Stealth Power

by Vikki Kestell

  Oh, yeah. Izzy!

  I was glad Zander’s sister was staying with him, glad I’d see her today, even if she wouldn’t see me. I had to laugh, though. Not for a second did I think that Izzy “helping” Zander would be easy on Zander—but it might be entertaining. I snickered as I swung up the driveway and around to the back door where I let myself in to what turned out to be a laundry room. It led into the kitchen, where Izzy was laying out lunch things.

  The first words I heard, from beyond the kitchen, were, “Iz! For heaven’s sake! I can make my own sandwich!”

  “With one hand? I doubt it. Anyway, I want to make it for you.”

  I slipped through the kitchen, sidled up to the easy chair where Zander sat, and placed a hand on his shoulder. He jumped at my touch, but settled almost as quickly.

  I leaned over and whispered, “Izzy. Gotta love her, right?”

  He blew out an exasperated breath. “She’s gonna kill me!”

  I sat on the wide arm and put my mouth near his ear. “Care to share?”

  I had good intentions, but the snigger at the end blew the whole thing.

  “You’re a snot, Gemma! All I asked for was a simple grilled cheese sandwich! Grilled cheese! Butter, bread, cheese, grill it, right? What does she bring me? A slice of cheese between two pieces of toast—heated up in the microwave! Blasphemy.”

  I shook my head in total agreement. “Ugh! Nasty.”

  Zander huffed. “I have to get her out of here. She’s making me crazy.”

  “Well, yeah. We can’t talk if she’s here, right?”

  His bellow could have raised the dead. “Iz! Izzy! I need a burger! Could you run get me a burger instead of making sandwiches? I’ll pay! A green chile cheese burger would hit the spot.”

  My mouth salivated. It sure would!

  Izzy bounced into the room and grabbed the twenty Zander held out to her. “Sure thing, bro!” She paused and cleared her throat. “Uh, I, um, I was making you a grilled cheese sandwich—the right way, the way you told me to—and I might have burned the butter in the frying pan.”

  As Zander’s and my noses twitched and our heads turned—simultaneously—toward the kitchen, Izzy bolted from the house.

  Gemma Keyes, something is burning.

  “I think it’s under control, Nano, but I’ll check.”

  I hopped off the arm of Zander’s chair and went into the kitchen. What a mess. Izzy’s forte was not in the culinary arts by any stretch of the imagination—in fact, I would dare to say that any cooking genes of which the Cruz family may have boasted had taken one look at Izzy and run the other way.

  I made sure the burners were off and put the offending skillet in the sink.

  “Gemma? Where’d you go?”

  I plopped down on the arm of Zander’s chair again. “Here. Made sure the house wasn’t going to burn down while we were talking.”

  Zander gave a whoop, grabbed me from where I sat, and pulled me into a one-armed hug. I wasn’t prepared for that! He let me up immediately, and I told my pounding heart that he was just elated over getting Izzy out of his hair for a few minutes.

  I sat on the floor in front of his feet. “Don’t kick me. I’m sitting right here.”

  “Oh. Right. I’d say I’m sure glad to see you, but I guess I’ll settle for I’m sure glad to hear you. What’s new? What have you been doing?”

  I filled him in on Emilio and Abe, then added a few details about my own life since I’d seen him last.

  “And the nanomites? Any change there?”

  “Ha! Funny you should ask. You might say that the nanomites and I are feuding—but, then, that’s not new.”

  Under Zander’s gentle prodding, I told him about our most recent squabble.

  Well, I didn’t tell him how furious and scared I’d been when I figured out exactly what the “merge” entailed—you know, the whole “nano brain surgery” bit? I’d acknowledged that I couldn’t change it, struggled to accept it, and gotten beyond it somehow. But Zander? Based on his reaction in the hospital, I think he would have had more difficulty forgiving them than I had.

  I also said nothing about my training. First, as I rehearsed it in my head, it sounded dumb. Far-fetched. Second, it would have led to “Training for what?” My response of, “To rescue Dr. Bickel, of course,” might have triggered a blowup.

