Dark Deception (DARC Ops Book 11)

by Jamie Garrett

  In seconds, Asher was on the sidewalk and took chase, pausing at the corner of the alleyway for a brief second. Should he follow? He darted to the opposite side of the alley, not particularly surprised when he heard a muffled ppffftt. A small chunk of mortar between the bricks near where he had stood only seconds ago flew off into the darkness. A gun, fitted with a silencer . . .

  Asher pulled his own weapon, a Glock-9, heart pounding, every nerve alive and tingling with adrenaline. Keeping to the deep shadows of the alleyway as much as possible, he pursued. Unable to gain much speed, watching for bits of trash and carefully eyeing a dumpster to his right, by the time he got to the end of the alleyway and the opposite street, the man was long gone.

  “Shit!”

  Of one thing Asher was sure. The appearance of that man was no coincidence. Especially not nosing around on the fourth floor, where Ellie lived.

  He emerged from the alley, slowly jogged down one side of the street, crossed, and then down the other, until he rounded the front of Ellie’s apartment building. Before crossing the street, he looked toward his truck, sitting dark and silent. A layer of fog wafted intermittently through the street, hugging the asphalt, but he saw no sign of the man he been pursuing. The street remained dark and quiet, deserted.

  With a sigh, Asher tucked his gun back into his shoulder holster and quickly made his way back toward his truck, casting his gaze every which way to ensure he wasn’t being followed. Whoever that guy was, Asher had just put him on alert.

  He climbed in the truck, started it, and drove a couple of streets away before pulling into the parking lot of an all-night drugstore. From there, his gaze still warily watching the streets and the few pedestrians he saw, he pulled his phone from his pocket and called Jackson.

  “Someone’s watching her, unless that was just the biggest coincidence of all time,” he said, explaining what had happened.

  “Get a look at him?”

  “No, but he was poking around her floor. Maybe five-foot-ten, slim build. Caucasian. That’s all I got.”

  “All right. Where are you now?”

  “Couple blocks away. I’ll find a new spot to park my truck where it will be safe, then I’ll go back on foot, keep watch, make sure he doesn’t come back tonight.”

  “Keep me posted.” Jackson said, then disconnected the call.

  Asher turned his truck around, and after a few minutes of searching for a good place to park, found a spot from where he could watch for a couple of hours before he would need to move. Parking was a bitch in Boston, but he wasn’t about to leave his truck too far away. No way in hell would someone be stealing his ride. He needed to keep an eye on it and Ellie’s apartment building.

  With a sigh, he climbed out of his truck, set the silent alarm, and then pocketed his keys. He shrugged into his jacket, mumbling as a drop of moisture landed on his cheek. He looked up, got another drop of water in his eye, and then cursed again as a light rain began to fall.

  2

  Ellie

  Her fingers flew over the keyboard, her focus intent as the hours passed. Finally, Ellie sighed, leaned back in her chair, and rubbed a hand over her burning eyes. She needed a better desk light. A brighter bulb. More sleep. She glanced at the desk clock beside her computer, verifying the time with the clock on her taskbar, just making sure. Just after midnight. Still relatively early. She’d been up past three o’clock in the morning for the past couple of nights. She needed to be in bed. She had a really bad habit of allowing her research to consume her. Her explorations—her word for her favorite skill—which happened to be hacking into databases. It was like sliding down the proverbial rabbit hole . . .

  A slight noise from beyond her apartment door reached her ears. She paused, hands frozen over the keyboard, head tilted to listen. Over the past few months of living here, she had grown accustomed to most of the noises in the building; of the building itself and its tenants. She knew when most people came and went. When a new tenant moved in, regardless of which floor, she knew about it. The same for when tenants moved out. She was especially observant of the tenants directly above, across from, and below her apartment. One could never be too careful, especially someone who indulged in a hobby such as hers.

  Had she imagined it? That slight creak along the carpeted hallway? She pictured the hallway in her mind, the at least twenty-year-old carpeting that had grown almost threadbare right down the middle, its burgundy roses and gold filigree pattern faded and worn from thousands of footsteps meandering back and forth, dragged furniture, stomping children, whatever.

  It wasn’t that late, but she knew that all of her immediate neighbors should be home. The dull bass of a radio or television wafted up from the apartment below. That wasn’t enough to bother her; she’d grown used to it long ago. Usually, those tenants were in bed by eleven-thirty. The older woman who lived upstairs, though a heavy stepper with her orthotic shoes, was usually in bed by eight-thirty. The middle-aged widower who lived across the hallway was quiet and private, much like Ellie. She doubted she’d said more than five words to him the entire time she’d lived here. He usually went to bed at ten o’clock.

  For a moment, she wondered if her neighbors paid that much attention to her. She did her best work in the middle of the night, and was careful to make as little noise as possible.

  Ellie wanted to shrug off the noise, but ever cautious, locked her computer, stood, and quickly tiptoed toward her apartment door. Lifting herself on her tiptoes, she peered through the peep hole. She doubted she’d be able to see anything—the wall sconces just down the hallway had burned out a month ago, and the maintenance man hadn’t replaced the bulbs yet. The hallway loomed dark in the fish-eye view. No shadows, no voices, and definitely no footsteps. Still, and perhaps over cautiously, she pressed her ear against the wall next to the door. She listened for several moments, but heard nothing more than the soft music from down below. Ellie sighed and turned away from the door, shaking her head. Her recent research was making her jumpy. Then again, better safe than sorry.

