He laughed. “Yeah. It looks good.”
But she was still looking serious. “Are you seriously looking through my work?”
“I’m looking into AIDA. I don’t know why I closed my window down like that, it’s kind of a bad habit. A natural reaction.”
She smiled. And he was instantly relieved.
“It was porn, wasn’t it?”
“No,” he said, turning his chair to her, looking her up and down, trying not to imagine her naked. “I don’t think I’ll need porn ever again.”
Laurel smiled and averted her eyes, a slight flush coming over her cheeks. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”
“I guess so.”
“Okay, so anyway . . . Um, well this is a terribly timed segue, but, uh . . .” Her eyes returned to his, her lip sucked in, her hips swiveling self-consciously. “I was just gonna ask if you wanted to hang out tonight?”
“Hang out?’
“Like, work.”
“Work out?”
She laughed. “Work on the AIDA hack.”
“Oh, right.” He’d want nothing more than to spend time with her again, whether it was working out or hanging out, or working on a hack. But there was this Sentry work, and there was the possibility that Ernie would call to invite him to his mission. And then came the sudden panic, an uncertainty of how to say no to her invitation, and to do so without hurting her feelings. Though it was ridiculous, having to feel that way about a simple decline . . . She’d made him so neurotic.
Laurel had been staring at him while these thoughts raced through his mind. Her smile had disappeared and now it was almost a look of fear. She didn’t want to be turned down. And he’d hate to do it.
“I think I really have to stay tonight,” he said with a wince. “I have to work on some things, make some reports for Washington.”
“Oh,” she shrugged, staring at the ground. “Yeah . . . Well, it’s okay.”
“But trust me, I’d rather be with you.”
She smiled. “I bet.”
“I really would.”
“I know.”
“You’ll be here tomorrow, right?”
Laurel rolled her eyes. “And the day after that and after that and . . . yeah.”
“Well, good.”
“Not really,” she said.
“Good as in, we’ll get to work on the hack tomorrow. Do you have any time slots free?”
“I can make some.”
He smiled.
But now her face had hardened back to that managerial scowl of an office drone. “Because we really need to get going on that. The deadline . . .”
“Of course.”
She nodded, then stared at him for a moment before saying, “Bye, Matthias.”
The way she said Matthias, and not Matt, sent a chill down his spine.
“Bye, Laurel.”
Matthias returned to work, albeit on different employees, for the duration of Laurel’s stay at the office—about ten minutes of packing up and leaving without another goodbye. He waited for good measure, taking on other employees in the now silent office. She was the last remaining employee, aside from the two men running the show, Geffen and Andre. And through half of the names so far, everyone had seemed to check out. It became increasingly boring, with each clean activity log. It had always been tedious work, going through the actions and the dates and times, but now it had taken on a certain silliness. It was a little hard to imagine that he was even there, in Atlanta of all places, checking through files like he was just another bean counter. As he clicked on files and read through little lines of text, his mind began to wonder over to the industrial wasteland of the Southern Dragons’ territory, to Ernesto’s car waiting in the weeds somewhere. Of Ernesto, this time with backup, creeping through the weeds with their high-tech listening instruments, approaching the biker compound.
“How’s it going, Matthias?”
He turned to see Mr. Andre.
“Sorry to bother you. But I was wondering if you got on to Laurel’s file yet? I’m kinda anxious about that.”
“Well, she was just here, so . . .”
“So what?” said Mr. Andre, his face finally easing into a smile.
Matthias returned to his computer screen and clicked onto her file. “I’ll let you know.”
“Don’t kill yourself over it,” said Mr. Andre. “I’d just like to cross her name off the list. She’s a pretty important cog here.”
Matthias hated how he used the term “cog,” like she was some dispensable nobody, another brick in the wall. “That’s right,” he said. “She’s managing the AIDA project, correct?”
Just a little reminder for Mr. Andre.
“That was out of our hands,” he said. “And it’s assistant manager.”
Matthias nodded and kept working. Out the corner of his eye he saw Mr. Geffen appear. He walked up to Andre and whispered into his ear before they both left the room.
It seemed like he had no choice but to get started on her, all the people and circumstances and stars aligning to move him in that one single direction—to betray the trust of his new friend.
As he entered her work history, he tried rationalizing it in his mind, trying to find a way to convince himself that it was just another mission. And that it was up to Laurel to keep her nose clean at work. That’s all there was to it. And then he came to the frightening realization that, if she had indeed been the leak, he would have to cease contact—for sure the after-hours contact. Unless it was part of some investigation, he’d no longer have any extracurricular work sessions, especially dates.
The confusion of it put knots in his stomach, the worries of how to let her down gently after their relationship started burning so fast and hot. But for any of that to happen, he would have to find some horrible clue on her personal workspace—something he assumed, or at least hoped, would not happen.
And when he did, stumbling across an odd series of data packet transfers, he nearly threw up in his mouth.