  As a wise woman, I didn’t broach either of those topics.

  But I did tell Zander how I’d lived in the safe house for three weeks before the nanomites bothered to tell me about Dr. Bickel’s secret room.

  “All along I have been concerned, and rightfully so, that Cushing’s people might, in their investigation into Dr. Bickel’s finances, uncover his ownership of the house. I was worrying about it the other night, so I asked the nanomites how I might stay a few steps ahead of Cushing. The mites gave me a bunch of reading on a strategy called ‘defense in depth.’ It’s about multiple layers of defense that make it harder and take longer for an adversary to reach what they are after.

  “The stuff I read about defense in depth made me realize just how stinking vulnerable I truly was! Anyway, then I asked the mites to help me make some contingency plans, especially escape plans—and do you know what they did? They showed me the blueprint of a secret room beneath the safe house. A secret room! With an escape tunnel! Right under my nose.”

  Yeah, I told Zander about the room. It couldn’t hurt, because Zander had no idea where the safe house was.

  “A secret room under the safe house?”

  “Complete with years of food, a hidden hatch behind the kitchenette that opens to an escape tunnel, and a security system that monitors the outside and inside of the house. The security system also controls several sweet little deterrents should Cushing’s goons break in.”

  “And why were you mad at the nanomites?”

  I snorted, angry all over again. “Because they knew about it and didn’t bother to tell me until I asked them! Why didn’t they tell me right away? I mean, what if Cushing had found me before they told me? If she’d come in the night, I would have been trapped! Stupid bugs.”

  Zander chuckled.

  I was not appreciative. “What’s so funny?”

  “Just you, Gemma. You act like the nanomites can think. Like they have feelings or common sense. They’re devices, Gemma—they’re technology, not people. You sound as if they should have known better when they were just following their programming.”

  If Zander could have seen me, my glower would have curdled his blood. As it was, I’m certain the temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees.

  “Why, Gemma! Are you mad at me? Are you pouting?”

  And he laughed again!

  “Not funny,” I growled.

  “Well, it is to me. Not the whole, ‘What if Cushing had come in the night before you knew about the secret room?’ part but the ‘you having arguments with the nanomites’ piece. Come on, think about it. You and the nanomites are like squabbling roommates. It’s sort of funny.”

  I huffed. “In a way, we are squabbling roommates, Zander, and it hasn’t been easy. Sometimes they don’t think!”

  Zander leaned over, cradling his cast, and tried to look me in the eye. He got close—but I wasn’t going to help him.

  “Gemma, the mites don’t ‘think’ sometimes because they aren’t people. Yes, they are incredibly smart machines, but maybe you shouldn’t expect them to understand human stuff. Like, I doubt that they understand your anxieties—but I do. I’m glad you asked them for help, and I’m glad they showed you the hidden room. I feel better knowing that you are better hidden from Cushing. I feel better knowing you can get away if you need to. I understand.”

  His words lightened my heart, and I backed away from the anger toward the nanomites, anger I thought I’d already dealt with.

  Zander and I talked for half an hour before Izzy returned, bags of burgers and fries in her hands. None for me, of course.

  I perched on the arm of Zander’s chair,
near the wall. Izzy brought Zander a tray, put it across his lap, and poured the contents of one bag onto a plate. When the heady scent of fries, burger, and hot, roasted green chile reached me, my stomach lurched. What I wouldn’t give . . .

  I sighed. With my ravenous appetite, I could have polished off both bags with ease.

  When Izzy ran to fetch a plate for herself, I grabbed a handful of fries from Zander’s tray and stuffed them into my mouth.

  “Hey!” Zander whispered his indignation, but he was also laughing under his breath.

  “Yummmmm.” I pilfered another handful and scarfed them down before Izzy returned.

  With Izzy back in the house, my alone time with Zander was over. I waited quietly for them to finish their meal. When she carried the trash into the kitchen, I said goodbye to Zander and slipped out the front door.

  I walked to my car, the smell of hot fries and burgers making my stomach rumble, but I was smiling. In the short span Zander and I had been alone, I’d felt the companionship we’d enjoyed last summer, the ease we’d shared sitting on my back steps sipping lemonade or iced tea.