  She moved into her tiny kitchen without turning on the light, opened the refrigerator door, and stared at its contents. A quart of milk, prepackaged salad mix, a new package of baloney, and a couple of apples just purchased from the corner grocery earlier that day. She eyed the diet soda on the bottom shelf, then shook her head. She didn’t need more caffeine. She needed sleep.

  She closed the refrigerator door and stepped back into the main living area of the apartment. Bed was the only thing on her mind when she felt more than heard a rush of footsteps down the hallway. Ellie quickly made her way to the door, lifted herself on her toes, and peered through the peep hole again. Nothing. She pressed her ear against the door, her heart thumping. Vague sounds came from the far end of the hallway near the fire escape. Kids playing around? This late? Wouldn’t be the first time. Still, the vague noises prompted her to double-check the deadbolt and to ensure that the chain was engaged in its slot.

  Was she being foolish? She didn’t think so. In her line of work, one needed to be ever aware, observant, and cautious. Not only against local law enforcement, or even state agencies or the feds, but against common thieves. She had thousands of dollars’ worth of computer equipment in her apartment, including a small, self-built server. More than enough to attract the attention of a drug addict looking to score potentially six months’ worth of high . . .

  She paused, waited several moments, and didn’t hear anything else. Just to be on the safe side, she ventured toward the curtains at the front window. Other than a yellow ribbon pattern coursing across her now-black computer screen, her apartment remained in darkness. She moved slowly toward the other side of the window—aware, at least, that rapid movement attracted the eye—and nudged the blackout curtains an inch or two to the side, carefully slipping her fingers between two slats of the Venetian blinds to peer out toward the front. A light rain fell, its misty droplets illuminated in the soft glow of the street lamp across and down the street.
Otherwise, it was unusually quiet out there. Perhaps the inclement weather kept people inside. There were dark vehicles parked up and down the street, a dull glow of light inside several apartments in the building across the street, and the glow of the marquee from the corner grocery, but Ellie saw nothing that elicited alarm.

  The view, or lack thereof, did nothing to shake the nerves growing in her stomach. She watched for several more moments, scanning the street, looking for shadows where there shouldn’t be any. Nothing. Again, she sighed, let the curtains fall back into place, and turned away from the window. God, she needed some sleep. She was losing her mind.

  She’d never intended to become a hacker, but with an insatiable curiosity and a sense for justice, it was a natural progression. Her “day job” and legitimate way to earn a living was as a freelance graphic artist designing websites. It was feast or famine, but she lived simply and as cheaply as possible. Her primary passion, and had been for the past several years, was research. Not always considered legitimate or legal, her research had exposed numerous injustices in recent years.

  She considered herself a social do-gooder. She’d exposed a number of illegal activities over the past few years. A clinic manager falsifying their records to the point that she eventually received over two million dollars in Medicare kickbacks; a North Dakota oil company hiding a leak from a major oil pipeline running down from Canada; and just a few months ago, a commodities trader who had not only embezzled, but lied, cheated, and forged his way through millions of dollars of his clients’ retirement funds.

  For the past couple of days, she’d been researching something different, something that prompted a headache and a near-continuous nervous cessation to crawl down her spine and prompt a knot of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. Still, she couldn’t make herself stop.

  When she got focused like this, on the trail of something, she often forgot to eat, and she slept little. In this case, when she did sleep, nightmares followed her the entire time. She wasn’t sure, but she was beginning to believe that the files she’d been hacking into for a risk-consultancy firm known as Guardian Knights wasn’t all it seemed.

  The more she dug into the company, and then of course, her other sources, the more she believed that the firm was nothing more than a cover. They presented themselves as a consultancy, but acted more like a private security firm that catered to businesses, corporations, and even some military factions. Something about it just did not feel right. As yet, she couldn’t put her finger on it, which was frustrating her to no end. Were they legitimate? Were they providing private security for nefarious activities? Drug dealers originating from the Middle East, or something even worse, in her book anyway . . . weapons dealers?

  She’d never run across such an organization, but it seemed logical to think that sooner or later she would. She was nosy and inquisitive, and yes, sometimes she didn’t know when to stop, but was there ever a right time? She’d never before felt like she was jeopardizing her safety, but something like this? Ellie was careful to hide her tracks online, but digging like this could be dangerous anyway. The company was well known and had, at least superficially, an excellent reputation. They were even endorsed by a number of politicians and the Secretary of Defense.

  Of course, being who she was, Ellie never took anything at face value. She didn’t consider herself cynical, but reserved judgment until she verified facts and information for herself.

  She’d been at it most of the past few days, all day and well into the evening. She sat down at her desk again now, but didn’t reach for the keyboard. She swiveled herself in her computer chair, glancing around her too-expensive one-bedroom apartment. Two card tables situated into an L-shape in the corner of the main room held her two computers that she kept turned on twenty-four hours a day. Beside them was her server rig.