The transaction was dated two weeks before. A set of files going out to an unfamiliar recipient. Matthias forced himself to delve deeper, to inspect and read the files, confirming that it definitely had something to do with the FBI’s tracking encryption.
They were of such high security importance that he should know the recipient. Better yet, the files maybe shouldn’t have been sent at all. But these were sent out, in a batch, late at night on Thursday. From the office, and going to . . .
As best as he could understand, so far, the files had been sent to a location in Gainesville, Georgia.
Each click and each closer inspection brought him closer to the possible horrific truth that Laurel had indeed been the leak. The criminal. Already his brain began wondering, thinking about what type of incoming file or email to look for that would signify a type of cooperation, a deal, or perhaps, if she was stupid enough, a payback. Bu she was probably too smart for that.
Then again, she wasn’t smart enough not to do this.
Matthias couldn’t skip any steps. He had to be methodical and non-emotional. He couldn’t harbor any prejudice or come to any early conclusions. The question now was when would he notify Mr. Geffen. And what would he say?
No. Not yet. He’d have to be absolutely sure about what he was looking at. Any mistake there could be fatal, not only for her career, but for their . . . relationship . . .
But no, she couldn’t have done this. She must have been set up. Someone local at Sentry logging onto her account and doing the deed of the shady file transfer. Yes, of course that was it. Someone else. Someone other than his smart, sexy, southern belle. His perfect mate.
Yes, someone else.
To explore that scenario, he’d have to look at the activity signature of the user, a digital fingerprint which takes the minute characteristics of how one uses their computer and ties it into one of the thirty-seven employee profiles. And for that, he would have to talk to one of the two big boys.
He found one of them, Mr. Andre, whom he
liked considerably less than the CEO, Mr. Geffen. He was hunched over the document shredder, and when he saw Matthias, his back stiffened as if he’d tried standing taller, competing. They were roughly the same height, but Matthias clearly had the edge—without tip-toeing or posturing.
“Need anything?” said Andre. His tone was cool, definitely managerial, his inflection and word choice making it clear that the conversation was decidedly unwelcome while he was shredding his documents.
“I might have found something, but I—”
“Who is it?” Andre interrupted.
“But I’m not sure what I’m looking at until I can get deeper access.”
“For who?”
Matthias hadn’t expected him to be so insistent, and couldn’t immediately think of a way to deflect the question.
“You’re holdin’ out on me?” Mr. Andre said. “You’re trying to wait me out for the access?”
“It’s not worth mentioning yet.”
“Sure it’s not.”
“I’d like to be able to access the activity signature so I can be sure.”
There was a flash of panic through Andre’s eyes, followed by a glazed-over calm.
“So could I have access?”
“I’m not sure if I can do that,” Mr. Andre turned away from the shredder and leaned back against it. “No, sir, I do not think I can do that for you. That goes into some very . . . sensitive areas.”
“Don’t you want me to investigate this?”
“Didn’t we tell you to take it easy?”
“Mr. Geffen also insisted that I start tonight.”
He smiled. “It’s Laurel, ain’t it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure,” he said with disgust. “Well, what are ya sure of?”
Matthias didn’t say anything.
“Besides wanting the deeper access.”
“Hey, if you can’t trust me . . .”
“I trust you fine,” Andre said. “It’s just part of our policy, to our shareholders. To not give away certain secrets. Especially to Yankees.”
“What about your Yankee CEO?”
Mr. Andre smiled, but it looked forced and tight. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Is he here?”
“Right now?”
“Yeah.”
“No. I mean, he’s here but he’s not. He’s tied up right now with the head office.”
“I thought this was the head office.”
“We’ve got people that we answer to. As I’ve previously mentioned.”
“The shareholders?” asked Matthias.
“Well . . .” He tilted his head from shoulder to shoulder as he spoke. “The shareholders, the investors, you know, people that might not be comfortable with you rooting around too deep. We’ve got to walk a fine line with you.”
“Due diligence, huh?”
“You said it, mister.”
Shit. He’d made a huge mistake talking to Andre at all.
19
Laurel
Once she finally got home, Laurel figured sleep would happen quickly, like a light switch clicking off. She couldn’t get the imagery of Abe Hudson out of her head. His body, white and cold, lying in his bed. She couldn’t block the sound of his voice, his words from the night before, the last night he’d spent on earth. She might have been the last person he’d ever spoken with. His final act in this world, repaying a favor, and changing Laurel’s life forever.
It broke her heart that she wouldn’t have a chance to thank him properly.
The more she lay there, the more awake she felt. The imagery before her eyes was becoming so vivid that she threw them open, just so she could see anything other than Abe Hudson.
Laurel sprung out of bed and raced to the window, tearing away the curtain so that the room filled with soft moonlight. She spun around to face the full-length mirror, a whisper of moonlight reflected. There she fought the urge to lunge forward and ram her head through the mirror.
Maybe she needed to de-stress a little before sleep.
She resigned herself to a little homework. As much as she hated the thought of it, there was a deadline coming up that would make or break her career. There was also the slight possibility that it would make her tired enough for sleep. Though as soon as she laid eyes on the monitor, they already felt so painfully tired. How much more strain could they bear before she’d go blind?
