by Josie Brown
“Yes, I showed it to POTUS, Branham, Todd and Blake Reynolds. But it’s Reynolds’ supposition that you and Jack are allied with the newly resurrected Carl.”
“Ha! Really?” I roll my eyes. “Now, that’s rich! And how did he come up with this little bit of malarkey? Has he forgotten that Jack and I discovered the breaches in the first place?”
“He’s hanging his premise on the fact that it was you and Jack who confirmed Carl’s supposed death in the first place,” Ryan points out. “He also claims that the Acme SatCom footage bears this out: that you’re the woman with Carl who attacked the vice president’s motorcade; and that you did so because Drucker was pushing for an investigation into the leaks on the super soldier project”—he clears his throat—“which would have revealed that Carl now walks among the living, and that he is the true leader of the Quorum, as well as the mastermind behind the Operation Hercules theft and these terrorist assaults.”
“Carl, maybe,” I concede, “But I have proof I was elsewhere: the Spooks Anonymous meeting! There were witnesses, including Bosworth—”
Ryan shakes his head. “Bosworth is on the run. And for that matter, we can’t find anyone else, either. They’ve all disappeared.”
“The hotel’s security footage will bear it out,” I counter. “I entered before the carnage started, and left after the shooters—”
Emma shakes her head. “Sadly, all of the hotel’s footage of the ingress and egress into its parking lot has been erased as well. However, the NSA’s own SatCom footage of cars coming and going from the hotel matches ours—including that of the suspects’ car, upon leaving the Hilton to make the hit. It also matches ours as to where the suspects went, after they split up.” Her blush comes with a pitying look toward me. “Here’s what happened to the female suspect.”
She starts another video.
The woman’s car goes south on 405, but only a few exits before it takes the one to Hilldale. But before it reaches my gated community, she pulls onto a narrow residential street studded with leafy oak trees. Her final turn is into the large circular driveway of a large ranch home with a three-car garage.
When she backs out again, it’s in a car that is the twin of mine.
She stops it when she reaches the street in order to get out and check the mailbox. She is no longer wearing the hat or sunglasses.
In fact she makes it a point to look around, and then up at the sky, as if she knows all eyes are on her.
The woman is me.
“But…It…I was at Acme! So was the real Donna-mobile! It’s how I got Bosworth to Dr. Friedman!”
“As always, your comings and goings from Acme are done via the company’s tunnel into our underground parking lot…” Ryan doesn’t have to spell it out:
Only my Acme colleagues can vouch that I was there during the time in question.
And, if they aren’t now under suspicion, standing up for me will certainly cast a shadow of doubt over the whole organization.
“Why is Jack shackled as well?” I ask.
“It’s also Reynolds’ contention that Carl sent Jack to kill Gordon.”
“Proof positive that the man is an idiot,” Jack grouses.
Ryan frowns, but chooses to ignore him. “Gordon’s body was discovered within twenty minutes of Jack leaving his place. Had the police arrived earlier, he might have been arrested on the spot, and held in some DC jail. At least he got this far.”
“Let me guess: there is no exterior footage of anyone else around the property, leaving Jack as the fall guy,” I retort.
“Bingo,” Jack mutters.
“In Lee’s defense, he doesn’t buy into Reynolds’ allegations. In fact, it was POTUS’s directive that you’re not to be taken into custody. Instead, you’re to stay under house arrest until Branham’s people can do a side-by-side analysis of our SatCom footage along with the current evidence. If it disproves Reynolds’ theory, you’ll be free to go.” He stands up. “In the meantime, there is to be no contact with anyone after this meeting—including anyone from Acme.”
“How much do you want to bet that Lee wanted Acme to handle the breach—in order to set us up?” Jack growls.
Ryan shrugs. “Maybe it’s to give you time to prove your own innocence before the super soldiers have a chance to create more chaos.”
“I don’t get it. What are you trying not to say here?” I ask.
Ryan rolls his eyes. “What I’m trying very hard not to say is that these things fit around anyone’s ankle—even Arnie’s and Emma’s.”
