Encrypted: An Action-Packed Techno-Thriller

by Carolyn McCray

  This was Zach’s cousin’s idea of fun? Ronnie certainly hoped it didn’t run in the family. Ronnie hadn’t been to too many bars, but she was pretty sure that this wasn’t the norm. What would Quirk call this party? Besides disgusting?

  Off the hook. That’s what he would call it.

  Ronnie’s eyes swept over the crowd. No Zach. She double-checked the fondlers, but Zach was not amongst them. Of course, there was a shadowy back area. Would he be back there? Given how late she was, wouldn’t he be at the front of the bar? Looking for her?

  Unless he found someone else to satisfy his “in person” needs.

  She really should just walk out. Try to contact him though their communications channels, but Ronnie felt a morbid sense of duty to make sure Zach wasn’t here. Luckily, the naked women on the bar fascinated the bulk of the men. She guessed that despite Quirk’s best efforts, Ronnie had too many clothes on for them.

  Keeping to the edge of the room, Ronnie made her way to the back area lined with booths. The first one had a couple, well, fornicating. Yes, full-on fornication. Ronnie averted her eyes. She didn’t consider herself a prude, but come on. They were doing it in a booth in a bar!

  Quickly, she made her way down the line of them, finding much the same. Except, of course, for the last one, which involved a lizard and a bottle of Tequila. She really should have just assumed that Zach was not back here.

  But if not here, then where?

  Had he even come?

  Ronnie grabbed her iPod. There was nothing else to try, except to attempt to communicate with Zach.

  She should have told him that she was running late.

  But really, what kind of bond did they have if he couldn’t even wait an hour for her? How did that compare to the months and months that led up to this night?

  Once again, though, Ronnie’s imagination had gotten away with her. It was so easy to conjure up all of these romantic notions when you only spoke to a guy three nights a week for exactly sixty-two minutes.

  As she walked toward the exit, Ronnie cast her eyes to the floor so that she did not have to see why the men were all chanting, “Lo, lo, lo!”

  Besides, Zach had his career to think about. Hell, not just his career, but also his freedom. If he were caught meeting her off the books? Forget parole.

  Sure, there were a thousand perfectly sane reasons for Zach standing her up. But not a one of them, not one, took away the soul-wrenching pain of walking out that door all by herself.

  CHAPTER 10

  Ciudad Juarez

  9:26 p.m., MST

  Quirk watched as Ronnie stumbled out of the bar. Alone. He used infrared goggles to search up and down the street. Where in the hell was Zach? Perched atop a building across from the bar, Quirk used the high-powered zoom to check the entire area, but still no Hunt.

  Heteros. They would never learn. And to waste such an outfit?

  Still, this turn of events shocked even this world-weary hacker. It had never, ever occurred to Quirk that the corn-fed Dudley Do-Right wouldn’t show. Would he try to arrest Ronnie? Sure, Quirk was prepared for that. It played right into the agent’s Mid-west morality. But to stand her up? To leave a woman in the lurch? To hurt her feelings like this? Quirk never would have guessed that the hunk had it in him to be this cruel.

  Using the scope, he zoomed in on his boss. Ronnie looked like absolute hell. Courtney-Love-after-a-bender kind of hell. It wasn’t so much her wet dress or the mussed hair. It was the look on Ronnie’s face. Complete and utter devastation. He guessed that Hunt wasn’t the stand-up guy that he pretended to be.

  But wait! A car pulled up to the curb near Ronnie. Maybe Zach was just being stealthy, after all. Ronnie leaned in to the passenger’s window as Quirk tightened his focus on the driver.

  Oh, no. That definitely wasn’t Hunt. It was a toothless Mexican. Even though Quirk couldn’t speak the language, it was clear that the man was looking for something other than directions. And there went Ronnie’s middle finger, flipping off the potential john.

  Oh, that was it! The last humiliation.

  Whipping out his laptop, Quirk first checked the glands under his neck to be sure they weren’t enlarged. You never could be too careful with the plague on the loose. Then, he looked up Zach’s financial information. No one dissed Ronnie like this without paying, and paying a lot.