Her neck was sore, her back, stiff. Her eyes burned against the maddening light of the computer monitor. But as far as sleepiness, she felt wide awake. Even worse, she felt absolutely wired, like she’d just drunk two whole pots of burnt Sentry Systems coffee.
To counteract the coffee, and her growing mania, she poured herself a tall glass of wine, and then opened up her work folder. And like a robot, she continued the work that she had left off back at the office, the hacking that had so far been unsuccessful.
Finally, through work, she felt some peace.
She hated that it was work that delivered the peace. Why couldn’t it be Matt, instead? He’d already shown her more than a few fun ways to relax after a stressful day. But what happened when he was the cause of some of that stress?
Work happened, apparently. It was a nice, neutral distraction, at least. And more than a means for achieving a dull inner peace, it turned into some real productivity. A second glass of wine later, and she was on the verge of breaking through AIDA’s weak encryption.
It really did seem like it had been set up by their cybersecurity chief, the glorified IT boy. Everyday hackers might not have been able to conquer it, but it was far from secure. For Laurel, it took her two hours of attacks and she was in. Inside their network, she navigated their folders, the email banks, creeping and slithering around their murky soup of data. All she had to do was retrieve a few pieces of confidential data. An email. A photo. A pdf. Some type of evidence that Laurel had bested their rather pedestrian cyber-defenses. But what was really on her mind was finding something a little more exciting. She wanted to go above and beyond her assignment, and perhaps carry out Abe’s final wish—to look for signs of impropriety. He had warned her that it had something to do with Fourth Ward Bank, based in Atlanta. Something to do with, perhaps, a suspicious money transfer. He didn’t say the word “laundering,” but how else would it be described? And why else would he be wanting her to find the information?
She ran a text search for certain terms—Fourth Ward Bank being one of them. The results were a little too broad to understand right away. It would take much more than a single night to wade through in any sensible way. But the goal for Sentry had been met, to breach their server, and already it felt like a little less weight was stuck to her back. Already she felt just a little bit better. Better enough to stop sulking and do what she should have all along.
Laura sat at the bar of Whitby’s Olde Tavern.
“Anything but a mint julep,” she said to the bartender.
Drink in hand, she glided across the room to her and Abe’s corner, to where their table sat empty. She sat in her old chair, and stared with a sudden painful sadness at the back of his empty chair. She’d intended to have a drink, a toast to her fallen friend, but her mood shifted backward again.
On the table, the wood’s finish was discolored from years of sweating drink glasses and wet napkins. She wondered which stain was from Abe’s most recent visit, staring at his side of the table, at his chair, while she enjoyed her cocktail. Perhaps enjoying it a little too quickly.
She stood and circled around to Abe’s side, sitting in his chair with a gentle squeak. His view had been of the bar, its light now glowing against her face. It was a better vantage point, facing the entry. She sat there, and drank, and waited for a familiar face.
But when she finally saw that familiar face, it wasn’t Caitlyn’s, or anyone else she knew who haunted the bar.
It was one of Abe’s friends, an aging barfly. A premature ghost. He wore a navy blue corduroy suit jacket.
“Hey
, Pat,” she said, remembering the name Abe had used.
He stopped in mid stride, and looked at her. His face looking heavy and dark and slightly liver-spotted.
“Do I know you?” he asked, squinting through the dark. “Do you know me?” His speech was a bit slurred and he was holding onto an empty beer bottle.
“Yes,” Laurel said. “Through a friend. Abe Hudson.”
The man nodded sadly, mumbling to himself while scratching his wrist.
“I was here with him last night,” Laurel said. “That’s how I know you.”
“What?” He took a few slow steps closer.
“I was with him when he said hi to you.”
“Last night?” He didn’t see to know what day it was. Perhaps all his nights were strung together in one big alcoholic binge with never a sunrise on the horizons. Just a long stretch of black.
She pointed to her chair. “You can take a seat there if you want.”
Pat just stood there and said, “He died last night.”
“I know.”
“How do you know him, again?”
“He and my Pa were good friends. Went a long ways back.”
“Me and Abe, too. We went all the way back, to . . . Well, shoot, I knew him in . . . college?” He walked over to the chair, sitting. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Laurel.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“No, no.”
“I don’t usually get this drunk, you see.”
“Of course.”
“It’s been that kind of day.” He held his beer bottle against the table, likely the last one he could order before being cut off by the bartender. “What time is it again?”
She checked her phone, and then told him, “Ten twenty.”
“Oh, shoot, I been here . . . I been here a while then.”
“Mourning?”
“No,” he said. “Since the afternoon.”
“I mean, mourning, like the sad kind.”
“Huh?” He squinted. “How’s that?”
“Never mind. It’s pretty sad about Mr. Hudson.”
He nodded, staring at the table. And then finally said a meek, “Yep.”
Dark Control (DARC Ops Book 4) Page 12