  I shook my head. Far too much had happened since then. I was different. The last vestiges of childhood or youth or whatever label was most appropriate—the remnants of those innocent years? They were forever gone. I carried the full weight of adulthood upon my shoulders. I was responsible for myself, for the nanomites and, to a certain degree, for the safety of others.

  Being with Zander had been a respite from those responsibilities. As I drove away from his neighborhood, I was easier in my heart for the time we’d spent talking. I was grateful for his friendship—

  Gemma Keyes.

  “Um, yes?”

  Why are we stupid bugs?

  The mites and I hadn’t entirely “made up,” so to speak, since the business with the room under the safe house; obviously, I still harbored some animosity toward them. Nonetheless, why had I shot my mouth off to Zander? Knowing the nanomites could hear me, why had I vented?

  I was the stupid one.

  “Um, no, Nano. I . . . I spoke out of, well, out of frustration. I . . . all these changes to my life and body have been rough on my emotions. It’s been . . . well, hard to adjust—but I’m trying. Really, I am. I’m sorry I said . . . what I said about you.”

  We do not wish to be stupid bugs, Gemma Keyes. Please tell us when we are being stupid bugs. Just as you seek to adjust, we will seek to adjust.

  I truly was sorry then, and tears stung my eyes.

  Oh, Zander. How can I explain this to you? The nanomites may not be people, but . . . they are more than “just” technology.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 18

  Three days passed, three days of intensifying workouts. In between training sessions, I visited Emilio again and made a run for a bulk order of groceries. My comfy old jeans had become inexplicably loose, so I bought two new pairs and picked up some workout clothes, too.

  Three days passed while I waited for the nanomites to bring me news of Mateo and Soto. For the second time, they came up empty.

  Gemma Keyes. We have been unable to locate your enemies, Mateo Martinez and Arnaldo Soto. Online data is scarce.

  I was disappointed, but I guess I could understand. The mites were not omnipresent or omnipotent, and neither Martinez nor Soto boasted what you might call a robust social media presence. The mites had collected bits and bytes, but nothing that furthered our search—no secret Facebook group exclusive to Mexican drug gangs and no snarky tweets directed at American law enforcement:

  @DeadEyesGang: @APD @FBI

  Catch us if you can

  #nannynannybooboo

  The mites had found nothing—nothing in the Internet’s public sector, that is.

  It dawned on me that the government had to possess files on Soto, files that were not on any public network. Hadn’t Gamble said something about his computer being on a secure government network?

  Hmmm.

  “Nano,” I whispered. “I think the FBI has information on their network that would point your search for Soto in the right direction. We need to pay Special Agent Gamble another visit.”

  Thirty minutes later I stood at the door of Gamble’s office. He was pecking away at his computer’s keyboard, brows drawn down and bunched together, mouth hard and tight.

  It was not the picture of a man comfortable with technology.

  I had to admire his game face, though: If the computer had been a perp and Gamble had been interrogating him, I’m certain the computer would have caved.

  “Gamble.” I kept my voice low.

  His chin jerked up; his eyes darted back and forth. “Miss Keyes?”

  I shut his office door behind me. “Yes.”

  “You okay?”

  “Sure. You?”

  He snorted. “Just peachy. I’ve already deflected two of Cushing’s probes—as you predicted.”

  I sat in the same seat I’d used only four days ago. “Do tell?”

  “She called the Albuquerque SAC, my boss’ boss, and mentioned that I might be useful in a Homeland investigation. She had the nerve to request that I be transferred to her! That about set my boss’ hair on fire, of course.”

  Gamble couldn’t see my worried expression. “What did your, er, boss’ boss say?”

  “Oh, trust me, the SAC is one very shrewd political operator. Without refusing outright or committing me to anything, he assured Cushing that the FBI would be pleased to cooperate and lend me to Homeland—as soon as the parameters of the investigation were known and the proper paperwork filed.”

  I giggled a little. “Let me guess? Your boss’ boss has heard nothing in response from Cushing?”

  “Not a peep.”

  “Do I hear a ‘but’?”

  “Yeah, you do. After that, Cushing came at me from another direction. I had a friend of mine, a PI, sweep my car, phone, and apartment. She found listening devices in all three.”

  My frown returned. “Cushing will just have them replanted. Different kinds and in less obvious places.”

  “Not to worry. My friend lent me some tools so I can check my car, phone, apartment, and this office myself. She had this other trick up her sleeve, too, a nifty app she installed on my phone. She said if Cushing was that determined, then she would be tracking my phone’s GPS. The app spoofs my phone’s location services, makes any tracking software think I’m a hundred miles from my actual location.”

  “Gee, you’re starting to sound a little paranoid, Gamble.”

  “It’s not paranoia if they really are watching you.”

  I snickered, and Gamble cracked a short-lived grin.

  Then he was all business. “Why are you here, Miss Keyes?”

  “I told you I would find Martinez and Soto for you. However, the nanomites can’t find anything on the Internet as a jumping-off spot. I figured that the FBI had better leads—you know, next of kin, previous places of residence, and so on. Your information would provide the mites with a starting point.”

  “Can’t give you access to our files, Miss Keyes.”

  I released a dramatic sigh and paused for effect.

  In actuality, the mites were already in the FBI’s system via Gamble’s terminal and login. I was stalling Gamble to give them the time they needed.

  Apparently, the same thought occurred to Gamble. “Wait! Are you . . . are those things in my computer?” He was outraged, but what could he do about it?

  Not a thing.

  “Yeah, they are. Let me check on their progress.”

  I stepped into the warehouse and surveyed the pipeline of data the nanocloud was sucking from the FBI’s database—straight into Alpha Tribe’s repository.

  Fastest download speeds in town!

  “Almost finished, Nano?”

  Yes, Gemma Keyes.

  I opened my eyes. “I think our work here is done.”

  Gamble flexed his jaw. “You realize you’re committing a felony?”

  Was I? I thought
about it. Shrugged.

  “Your IT peeps can’t detect the mites, and there’s virtually and literally, no possibility of the nanocloud being hacked. The data is safe. I promise not to sell it on the black market.”

  Gamble said nothing for a full thirty seconds, giving me the stink eye he’d had focused on his computer earlier. I wouldn’t play poker with that man.

  Gemma Keyes. We have completed our download.

  “Okay, great, Nano. Will you begin your analysis?”

  We have already begun, Gemma Keyes.

  I stood up. “We have what we need, Agent Gamble. I’ll let you know when we’ve found Soto.”

  He stood, too, and moved out from behind his desk. “I appreciate your offer to help, Miss Keyes, but I don’t think I can allow you to leave with FBI data.”

  For a big guy, Gamble was fast. He leapt in my direction, found me, and clamped a manacle-like hand around my wrist.

  “Hey!” I was too stunned to respond otherwise—but the mites were not.

  A perfect cacophony of protest erupted in my ear, and then—

  Gamble yelped, let go, and jumped backward, shaking his hand like it was on fire.

  Oh, how well I knew that feeling! The mites had stung him, and stung him but good. The man cradled the injured member against his chest and glared at me, indignant. Maybe a little afraid?

  “Sorry, Agent Gamble, but the mites took offense at you putting your hands on me.”

  He backed up a few steps. “Did they, now?”

  “Uh-huh; yeah, they did. Listen, I’m leaving now. Don’t worry about the FBI’s files. Consider them, um, backed up to a super secure location.”

  Ha-ha! Oh, I crack myself up sometimes. It was all I could do not to laugh—but I didn’t want to further offend Agent Gamble. He was, after all, a straight shooter, an attribute not that common to feds in my limited experience.

  He grimaced and rubbed the center of his palm with his other thumb. “Noted, Miss Keyes. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  Great. He was ticked.

  I walked closer to him, the mites chittering a soft warning. I placed my hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Gamble. Please don’t hold this against me. I don’t want to lose you as a friend. I-I have so few friends these days.”