Jack frowns. “Do you mean…”
“I think Ryan is also trying to say that I’m jonesing to beat my record for how quickly I can divert the signal on a couple of ankle monitor locks so that you can prove your innocence,” Arnie cuts in.
I wave toward the window. “The Feds have us under surveillance, don’t they? Didn’t they see you enter with Ryan?”
“Arnie and Emma used the secret tunnel,” Ryan explains.
When we rebuilt our house, we recreated the tunnel Carl had built under our original Hilldale home—sadly, something we had to blow up the last time we went on the lam.
Ah, well. On the upside, the entertainment flow in this newer house on the same lot is much nicer, and the tunnel is now even longer. Renovations add so much to a home’s resale value.
I gave Ryan the tunnel’s coordinates and the code to enter on the other side, in case there was an emergency. This certainly qualifies as one.
“Why leave? All the leads are cold,” I point out.
“Acme now knows where the super soldier encampment is based, thanks to Emma’s sharp eyes in following Carl’s trail,” Ryan counters.
“Where is it?” Jack asks.
“Santa Monica. They’ve taken over an abandoned hotel property on the south side of the Promenade Mall,” Ryan replies.
“Doesn’t it help make our case to the DOJ that we aren’t involved by staying put?” I ask. “If Reynolds finds out we’re gone, things only get worse. I can’t take care of my family while I’m serving a life sentence for murder.”
“Donna, the Quorum neutralized you so that you wouldn’t stand in its way.” Emma takes my hand. “Something is going down in the next twenty-four hours. And if it does, you’ll still be implicated unless you can prove your innocence.”
Jack nods. She makes a good point.
“What do we know about it?” I ask.
“Some of our field agents doing deep cover in some of the domestic hate groups have reconnaissance of a big powwow going down today. The Quorum is leading—and I use this term lightly—a ‘conference’ on how to use social media to recruit emotionally isolated lone wolves to their cause.” Ryan frowns. “Even more importantly, it’s offering financial aid to any and all cash-strapped terrorist cells. I’m sure there is a bigger ulterior motive—some quid pro quo that we don’t yet know”—his eyes move to me—“until we go in and find out. Better yet, we could stop it in its tracks.”
“It won’t be easy to infiltrate the convention,” I warn them. “What if I run into my doppelganger while she’s with others who can vouch for her?”
“If you’re alone with her, ideally, you’ll apprehend her. In any regard, she won’t recognize you. If they can create a fake Donna, we can create a couple of fake terrorists.” Ryan reaches for the briefcase at his feet. He pulls out two dossiers, opening them to the pictures inside. “These two less-than-upstanding citizens are on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. They are also around the same height and weight of you and Jack.”
“Abu and Dominic apprehended them a couple of hours ago as they were on their way to the Quorum’s Terror-Con,” Emma adds.
The man has sharper features than Jack’s, a scar on his right cheek, and light brown hair. I stare down at the face of a woman with high cheekbones and striking brown eyes, with an aquiline nose. She could be Middle Eastern in descent, despite the fact that her dark hair has gold highlights; she is in fashionable Prada and heels, and isn
’t wearing a scarf or hijab. “What’s her story?”
“Rima Kouhri is American born, and of Syrian descent. She recruits teen girls to join jihadist camps,” Emma explains. “Jack’s cover is that of an Neo-Confederate extremist named Clem Odum.”
Ryan pulls something else out of his briefcase: a clear acrylic box containing a latex mask of Rima’s face. He tosses it to me, then Clem’s facemask at Jack.
I laugh. “Talk about old school!”
Arnie hands us each a another, but smaller acrylic box. “There are also fingerprint tips that will verify your new identities. We’ve added their cornea scans to your WiFi contact lenses. And par for the course, you’ll be on audio bud. You’ll also find a dozen GPS disks in there. If you get close enough to a prime target, tag them with it. That way, if we lose their trail, we can pick it up again.”
Jack laughs. “You’ve thought of everything. For the first time in my life, I pray the Feds don’t raid the joint, or we’ll all end up in some black sight.”
“All the more reason this mission must succeed. With a possible mole in the West Wing, if you fail, POTUS must disavow knowledge of your disappearance.”
