Flashbyte (Byte Series - Ellie Conway Book 4)

by Cat Connor

  He dropped the bandage into the bathroom garbage bin. I shoved my arm back down my sleeve and hooked a couple of hair ties around my wrist for later.

  “Let’s do this.”

  A loud rumble shook the floor. I staggered and reached for the swaying wall. An explosion ripped through the house. Wood creaked and crumpled, walls buckled, the floor began to split. Another explosion.

  Doc grabbed me as I fell back toward the mirror. With one hand on the wall and one grasping my arm, he pulled me closer.

  “Okay?”

  “Yep,” I replied. We edged back into the bedroom. I snatched my bag from the bed, along with the holster from where I’d dropped it on the chair and snapped it to my belt. Smoke alarms beeped with ear piercing decibels from all over the house.

  People were yelling.

  Doc stood staring out the door.

  “What do you think it was that exploded?” I asked, joining him.

  “I don’t know … the stairs are falling.”

  I looked down the hallway and saw the banister hanging in midair. A smoky haze filled the air below us. As I watched, the insistent beeping from the smoke alarms poked little holes in the haze. I blinked; smoke was beginning to hurt my eyes.

  “Follow me,” I said, heading back into the bedroom. I swung open the balcony doors and stepped out. It felt solid. I dropped my bag to the ground below. Next to the balcony was a ladder. I reached out and grabbed hold of the top rungs. Cold steel felt good under my hands. Six feet away I saw a gaping hole that used to be the downstairs bathroom. Back in the other direction another large hole of splintered wood.

  “It’s stable,” I said, clambering down as fast as possible. When my feet hit the ground, Kurt started his descent, semi-climbed, semi-slid, down the ladder, landing with a thump. I picked up my bag which was covered in dust. We headed toward the driveway, picking our way over splintered wood and broken glass. Another explosion shook the ground. I stumbled and ducked as a large hunk of wood slammed into the ground next to me.

  Doc’s hand grabbed mine. We emerged from the rubble- and debris-filled side of the house onto the driveway to find police in a panic.

  “This is not good,” I muttered, wiping dust from my face with an equally grimy shirt sleeve. Flames leaped from the roof. “Shit!”

  “Hope you have everything you need,” Doc said, as more flames joined a thick black curtain of smoke.

  “I have what’s important. Carla is at Rowan’s and the cat is at my brother’s. Nothing else matters a damn.” I shucked the bag I’d been carrying from my shoulders and dropped it on the driveway. “Nothing else matters …”

  Apart from the flash drives in my desk drawer.

  Shit!

  I took off at a run, racing around the other side of the house and slammed through the back door. Thick smoke billowed in the hallway. Smoke alarms were overshadowed by cracking wood and breaking glass. I pulled the neck of my tee shirt up over my mouth and nose, and charged into the office. My fingers scrabbled in the top drawer, before pulling out a bunch of keys and flash drives. I shoved them into my pocket and ran.

  The hallway was now pitch dark. Smoke hurt my lungs and burned my eyes. I blinked hard and fast and dropped to my knees. It was easier to see on the ground, and a little easier to breathe.

  Crawling fast, I found the laundry room, kicked the door shut as I entered, then jumped to my feet and flung open the back door. My lungs were gasping for air as I ran from the house. Doc grabbed me. His hands placed something over my mouth and nose. I felt cool grass and solid ground beneath me.

  “Breathe.”

  I did. Clean fresh oxygen.

  After a few cleansing breaths I lifted the mask. “I’m good, thank you.”

  “After that stunt, I sincerely hope you got what you needed!”

  I patted my pocket. “I did.”

  “Hope it was worth it.”

  “It is.”

  Six flash drives that contained my life with Mac. Pictures, movies, poems, life. They hung on the keychain with the spare keys to his truck, and the keys to my former home in Mauryville. I’m not ready to let that all go.

  Not yet. It was my life.

  Flames leaped. Orange. Yellow. Acrid black smoke billowed. More flames curled from under the eaves. Popping sounds erupted from within the burning house.