  “Credit score of 850, huh?” Quirk asked the screen. “Well, not anymore.” Hunt’s credit plummeted to two hundred and fifty. Some homeless people had better credit now. “And don’t bother trying to use your ATM, you prick.”

  Feeling a certain amount of satisfaction after trashing Zach’s finances, Quirk packed up his belongings. Now he could see why Ronnie wanted to buy an island paradise and keep it all to herself.

  When even a Waltons-style guy like Zach turned out to be a dick, what hope was there?

  Quirk hoped that the agent felt even a fraction of the pain Ronnie did.

  * * *

  Zach forced his body to remain slack as the two thugs lifted him from the van. He wished he could say this level of control was due to his highly honed skills, but with the dollop of the Taser hit, he wasn’t sure if he could resist even if he wanted to.

  Not too gently, they dragged him across rough terrain. Even though his muscles were slack, Zach’s mind spun. They must be outside the city, but they couldn’t have traveled more than thirty minutes. Forty-five, tops. He tried to keep time by his heartbeat, but there was no doubt that he had passed out a few times. Still, it couldn’t have been that long. His cuts and scrapes from the bitch-slapping session stung rather than ached.

  No, not much time had passed at all. Certainly not long enough for Grant to notice that he was gone. Zach had to stifle a snort. Who was he kidding? Fifer wasn’t going to miss him until it came time for a ride home. Either his partner was nose-deep in tits, or a captive as well.

  The thugs stopped and knocked at a door. Then, in hushed tones, they obtained entrance. That made three men with him, and at least another behind the door. Zach’s heels bounced over a metal landing. No steps up to the door—which meant that this most likely wasn’t a residential dwelling. He tried to re-create a map in his head. Where in the hell had they taken him?

  As they dragged him across the room, Zach’s fingers ran over the rough cement floor. So he was right. This definitely wasn’t a house, and the thugs’ footsteps didn’t echo, which eliminated a warehouse. Was it a store? A garage?

  But what did it matter? If this were the usual type of federal agent snatch, this place would be fortified with a veritable army of drug soldiers. Escape, or even rescue, would be impossible. His only hope was that the State Department would give his kidnappers “consideration” and arrange for his release.

  If he weren’t lucky? Well, not getting to meet Ronnie would suddenly not be his worst regret in life. Not having any skin would be.

  They crossed into another room. This one sounded much smaller, and his captors hauled him into a chair. Zach had no choice but to let himself fall face-first onto the table, landing right on the jaw—where the she-bitch landed a punch. Still, he remained passive. Motionless. He kept his breathing slow and steady.

  Would this ruse help him obtain vital information? He doubted it, but letting his mind whirl and his training flow through his veins kept the panic at bay. The more in control he felt, the less likely he was to hurl.

  * * *

  Ronnie stood under the lamppost, hugging herself. She couldn’t think of what else to do. First, a man who she thought loved her had stood her up. Then, she was mistaken for a hooker. Tears stung her eyes. If only she hadn’t been late! If only…

  She choked, thinking of the thousand what-ifs that sprang to mind. But none of them would miraculously make Zach appear before her. But damn it, she was nearly an hour late. Oh, how she wished she could blame Quirk for this, but she knew better. If Zach had shown up at all, he would have waited. It would have taken the modern equivalent of wild horses to pull him
away.

  Another car pulled up to the curb. Okay, this was the last time she arranged a blind date in the red-light district. But this car was a cab. A cab with a twentysomething knight in shining armor. Sagging with relief, she got into the vehicle, and they sped away from the site of her humiliation.

  “Ronnie,” Quirk said with actual concern in his voice. Not the usual “your baggy jeans and ill-fitting sweatshirt is embarrassing me” kind of concern, but she simply couldn’t face him.

  God, why had she let herself believe that Zach cared for her? Why had she risked her heart like that? She was pretty sure she would have been less disappointed if Zach had actually tried to arrest her. At least then, she could have looked into his eyes and seen how he really felt about her. Now? Oh, God, she had to choke back the tears again.