  She glanced woefully at the door to her bedroom across the main room, a tiny nine-by-nine space barely large enough to hold her full-sized bed and cheap dresser and bedside table that she kept from the previous apartment renter, who’d been too lazy or unconcerned about the furniture to bother taking them down the stairs.

  Why did she live like this? She shook her head, gazing at the secondhand sofa tucked into the opposite corner, and the window that fronted the apartment building, though she couldn’t see a damn thing out of it. Not only did she always keep the blinds pulled shut, but so too the blackout curtains she’d hung over it. Nothing like the ever-present blue glow from computer screens to entice thieves, right?

  One of the neighbor kids in the apartment below her called her “the bat lady.” He had noticed—astute kid—that he rarely heard her moving around during the daytime, but mostly at night. Ever since then, she had taken care to purchase a few thick rugs that she placed around her computer corner, lining the pathways between her computers, the kitchen, and her bedroom. There, smartass. She toed the rug beneath her slippered feet. No more wearing shoes in her apartment. Always aware not to step heavily, with the addition of the rugs and slippers, Ellie could now walk around without anybody downstairs noticing her movements.

  She didn’t want anyone to know what she did, especially her immediate neighbors. Not that they were nosy, or even friendly. It’s just that when one lived in a place for a while, one got accustomed to who belonged there and who did not. She’d been in Boston for less than a year and wasn’t sure she liked it. Hence the crappy apartment she rented at overblown prices.

  She’d gone to MIT but then moved back to Texas for a year, then decided it was too rural. She was a relatively recent transplant from Texas, mainly because she thought the location would be more centrally located to the target of most of her investigations. That’s what she called her research, anyway. Others probably had an entirely different name for it.

  Occasionally, she wrote articles for an underground newsletter, reporting on things that the general public generally didn’t have any knowledge about. Her targets? State and federal law-enforcement agencies, senators, government committees, and sometimes even the military.

  Ellie didn’t consider herself anti-American, but pro-American. An American interested in what Americans were doing, from every level. She’d reported on a wide variety of topics, contributing anonymously because that’s the way she preferred to live. Her last piece had been on the prevalence and availability of methamphetamine use in the states bordering the Mississippi, suggesting that someone or several someones were turning a blind eye to drug traffic from Mexico and Central and South America.

  Most of the time, her reports didn’t directly expose those responsible, but she did encourage pointed questions toward certain civic committees, local government leaders, sometimes with verifiable proof, sometimes going by gut instinct. She wasn’t afraid of being sued. That wasn’t why she preferred to remain anonymous. Mainly, it was because she had the reputation of being one of the best, upcoming underground hackers in certain circles. She wanted to stay anonymous. She submitted her articles either anonymously or through her moniker.

  She was Dysnomia, perceived to be the Greek goddess that personified lawlessness or injustice. She wasn’t condoning lawlessness or injustice, but rather exposing it. No one could ever know her real identity. Not ever. Not even Rory Stanford, the editor of the underground newsletter Exposed, knew who she really was. When she submitted her articles, it was online, routed through roundabout channels and through a number of servers that bounced from the ends of the earth and back again before they found their way into his inbox.

  Ellie frowned. She didn’t have enough information to even begin roughing out an article on the consultancy firm Guardian Knights just yet, and certainly not anything definitive to mention to the editor of the newsletter. She sank her teeth into the research, tapping into codes, deciphering them, trying to find hidden snippets here and there. It was long, tedious, and sometimes boring work. Unlike many others, she wasn’t what newspapers called a “social hacker,” someone who was apt to be found on social media websites, engaging
in video chats with others of her kind, nor instant messaging. Such bragging annoyed her.

  Actually, she had developed her skills during her time at MIT, when it was considered fun and challenging to get past security walls of various companies and organizations. Back then, it was simply a goal. Then, after she’d mastered the basics, she wanted more. Today, governments employed hackers, for good and for bad. No computer system was too complex for her, no line of code, at least in regard to eventually figuring it out. It wasn’t like she found things instantaneously, unless she happened to get really lucky. No, like her research for the past few days, she was still looking for a flaw in a line of code that she could use to gain more information.

  As far as she was concerned, she was a positive hacker, and did it for the good of society. To expose wrongdoings. Of course, she knew how to steal credit-card data and create programs that could seriously mess up computer networks, but she wasn’t into that. She wasn’t into spamming, or subverting browsers . . . not that she couldn’t, but it held no interest.

  What she was trying to determine was whether the risk-consultancy firm or private security organization was legitimate, or if they were working under a stealthy cover. Perhaps they were hiding behind a military contractor, or had clients represented by drug dealers or other nefarious activities that focused in the direction of the Middle East, primarily Afghanistan.

  Ellie closed her eyes. She had to decide her next move, but her head was spinning. While she was suspicious, if she moved too fast, didn’t stop to take a break and get some rest, she might make a mistake. Sometimes, when she worked like this, her defenses came down, both literally and figuratively. Every keystroke she made as she ventured forward had to be carefully disguised. Slipping in a snippet of code here, accessing an innocuous bit of information there.