  “Ammunition?” he said, helping me to my feet.

  “Yeah … we should get the hell away from here.”

  He hoisted the portable oxygen tank over his shoulder and we hurried to the driveway. I called out to the police officers standing around. “We have exploding ammunition, back up!” A coughing fit followed. Guess my lungs weren’t quite as recovered as I thought.

  Sirens screamed closer and closer.

  Little burning balls fired from the house, looking like tracer fire. Several hit the garage, causing a nearby cop to yelp and hurry out of the way.

  “How much ammo we talking about?” Doc said as he encouraged me to get in his car.

  “Approximately six boxes of shotgun shells, twelve-gauge. About four boxes of nine millimeter rounds and I don’t know how many .38 specials.”

  “The explosions are all coming from the back,” he said as another firecracker noise erupted.

  “Most of the ammo was in my office, at the back.” I remembered the rifle. “There’s a box of rounds for my M16 in the office too.”

  He grinned. Funny how my mentioning an M16 always drew grins from men.

  “You don’t have any grenades or Scud missiles in there?”

  The smile on his face faded when he thought I was thinking about my answer. I shook my head, dust fell. “Nope.”

  Fire engines pulled up. Flames and black smoke filled the sky, with the occasional tracer fire. The house where Mac lived was gone. The home he shared with me was gone. I twisted and wriggled in the seat and eventually pulled my cell phone from my pocket and called my father.

  “Dad, get them to install sprinklers in the new house. Today.”

  “All right. What’s up?”

  “I’m homeless again. Carla’s at Rowan’s. I’m heading to Lexington on a case.” I sensed the panic taking hold. “My fucking house just burst into flames!”

  “You’re okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s all that matters. It’s just stuff, Ellie. Stuff is replaceable.”

  “I know. It’s just – twice? What are the odds?”

  “I’ll get your brother to do the insurance. Just go do your job. We’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Then I had another thought. “Can you cancel the moving company? There won’t be anything left to pack.”

  That solved the problem of packing Mac’s belongings.

  “Sorry, kid. I’ll get on to them.”

  I hung up to find a cop standing in front of the car, patiently waiting.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Craig, the officer over there, tells me your plumber came by this morning to fix the hot water cylinder.”

  The cop didn’t seem sure that the cylinder needed fixing. And he was right. I didn’t call a plumber because there was nothing wrong with my hot water.

  “There was nothing wrong with it. You might want to check the cylinders, once the fire’s out. There are two. I’d say that’s the point of origin for the explosions.”

  “I hear you’re away on a case. Who shall we contact regarding the house and fire?”

  “My father.” I wrote his phone number on the back of one of my cards and handed it to him. “Or you can contact my SAC, Caine Grafton.”

  “Thank you. I’m very sorry about your house.”

  He seemed very sorry, which made it all that much harder for me to bite back the tears I could feel prickling behind my eyes. I blinked hard and forced them away.

  I closed the car door and fastened my seat belt while my house burned. It felt like I’d been here before and it was only going to get worse. I couldn’t stop my mind going back to
the last time my house exploded. All I could think was to be thankful there were no heads cooking under the hood of Doc’s car.

  I held my breath as he turned the key in the ignition. Just in case.

  I could see it all so clearly: We were making our escape from my home in Mauryville. The car wouldn’t start. Mac jumped out to look under the hood, expecting to employ his skills as MacGyver and fix the problem. Instead he discovered a severed head and everything got so much worse.

  This time the car started without a hitch. Doc didn’t notice I was holding my breath.

  “Want to listen to some music?” he offered. He gave a couple of short blasts on the car horn as we left.

  Thirteen

  Turn It On

  Doc filled me in on his buddy Doctor Grant Neal during the three hour plus drive. Every time I looked over at him I heard Kevin Costner singing. By the time we were half way to Lexington, I was well versed in Doc’s years at medical school with Grant and well-practiced in calling and thinking of Doc as Kurt. I also knew all the words to every song on Costner’s ‘Turn It On’ album. My phone went every twenty or so minutes throughout the drive, but oddly it didn’t stop the music in my head.