  “Come on, hon,” Quirk coaxed, and she finally looked over at him. He patted a towel draped over his shoulder. “I’m completely prepared for the mother of all good cries.”

  Normally, she would have had a great comeback or at least a scathing look to offer, but tonight she just leaned on her assistant and laid her head upon the terry cloth towel.

  “And here you go.” Quirk pulled out a pint of Häagen-Dazs ice cream and a spoon. “If it’s any consolation, this is how I usually end up after the White Party.”

  For some strange reason, that did make Ronnie feel better—enough to take the proffered spoonful of ice cream.

  * * *

  Lino arrived at the small airport, greeted by a foursome in long, black, traditional priestly robes. He did not acknowledge their presence. Why should he? While their wore the same frock, none could walk in his stead.

  The group parted to reveal another clothed in black, only his robe needed twice the yardage. Deacon Havar. Forced by protocol to bow to this wide-girthed superior, Lino inclined his head, but no more than four degrees. He would not give one so weak in the flesh more honor than that.

  The sly insult did not get past the deacon, though. His chest puffed out as he rolled up his sleeve, revealing an elaborate weaving of symbols. Lino scanned them, taking in the minor accomplishments that elevated this man to deacon. Havar had recruited a few souls into the Hidden Hand. He helped create a small-armed guard, the Hand’s Shield, to protect their most precious resource. Yet for all of the symbols dug into his flesh, he had little actual experience fighting out in the world.

  Lino again lowered his head in well-schooled deference, and then tugged his sleeve up. As Havar read the symbols streaming down Lino’s arm to his elbow and back around, the deacon’s eyes widened. He glanced up in Lino’s eyes. The question was clear.

  Was Lino friend or foe? Lino grinned. If one must ask, the answer usually was foe.

  In the end, Havar took a step back, not bothering to finish the tale written deeply in Lino’s flesh.

  “On the morn, we will collect Brother Loubom and the Picasso.”

  Inclining his head was Lino’s only answer. Why waste the breath of one such as Havar? Tomorrow they would have the traitor and his muse so that Lino could get back to his true task.

  That of bringing the world to heel to the Hidden Hand.

  * * *

  Zach heard the door open. The steps were heavy, measured, and deliberate. By the way the thugs shuffled, the general of their little army had just walked it.

  “Jorge, I’ll get the smelling salts,” one of the underlings said.

  “Don’t bother,” the new man said in a thick Mexican accent. “The gringo is awake.”

  Without warning, Jorge punched Zach in the kidney. He couldn’t stifle the moan. Fingers dug into his hair and jerked his head up to meet his captor’s scarred face.

  “Don’t ever try to fool me again, cabrón,” Jorge said just before he punched him in the kidney again.

  “I don’t know who in the fuck you think you kidnapped, but I’m FBI,” Zach said through clenched teeth, not wanting the man to hear the pain in his voice.

  “Good for you,” Jorge said as he punched him again. “I’m C fucking IA.”

  Zach’s mind raced. Jorge was lying, obviously. But why? Why not just admit that he was a drug lord?

  “Who is the Robin Hood hacker?” Jorge asked.

  For a moment, Zach couldn’t even process the question, which earned him another punch in the kidney. The pain didn’t help him process the request any faster. Why did a cocaine distributor care about Ronnie?

  “I asked you a question,” Jorge reminded him, the threat clear in his voice.

  Until he knew what in the hell was going on, Zach kept his responses to a minimum. “Access the files yourself, prick.”

  Another punch. “When is the last time that you spoke with her?”

  Angered, Zach looked into the cold eyes of his captor. “Again, if you are C fucking IA, then check the El Paso Field Office’s phone records.”

  Another punch, and this time Jorge put his back into it. Zach tried to keep his breathing steady, but the pain took its toll.

  “I will ask you one more time, and then I will really hurt you.” The Mexican leveled his gaze to emphasize each word. “When did you speak with her?”

  With equal emphasis, Zach answered. “Bite me.”

  Jorge obviously didn’t like the suggestion, because he wailed on Zach’s sides. Still handcuffed, Zach had no recourse but to double over. He wasn’t going to give the prick the satisfaction of knowing how badly the beating hurt. Finally, the punches stopped, and the supposed CIA agent tossed something onto the table. Zach kept his eyes closed, forcing Jorge to grab him by the hair again.

  Opening his lids, Zach found his iPod staring back at him.

  Jorge leaned in close and whispered into his ear. “Just because we’ve got brown skin doesn’t mean we don’t know a hidden communications device when we see it.” He released Zach’s hair and straightened over him. “We know you talked to her last night. We picked up a scrambled signal coming from your home.”

  Zach spit out blood. “Then why the fuck didn’t you ask me?”

  “Because we need your help.”

  “Help?” Zach said, a little too high-pitched for an FBI agent. But the word had startled him. Gaining control of his voice, he continued, “Yeah, right.” Zach glanced around the small, interrogation-style room. “This is how I’d go about securing an FBI agent’s assistance.”

  Jorge took this opportunity to use his fists again. Zach squeezed his eyes shut and ground his teeth together during the beating. But he was even more committed to keeping silent. He might have been tortured into giving away state secrets, but to give up Ronnie?

  Never.

  * * *

  Quirk struggled with one hand to put the key, an actual stupid, awkward, metal key, into the hotel room’s lock and use his other arm to support Ronnie. If she was going to continue to have these little breakdowns, she needed to cut back on the Krispy Kremes.

  Finally the lock gave, and he stumbled into the room under the weight of his boss, five thousand dollars’ worth of fashion, and another twenty pounds of electronics. They really needed to hire a Sherpa for trips like this.

  “Oh, God…” Ronnie moaned, forcing Quirk to look up.

  No! He had forgotten about the arrangements he had made. The entire room was awash in romantic candlelight. Rose petals graced the lace bedspread, a red and black teddy hung from the bathroom door, and a large…Well, let’s just say sexual aid, lay on the dresser.

  “Oh, dear,” he apologized. “I was a tad too optimistic.”

  Frantically, Quirk tried to put away all the reminders of the night Ronnie should have had. He looked over his shoulder to find his boss still standing, stunned, in the doorway. Sometimes he was just too damn good at his job. Way better a job done than Zach tonight.

  “Hon, go take a bath,” he encouraged. “It will do you good.”

  Ronnie shook her head, not moving from the doorway. “I’m fine.”

  Quirk guided her into the bathroom as he looked her up and down. From the st
reaked mascara to the rumpled dress, Ronnie looked anything but fine. “Let’s just say it will do me good. Now go.”

  Almost like a child too sleepy to fight, his boss started to the tub, but Quirk stopped her. “Hand it over.”

  Ronnie pulled her purse closer to her chest.

  “Give it up, woman. I’m not joking.”

  Still Ronnie clung to the clutch. He had to pry her fingers from the clasp. “Don’t make me beat your ass at designer trivia for it.”

  Reluctantly, she pulled out her iPod, but still refused to hand it over.

  This was going to be a long night if Ronnie couldn’t bring herself to accept that Zach was a sorry-assed hetero loser.

  “And if Mr. Super-Special Agent called,” Quirk asked, “what exactly could he say to make you feel better?”

  Ronnie lowered her head. She must have known there was nothing, but maybe she needed to be convinced.

  “He wasn’t in a horrible car accident.” Still, she didn’t respond. “His brother didn’t need an emergency liver transplant.” Quirk tugged the communication device from her stiff fingers. “And he wasn’t kidnapped by Mexican nationals, so just take a bath already.”

  * * *

  Jorge kicked the back of Zach’s knee. “Just tell me when you’d like me to stop, puto.”

  “Now would be great,” Zach grunted.

  Pointing to the iPod, Jorge leaned in, at eye level with Zach. “Then tell me how to work it.”

  “Oh,” Zach said, “Not if I need to do that.”

  Jorge gave a one-two punch to Zach’s already-brutalized kidney. “You don’t get it, do you, chollo?” He gave a third blow. “You’ll tell me, or you’ll die.”