“In other words, ghost protocol. No surprise there.” Jack shrugs. “Always thinking of his own skin, first and foremost.”
“On the other hand, if you succeed, you save Operation Hercules, redeeming your reputations and that of Acme’s.”
“Not to mention Lee Chiffray’s,” Jack mutters.
Emma catches me wincing. Realizing it’s time to change the subject, she adds, “You’ll be joining Abu and Dominic, who are already in at Terror-Con.” Saying the name puts a smirk on her face. “I’ve put the hotel security cams on a benign loop. All morning long, while the conventioneers listen to Carl and Company’s song and dance, I’ve been leading them through conventioneers’ rooms with no hot spots in order to tag suitcases with these disks. That way, the Feds will be able track them to their home bases for further reconnaissance that will put them behind bars.”
“However, the moment you’re inside the hotel, they’ll be put on alert to provide any necessary backup.” Ryan hands us two more photos. “Memorize these faces too, so you know what Dominic and Abu look like now. They’re disguised as brothers who run an Aryan supremacy cell in Manhattan.”
He hands us photos of our teammates. They could pass for twins: both blue-eyed, with white-blond hair. The look isn’t much of a stretch for Dominic, but for Abu, the transformation is striking.
I smirk, “Talk about brothers from another mother.”
Ryan nods toward Jean-Pierre. “You’ll need someone on the outside. Jean-Pierre will be your getaway driver.”
Jack shakes his head. “No way! If he’s implicated in our escape, he’ll get deported!”
“Worse yet, if the Quorum gets suspicious of him, he’ll get killed,” I add.
Jean-Pierre shakes his head. “I insist on helping! It is my only chance to find Gigi, and help her escape. It’s why I came here. Monsieur Clancy understands.”
I’ve no doubt Jean-Pierre is right. Ryan suffered the loss of his wife and spent a lifetime regretting it. He’d do what he could to help Jean-Pierre avoid the loss of another dear friend at all costs.
“So that Jean-Pierre will be where you need him at all times, he’s also been given field gear, including undetectable earbuds and WiFi lenses,” Ryan adds. “In the meantime, Arnie will hack Gordon’s computer for his security feed, which should provide us with the identity of his real killer, and clear Jack of any wrongdoing. Emma and I will handle the mission from this end. Once we locate and exfiltrate Donna’s twin, she’ll be in the clear.”
“Got it.” I turn to Arnie. “I need your help on another matter.”
He declares, “Sure, name it.”
“Trisha claims she’s seeing a ghost—Carl’s in fact. To see if she’s imagining it, Jeff set up a webcam in her room. Well guess what? He caught him—at least, we think it’s him.”
Arnie opens his mouth, but before he can ask, I interject, “Don’t go there. Sure, it looked like a ghost, but something was off. I just can’t believe it’s real! Are you up to proving me right”—I wince—“or wrong?”
“You bet!” Arnie heads toward the kitchen “Let me talk with my little ghost-busting partner—”
“Hey, aren’t you forgetting something?” Jack points to his ankle monitor.
“Oh…sorry.” Arnie heads back.
Emma sighs.
Blocking the signal is old school for Arnie and only takes a few minutes. He hacks Jack’s monitor first. Jack is quick to place it on Arnie’s ankle.
Then it’s my turn to swap with Emma. In no time, we’re done.
“Now, get out of here, you two—before we all end up in these things permanently,” Emma huffs.
She doesn’t have to ask twice.
Chapter 14
Death Becomes Her
What becomes a legend-in-the-making most? Her funeral couture! So that you look your best on the day of your big sendoff, here’s what you do:
First, pick out the perfect dress that will knock them dead! Tips: stay away from black (since everyone else will be wearing it), and keep to a style with classic lines. You don’t want to show up in the afterlife in something that looks dated after a few millennia.
Second, set up a practice session with your funeral director, to go over your hair and makeup requirements. If you’re lucky, he’ll make you look better dead than alive!
Third, ask that they set your face in a smile, but that your teeth don’t show. Nothing is worse than having everyone remember you with lipstick on them!
Finally: Consider dying young. You might miss out on a lot of fun stuff, like having kids, a fiftieth wedding anniversary, and playing grandma, but remember: looking your best always means making sacrifices.
