Savior Frequency (Frequency Series Book 1)

by Shane Scollins

  She pushed herself up from the stool and hitched over to the couch. The laptop was already running when she opened the lid. She eased back into the plush seat and sat the computer on her lap.

  Out of curiosity, she typed the phrase from the card into the search engine. To her mild surprise, it came back as Out of the depths, I cry to you, Oh Lord. It was the first few words of Psalm 130 in the Book of Psalms. It seemed like an odd thing for him to have on a card. He didn’t seem like the religious type. A quick glance around revealed no religious artifacts.

  She shrugged it off and started routing her connection through some proxy servers. After all the routing, she typed the numbers into her browser that would direct her to TRN, Tyrannus Rexxus Nexxus—a super-secret spy network, a literal social network for the spy world. Yes, indeed, everything had gone social networking.

  She chose the login name redflag911, which was code that she was in trouble. Sometimes the only place a spy can get some help is from another spy.

  In this case, since TRN had been born, it had become priceless resource. There was always a chance seeking help would alert the wrong people, but in most cases a good spy could cover his or her tracks enough to make it all work. If one knew the right code to speak, the hackers would help them out. It just so happened, Kayci not only knew the main hackers, she knew one of the creators of TRN: her brother Josh.

  There were several phrases she could employ to find help. She chose carefully. Since the Bible was fresh on her mind, she decided on one that was far less popular and would least likely to trace back to her unit. The instant messages read in old school green on black windows.

  Redflag911: The Lord is my Shepard.

  BuggyBounce: No Shepard allowed

  RipTide500: Gotta go – no empirical entanglements.

  Swish_Bucket3: he’s got the whole world in his hands

  One after another, the language was random and vague. So far, none of the responses were the one she was looking for. They were all code for another spy but not anyone she knew. She waited on the gateway, hoping one would come along that looked familiar and sure enough, one did.

  PurplePicker1: Hey there lord it’s me

  Redflag911: I wonder if you’re free

  PurplePicker1: Or not asleep, this just won’t keep – it seems I just don’t see.

  Bingo. She’d found someone who knew the phrasing. She typed in the go words, which would allow them to open a private dialog.

  Redflag911: go with throttle up

  Her screen went berserk. The numbers flashed, spun and then for three seconds, an IP address popped up on her screen and she memorized it. Once the screen went back to normal, she typed into her browser bar: 127.251.251.9, and a prompt came open. She was in.

  Redflag911: Need help

  PurplePicker1: What’s the trouble?

  Redflag911: Off the grid, need 411 on SORC agent missing

  PurplePicker1: SORC no longer – all tickets burned – GAO/FBI joint investigation shut down – identify

  Kayci was stunned. This could not be possible.

  Redflag911: Not possible, information incorrect

  PurplePicker1: NOT incorrect – down pike 2 days out – known wicked

  Redflag911: How possible?

  PurplePicker1: unknown – entire unit sacked – identity?

  They were asking her to identify herself. She was not going to, even if it might be her brother. And right away she knew the only one that could sack SORC was Roy Fletcher.

  Redflag911: what tickets burned?

  PurplePicker1: A-11 - 5AWOL DC apocalypse – string theory, nothing left but clouds – UR1 yes/no

  Redflag911: No, only concerned party from the old red planet east of metropolis

  PurplePicker1: Affirmative – end game – contingency - time is running out – the circuit has killed the messenger

  Redflag911: understood

  With that, Kayci ended the connection and logged off so there could be no trace route. She placed the laptop on the table. This was very bad. It confirmed all her suspicions.

  She was as good as dead. There was literally nowhere to hide. When the goons from Majestic asked her about the banking data, she’d known something was strange, but she had no idea what.

  Kayci had never trusted Avery, but he always seemed to be well under Fletcher’s thumb. Avery was going to take the money and run, and he was going to pin it on her. If the entire unit was in on it, that meant they were on the payroll too. She was the perfect scapegoat, the safety mule with all the sensitive data. She knew too much about too many things. Even worse than that was the only man on earth she knew no place to hide from, Nathan Pratt, was likely the one who would be hunting her.

  Kayci sat back and tried to think of a plan. She needed to get some space between herself and the goons at Majestic, but that would require public places, airports. That would tip off the SORC team in a second. She knew they were behind Majestic pulling the strings.

  Worst of all, she had no money. In the spy game, you don’t need to kill someone to take them out of the match. All you needed to do was cut off their resources and they might as well be dead already. Even her name was not her own.

  Chapter Seven

  Jordan pulled into the parking lot of Moore’s Tire Store and picked his usual space near the edge of the lot. As always, he was the first arrival.

  Just as his teeth sank into the garlic bagel from East Side Bakery, his boss, Sean Priest, walked around the corner to open the store. “Callahan, you’re early as usual. You can punch and get started.” Sean adjusted the brim of his mysteriously clean Moore’s Tire hat. It looked so white against his dark black skin.

  Jordan had worked in many shops over the years, but he’d never seen anyone manage to stay as clean as Sean. It wasn’t that he didn’t work, either. On the contrary, he was a great manager who didn’t mind stuffing his large frame into small areas to get dirty. The odd thing was the man did not get dirty. Jordan got dirty just standing in the middle of the shop looking at the cars. Sean could roll around under a 1986 Buick and come up clean. Jordan wondered if perhaps he washed his uniforms in some sort of stain-repelling gel.

  Jordan finished his last bite of bagel, unlocked his toolboxes, and headed over to the service desk to pick up his first job.

  Sean walked behind the desk and took hold of the morning work orders. “Okay, what do you want? Toyota Tundra and the four giant tires, the GMC 2500 with four even more giant tires, The VW Jetta for a slow leak in the wiper reservoir and an oil change, or do you want the Honda Accord for wipers, oil change and a full twenty point inspection?”

  That was an easy choice. “I’ll take the Honda.” This would chew up a good portion of the morning.

  Jordan scooped up the clear plastic envelope with the work order inside and punched the clock for the job. Getting in early always got him the pick of the easiest job. The late technician was always sorry.

  He did not particularly like working on cars, but it was a skill, and he had just enough tools to get by in most tire and muffler shops. No matter where he went, there was always work.

  You’d think it would be hard to work in such a dangerous place. But he’d learned long ago that there was no point in worrying where death might decide to strike. There was no method to the madness. The chess match with death was never easy to understand.

  ***

  It had been an easy day at work. Saturday’s usually were. His boss didn’t overbook on Saturday, which was a nice bonus compared to most service managers. Most of them were commission-driven and worked the technicians like dogs.

  Jordan turned off the highway and headed home down the winding country blacktop. The easy turns and flowing hills were relaxing to the point of disarm. He learned the hard way last month not to let these roads lull you into a false sense of security when he’d seen some guy on a motorcycle hit a deer.

  The sky was darkening but not because of approaching night. That was still hours off. The clouds grew thick wi
th moisture and appeared ready to heave all over the ground. It had been sunny all day long, but it looked like another evening of humidity driven thunderstorms was on tap.

  He thought about stopping off at Vito’s Pizza for a pie, but then remembered his houseguest and figured it was better to just head directly home. He had plenty of food in the freezer to whip up something. Maybe some roasted garlic salmon with basil-seasoned baked potato and broccoli was in order.

  Stormy would no doubt be antsy after hanging with a stranger for a whole day. He would be confused as to why his daily sanctuary was interrupted. Knowing Stormy, he was stowed away in the bedroom closet all day, where he did most of his sleeping.

  As he pulled into his dead-end street, something was wrong. There were no less than three marked police cars, two undercover cars, and cops milling all over his house. “What now?” But he knew it had to do with Kayci, and although he’d just met her, he liked her, there was something about the woman that enticed him.

  He pulled in behind one of the cop cars and headed towards the door. “Hey, what is this?” he demanded as police came in and out of his house.

  “Jordan Callahan?” A tall, well-built cop in a suit, with short brown hair and narrow dark eyes, approached from the doorway.

  “I’m Jordan. What is this about?”

  “My name is Detective Honeywell, New York State Police. We’d like you to come in and answer some questions.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Please, Mr. Callahan, let’s do this the easy way. I don’t want to arrest you, but I will.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jordan could not hide his budding anger. “What the hell is going on here? You’re not arresting anyone until I know what the hell is going on.”

  “Okay, we’re going to do it the hard way. Turn around. You’re under arrest for suspicion of the murder.”

  “Whoa, I didn’t kill anyone. This is some kind of mistake.” It was no use. These men were not hearing it. Two other uniformed cops crowded him.

  “Turn around, put your hands behind your back,” the large Detective Honeywell reiterated.

  Jordan looked at the faces of the uniformed cops providing the extra muscle. There was no point in fighting this. He reluctantly turned around with a shake of his head and listened to the cop read his Miranda Rights. With one final crank of the cuffs, they huddled him into the nearest undercover squad car.

  A feeling of doom climbed up his spine. He didn’t have to ask whom they were arresting him for killing. He already knew. Well, at least he suspected.

  “What’s going to happen to my cat?” They were about to close the door of the car on him.

  “What cat?” Detective Honeywell’s coal-lump eyes narrowed to specks.

  “I have a cat—all black—answers to Stormy.” Jordan shifted into the seat.

  “We didn’t find one.” The Detective slammed the door.

  He looked to the roof of the police car, looking through to God. “What did I do to you? What, my life wasn’t messed up enough already? Torturing me with death for the past eighteen years wasn’t enough. Is that it? Now you have to twist this into the mix?”

  Jordan thumped his head into the seat and closed his eyes. It suddenly occurred to him whoever was chasing an NSA agent must be savvy enough to try and pin a murder on someone else. He was that someone else.

  He was worried about Stormy. The cat wasn’t just his responsibility. He was his best buddy. If he got outside, Jordan might never see him again. He loved that cat. The thought of losing him washed a sick feeling into his gut, which mixed with the other sick feelings already there. It made aqueasy soup that probably would not taste good even with oyster crackers and some Romano cheese.

  The cop who had cuffed him came walking over to the car, opened the door, and slid into the driver seat.

  “I didn’t kill her,” Jordan said quietly from the backseat. The detective said nothing, started the car, and tore away from the scene.

  The entire ride was a blur. He felt like everything was a dream. His head started to thump. A wicked headache was coming. It was not one of his special headaches, but a good old-fashioned migraine.

  The police cruiser rumbled into a small station. The white building was bland. Except for the large black letters, announcing New York State Police, one might just assume it was another strip mall rectangle.

  “This is ridiculous.” Jordan said to himself as the Detective ushered him into the station, herded him into a room, and sat him down. He removed the cuffs from behind Jordan’s back and secured his ankle to an iron hook in the floor.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Jordan protested yet again.

  The detective stood over him for a second, hiked up his belt, and said, “Of course not. No one ever does.” He turned and left the room.

  Jordan took a deep breath and dropped his face into the palms of his hands.

  Chapter Eight

  Jordan finally got past the anger. He always adjusted well. After what felt like forever, two cops walked into the room. One was the familiar, large and stoic detective who had arrested him. The other was an attractive and petite female with chestnut hair and large dark blue eyes. She started the dialog.

  “Mr. Callahan, I’m Detective Holly Prince, and you’ve met Detective Honeywell. Do you know why you’re here today?

  Jordan laughed. “No, not really.”

  “You’re here because of Kayci Dewitt. We believe you killed her. If you just want to tell us what happened, maybe we can clear this up.”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “Home” He shrugged.

  “Were you alone?” Holly Prince had a soft yet firm doe-eyed glare that fit her blue eyes well. Jordan could see how those eyes could disarm even the most determined criminals.

  “No, I wasn’t alone. I was…” He cut himself off, shaking his head in disbelief. They were not going to believe him. “You guys won’t believe me. I’m sure you’ve already made up your minds.”

  “Mr. Callahan, we’ll believe anything if it’s the truth. Why don’t we start with what happened? How long have you known her? How’d you meet her?”

  Detective Honeywell stood by the door with his arms folded. He regarded Jordan with a look that said I’m not going to believe anything you say.

  Detective Prince redirected the questioning. “Just tell us what happened. Did you come on to her and she resisted? Was it an accident?”

  “She showed up at my door last night. Never saw her before. She said she was in trouble, that she was some sort of government agent. I let her stay the night, left for work in the morning. She was still alive when I left. That’s the truth. That’s all I know.”

  The two detectives shared a look, and then Detective Prince asked. “When did things get physical? Did you hit her?”

  Jordan shook his head. “I didn’t hit her. I didn’t do anything. I fed her chicken and pasta and let her sleep in my spare room.” He folded his arms in front of him. “This whole thing is ridiculous.”

  Detective Prince leaned back in her chair. “We found blood in your house, Mr. Callahan. Whose blood is that? Where’d you put the body? Let’s work back from there.”

  “There’s no body?” Jordan asked, surprised. “How do you know she’s dead if you don’t have a body?”

  Detective Honeywell interjected with an even more accusatory tone, “We found blood in your house, on the porch, by the front door, in the bathroom. We found bloody clothes.”

  Jordan rolled his eyes. “She was a bloody mess when she showed up. Someone beat her up…but it wasn’t me. I swear to God. Look on the side of the road by the house. You’ll see she was there. There’s probably blood in the cornfield she crawled through to get to my house.” Jordan laughed. “If you don’t have a body, why am I here?”

  “We have probable cause,” Detective Prince stated.

  “What probable cause? How’d you even end up at my house?”
<
br />   The female detective was calm and direct. “We had a call. Someone said they heard screams coming from your house early this morning and saw you tearing out of there in a hurry.”

  “Are you kidding me? You got a warrant to rip my house up because someone said they heard a scream?” Jordan folded his hands on the table calmly and nodded thoughtfully. This was all bullshit. They had nothing on him at all. He should just ask for a lawyer and end this stupidity.

  Detective Honeywell moved forward and forcefully slammed his hands on the table. “We got the warrant because of the blood on your porch, smartass. Now save us all a bunch of time and tell us where you dumped the body.”

  Jordan looked at him, trying to keep his contempt under control. “I’m not saying anything. I’ve said all I know. I’ve told you the truth and I know my rights. I want a lawyer. I didn’t kill anyone, and I certainly didn’t dump any body. Either throw me in a cell or let me go.”

  The two detectives stood by the door and regarded each other for a long pause, then walked out.

  Jordan slumped to the table and rested his head on his arms.

  Chapter Nine

  “What do you think?” Honeywell asked, still looking through the glass at Callahan.

  “I don’t know. Something about this is all wrong.” Holly Prince sipped her coffee and stared through the glass to the interrogation room. Callahan was a good-looking man. He had shaggy brown hair and direct eyes so light brown they were almost amber. He had imperfect, slightly vampire-ish teeth that she found endearing. He seemed honest, but her cop sense told her he was hiding something. She was a third generation cop. It oozed out of her every pore, and she could spot a liar as clear as the sunrise.

  “He’s pissing me off,” Honeywell declared.

  Holly shook her head. “He’s either one of the best liars I’ve ever seen, or he’s telling the truth.”

  Honeywell nodded. “We need a body.”

  Footfalls came down the hall, and both detectives turned.