  Sam checked in; Lee checked in; Noel wanted to make sure there was nothing I could tell him about Arbab; Rowan called to say Carla was enjoying his swimming pool, they were going to have a barbecue for dinner, and the rest of the band was joining them.

  I checked on Twitter. Lots more @replies and comments from people still waiting for mail. A bunch of comments from The Butterfly Foundation kids who were still discussing my non-death. I followed the tweets on the Foundation hash tag. It made it so much easier to track conversations. The Foundation used #Butterflykids as the hash tag. I sent one tweet.

  EllieConwaySA: Am away with work, kids. Don’t believe everything you see on TV. #Butterflykids

  Police called to say they’d found another box at my house, left after the explosion. It was by what had been the mailbox, but no one saw who left it. I had them turn it over to Lee.

  “Another box,” I said to Kurt.

  But no more dead Conways, which was a relief.

  “Damn.” He checked his rearview mirror. “There’s a car, two cars back. A silver sedan of some kind. See if you can get a look at it in the wing mirror. We could have a tail.”

  So the ‘damn’ wasn’t about the new box of ass then. I checked the mirror and caught a glimpse of the car in question.

  “I’ll try for tags,” I said, watching as the car came into view again. Sometimes bends in roads are good things. I leaned forward and picked up the radio handset. “SSA Conway requesting QV.”

  “Go ahead SSA.”

  “Tango, Romeo, Alpha, five, five, five.”

  “A silver Mitsubishi Galant registered to a company in Fairfax. Central Holdings Limited.”

  “Owner?”

  “Company is owned by Abbudin Nader, who lives in Fairfax.”

  Any other day the name would’ve meant nothing. The clawing dread and the sudden onset cold sweat, pointed to something. It coincided with Kevin Costner singing Turn It On – it’s good that he’s not afraid of anything. It’s beginning to look as though I should be.

  “Thank you.” I hung up as soon as the soothing voice in Comms said goodbye.

  “What have we got?” Kurt asked, his eyes flashing to the rearview mirror again.

  “A car registered to a Fairfax company, owned by one Abbudin Nader. Could be heading south for business.”

  “Could be.”

  The part of me that was shaking and feeling sick wanted to call Noel and tell him someone with an Arab name might, or might not be, following us. It sounded whacky. Not everyone with an Arab name is out to get me.

  I started reciting the names of people I knew, people I worked with. People I’d helped. Anyone I could think of with an Arab-sounding name. Hoping it would calm me. I was just about calm when the car pulled out to overtake. One look at the passenger caused bile to rise so rapidly I threw up in my hands.

  Habib Faisal Arbab.

  Kurt pulled off the road and stopped. The silver car disappeared into the horizon. So it wasn’t a tail? Kurt didn’t say a word as he climbed out of the car and grabbed a bag from the trunk. He opened my door; I saw a bottle of water and a towel in his hands. I stuck my dripping hands out the open door; he poured water over them, and then thrust the towel into my right hand.

  I felt awful. I couldn’t tell if it was ‘embarrassed awful’ or I felt ‘sick awful.’

  “Do you need to change? Did you get puke on your jeans?”

  I looked down. A few drops of bile and coffee melted into my jeans. I took the towel and wet it then rubbed at the dark patches. They spread. It wasn’t going to work.

  “I’ll change.”

  My legs swung out of the car as if they intended to stand and walk me to the trunk. They sure tricked me. I stood. For a split freaking second.

  “Okay, here we go. Up and at ‘em, Conway.” Kurt was in front of me. He placed his hands on the sides of my rib cage and lifted. Not letting go until I was leaning on the car door. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Stupid.”

  “You’ve been whacked out all day. Now this. Think a check-up wouldn’t hurt.”

  “I’m okay. I promise. I just felt sick. Perfectly fine now.” I lied through my teeth: I was clammy, shaky, and nauseous. My head had started to twinge. Traffic slowed as it passed us. Rubberneckers.

  “I believe you. You must be fine. You can’t even stand straight and you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  That’ll be because I did.

  “I’ll change my jeans and then we can get going.” I heard the words. Then I saw them. Words bouncing on the gravel like rubber balls. One started to roll away. It rolled then stuck fast in front of the back wheel. I tried again. “I’ll change …”

  “You said that. Do you want help?”

  “Would you hand me a pair of jeans?”

  He smiled. Moments later he dropped a pair of jeans over the door. “This is how we’re doing this. Unbutton and unzip your jeans, take them down far enough for you to sit and take out your legs.”

  There were so many smartassed comments brewing and I couldn’t utter any of them. I just did as he suggested. Kurt pulled off my boots and then my jeans. He helped me put on the clean pair, then pushed my boots back onto my feet. Without making a single remark.

  My sullied jeans were crammed into a plastic bag and tossed in the trunk. Our journey continued without incident, with the windows wide open to disperse the smell of vomit.

  We checked into the hotel as Mr. and Mrs. Henderson, I listened as Kurt took care of the check in, making sure we had champagne, after all we were on honeymoon. That was either news to me, or I hadn’t heard when he tossed that at me earlier.

  The girl at the front desk watched us.

  Honeymoon? That upped the level of intimacy involved. We were escorted to our suite. Kurt, ever attentive, walked with his hand resting in the small of my back. There was no running away now.

  At the door he nuzzled my neck while the room was opened.

  He broke away with reluctance to thank the young lady who’d shown us to the room, take the key and give her a hefty tip.

  I wandered through the small living area and into the bedroom. Alone, I fell backwards onto the bed and closed my eyes. On the inside of my eyelids I saw flames licking the bookcases and photographs that once lined the walls of my home. I forced my eyes open; the flames disappeared. With some effort I convinced myself that a hotel under an assumed name equaled safe. Whoever blew up my house didn’t know where I was.

  I had no idea where the silver Galant went, but I knew it wasn’t in this hotel parking lot and that’s all I needed to know. My eyes closed, soothing the irritating beginnings of the headache I’d felt before. I readied an internal fire extinguisher in case the flames returned.

  When my eyes opened again the light was dim and I could see Kurt tho
ugh the door, which was ajar. He was talking on the telephone not his cell phone. I rolled over, propped myself up on my elbow and waited for him to finish.

  As I lay there coffee wafted from the other room. I needed that coffee. Kurt was still talking. I figured I wasn’t interrupting, seeing as we were married. I tiptoed past him. That was when I noticed I wasn’t wearing boots.

  Panicked, I looked down. I still had jeans on.

  I heard him say, “She’s just woken up. We’ll be over in an hour or so.”

  I guessed it was buddy Grant as I poured a coffee and added a generous amount of sugar. I curled into an armchair with the cup of coffee. Kurt joined me.

  “Have a nice nap?”

  “I did. Must’ve been tired. I feel much better.” That wasn’t a total lie. I did feel better, just not as much as I implied.

  “We’re going to Grant and Kim’s for drinks later. You up for that?”

  I nodded. My head didn’t explode or even hurt that much. It was all good.

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Remember, everyone thinks we’re just married.”

  “I got that from the display at the front desk, thanks.”

  “Just a reminder.”

  “What? That we gotta play grab ass all night?”

  He did a small shrug and grinned. “There are worse things.”

  “Good to know.”

  “You’re comfortable with this?”

  “Yeah, you’re not repulsive,” I replied, and moved on. “Grant called you about the deaths, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “So does he know I am FBI?”

  “Nope. Figured it would be better if no one knew.”

  “Good. I can observe without anyone getting antsy.” I sipped my coffee. It wasn’t Columbian, nor was it made from one hundred percent Arabica beans. But it wasn’t horrible, just close to it. “I’ll finish this unusual tasting coffee then have a quick shower. Jeans okay? This is casual?”

  “Jeans are fine.” He smiled. We both knew he’d be wearing a very smart dark blue or maybe charcoal gray suit.

  “Why not try the suit jacket over jeans?” It was a suggestion I’d been longing to make.