Ryan is right. Security at the Quorum’s conference is tighter than a gnat’s ass. A workshop minion pats us down before we go through a gauntlet of ID measures, all of which we pass, no problem.
The hotel’s lobby holds sixty or so people. “It’s as if the Star Wars bar scene was reshot with every hate group stereotype,” I murmur.
All of them are making their way toward the hotel’s meeting room. I watch as a group of tatted-up skin-headed Neo-Nazis walk warily around a cluster of black-clad Muslim extremists. Nothing brings people together like a thirst for knowledge: in this case, seeking ways to tear each other apart, literally.
We are handed a badge, but there is no name on it, just a bar code. “My guess is that it has a GPS tracker as well,” Emma warns us. “Dump it if you wander into what is clearly an off-limits area. And by the way, we’re tracking at least two hundred hot spots.”
“Are there any large clusters of hot spots in some of the bedroom suites, or some that are in the same large room, but look isolated from each other? Perhaps lining the walls, or in rows?” Jack asks.
“What you’ve just described fits one of the ground floor conference rooms, all the way in the rear of the hotel,” Emma replies. “It seems to hold about fifty, maybe sixty people. They are in straight rows. None are moving.”
“It may be a holding pen for the missing agents,” Jack suggests.
“Jack, check it out,” Ryan commands. “If it’s what you suspect, Abu and Dominic will join you, and I’ll inform Branham. He’ll send out the Cavalry.”
“Roger,” Abu murmurs.
“There seems to be a digital lock on the door,” Emma notes. “I’ll try to hack it. Wait until you get my high sign. When you reach it, I’ll open it from this end, so that it doesn’t set off a silent alarm.”
“Will do,” Dominic promises.
“In the meantime, Donna, keep your eyes on the prize: Carl, Gigi, Heinried, the Biarritz mystery woman, and Fake Donna,” Ryan says. “If you see any of them, call for back up.”
“On it,” I whisper.
As I round a lobby corner, I notice a door placard that reads:
TRIED A
ND TRUE INDOCTRINATION
THROUGH MEMORY MODIFICATION
SPEAKER: Dr. X – PROGRAM RESEARCHER
Ryan and Emma see the same thing through my eyes. I know this because Ryan exclaims, “Damn it! Lee will be livid.”
“No shit. Imagine the backlash should it ever be known that DARPA taught them all they needed to know to create homegrown jihadists,” Emma adds.
“I’m going to go and check it out,” I say. “I guess we’ll know if Dr. Wollstonecraft was turned after all.” I pray not, for her sake and Evan’s.
“Hey, I’ve just passed the finance pitch room,” Jack says. “It’s empty, but there’s a brochure on the table. I’ve pocketed it. Should be interesting to see what terms the Quorum offers these days.”
“I wonder if the interest is lower than the mortgage on our condo?” Emma muses out loud.
I’d laugh along with the rest of them, but I’ve just walked into the Memory Modification workshop.
My eyes move to the podium, where Dr. X stands—
Or in this case, Dr. Norbert Welles, the researcher from the start-up MesmerMind, who headed up DARPA’s research on neural implants.
Well, what do you know…
“—that mind no longer has to be over matter,” Norbert Welles explains to the ballroom’s crowd, which is standing room only. “Instead, it can now work in tandem with the physical enhancements that will be taking place in your super soldiers.”
I squeeze in between a bow-tied Louis Farrakhan wannabe and someone who’s ignoring the dress code notice that KKK robes can be warn only during cocktail hour.
Both seem happy to have me as a buffer. In fact, Mr. KKK taps his hat in my honor. Bowtie blows me a kiss. Suddenly, both of them are too close for comfort. Yuck! I’ve never thought I’d be the meat in a hate group sandwich. Honestly, this job comes with so few perks. I’m going to talk to Human Resources about that.
“This short video shows you our process in its entirety,” Welles declares. “Let’s watch it, shall we?”
The lights go dark so that all can clearly see the wall-sized monitor behind the podium. A second later, the screen is filled with the image of a beautiful young woman:
