully agonized face foregrounded to his bed sheets.

  She was worth a broken rule or two, and he was willing to admit that now. It felt good to admit that.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” came some guy's annoying voice from the front of the room. “It's the top of the hour. We'll have the senator and Miss Swanson step out for some photos before the senator makes his address. Then we'll bring out the check and you can take additional photos. And then the senator will make his official donation. Please silence all your...”

  The voice faded away when Jackson saw her walk in. The look on her face made him feel sick. She was smiling, but it was hollow. It was an expression that gnawed at her face like a slow acid burn.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Senator Langhorne and Miss Swanson.” The announcement sounded upbeat and celebratory, and there was a modest smattering of applause from the gaggle of reporters. Mira even waved a little. But the way her eyes kept darting to the floor...

  “Hey, where is everybody?” asked the sweaty senator, his face glistening in the lights. “Daws, tell Martin he's fired. Hey can someone give me a wipe-down here? I'm greasier than a fuckin’ pizza.”

  Mira hung in there for the photo op. Tough girl. She followed their rabid instructions, where to look, what to do. She smiled well enough. And when the senator began his speech, she seemed happy to hang back as far as possible.

  Jackson wanted to wave, or try some signal for her attention, but thought better of it. What he really wanted to do was run up on the stage and wrap his arm around her, to hold her. “It's gonna be okay,” he'd whisper. “Take his money now, and then we'll finish him off later.”

  As Jackson's daydream ran in the back of his mind, Langhorne was making a surprisingly impassioned speech about the ravages of cancer in his family and community, and in his “work family,” nodding to Mira for effect. “It's not every day your friend or family member gets diagnosed,” said the senator, pulling a handkerchief from his suit's breast pocket and then wiping his nose with it. “But when it happens, it's the worst day.” He paused for dramatic weight. And then wiped his nose again. “I didn't know Hope Swanson personally. But I know her story. And I know her daughter.”

  What the fuck was he talking about?

  “And it's a tragedy. It truly is. Hopefully, with this donation...” Langhorne quickly glanced over his shoulder. “With this check...,” he trailed off again, looking back over his shoulder. “Chuck,” he said off-mic. “Where's the check?” He looked back to the crowd, to the reporters who began murmuring and chuckling like school kids. He forced a smile before looking back to his men in a corner off-stage. “Chuck? Anybody? Come on, you're killing me here.” More laughter from the crowd. More camera flashes. “Well go tell him. Someone get the check for God's sake.” He faced the crowd with another apologetic smile. “Sorry, folks, we seem to be having some technical--”

  An applause erupted when some young, nervous intern-looking kid walked in holding the comically huge cardboard check.

  “There we go,” said Langhorne. “Bam! Right on schedule, am I right?”

  The applause died down and the camera flashes sparked to life.

  “All right, let's go,” said Langhorne. “Bring it up here. Yeah, right on up here, come on.”

  Everyone seemed to enjoy the moment except for the intern holding the check. And Mira, who was obviously now running on autopilot, her smile manufactured and frozen, her eyes sedated. She remained like that throughout the following photo op, her hands lifelessly gripping a piece of cardboard that signified $250,000 in dirty money.

  * * *

  Jackson lingered after the event, pretending to type notes on his phone while catching snippets of Mira's interviews. They were slightly painful to listen to. The inane questions, her monotonous voice and stock answers. Forced laughter when it was required—like when they'd ask about “that crazy senator.” She'd wring her hands constantly, shifting weight from one leg to the other as if some unknown emergency loomed on the horizon.

  Perhaps it did.

  After a half dozen interviews, she'd had enough. Jackson followed her out of the room, speed-walking down the hall and around a corner, faster around another corner, and to the end of a short hallway where Mira slammed the palms of her hands against the stairw
ell door's press-bar.

  By the time Jackson entered the stairwell he was already two flights behind, with Mira's angry footsteps echoing from the floor below. He clung onto the middle railing, leaned his head over it and called, “Mira!” His voice blasted against the bare concrete, the sound of her name echoing up and down the length of the building. But it was still drowned out by her thunderous escape.

  He took a deep breath and tried again. “Mira! Wait!”

  Her steps rumbled to a stop.

  And then silence.

  “Mira, it's me,” Jackson said before starting his own descent. By the time he reached her at the parking garage level, Mira was crying. A half-soaked, balled up tissue was pressed against her cheek, dabbing up the molten mascara under her eyes. She took one look at him before turning and escaping into the parking garage.

  She didn't get very far. Jackson found her to the immediate right of the door, near a dark concrete corner of parking garage. She faced away, shoulders quivering with quiet sobs.

  It required no thought, his body immediately moving to hers, pressing up behind and wrapping her in his arms. He felt her fragile frame go limp inside his embrace, leaning her weight back into him, collapsing. “It's gonna be okay,” he whispered. “We got this guy.”

  She sniffed and nodded.

  “You did well up there,” he said.

  She sniffed again, and then slipped out of his arms.

  “You were strong, Mira.”

  “Thanks,” she said, her back still turned. She pulled out a fresh tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. “Thanks, I'm fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Just being overly dramatic.” When she turned to face him, Jackson was surprised to see a smile forming across her teary, red face.

  “Happy to see me?” he asked. “I thought you could, uh...”

  She started laughing.

  “...thought you could use the support. What's so funny?”