Wired Secret

by Toby Neal

  It was five o’clock somewhere, and he deserved a celebratory drink. Maybe Lani could come in and drink with him. They could do it on his desk after.

  Byron got up and poured each of them a generous tot of well-aged whiskey from the bottle he kept in a cabinet behind his desk. He depressed the old-fashioned intercom on his desk. “Lani? Get in here.”

  “The computer repairman has arrived, sir.” Her voice was professional. “I’ll be just a moment.”

  Oh yeah—she’d complained about getting some kind of virus on her machine. He returned to his desk and sat down, sipping his whiskey.

  He heard a sort of muffled thump through the closed door and frowned, his hand dropping to the weapon he kept handy on his desk. Not that he was jumpy, or anything—it was just good to take precautions. He depressed the intercom again. “Lani?”

  His door was already opening.

  The Lizard stood there innocuous and deadly, dressed in a computer repair coverall.

  Byron glimpsed the gleam of light on metal and lifted his weapon—but the assassin in the doorway fired two first.

  Byron recoiled against a bloom of pain in his chest, an unspeakable heaviness. His hand came up to touch the area. He looked at wet, shiny, bloodstained fingers in disbelief.

  Everything was going spotty: black, white, red. He couldn’t breathe.

  The door opened wider.

  Behind the Lizard’s back, Byron could see the body of his lover sprawled across her desk.

  “I paid you.” Byron’s voice was a thread of sound.

  “But you tried to call off the job. I’ll take your life as forfeit, and consider this black mark on my record expunged.”

  The black bore of the Lizard’s silenced pistol opened up and swallowed Byron whole.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The last person Alika expected to see when he opened aching eyes was his grandmother Esther Ka`awai.

  Tutu was seated beside his bed, crocheting. Sunlight, filtered through a light-diffusing blind in the hospital window, fell softly over long black hair threaded with silver and braided over one shoulder of her muumuu. Tutu’s weathered brown hands moved quickly, confidently over the soft pink yarn, working on a small bowl shape. She was making a baby hat. Her mouth moved—she was praying.

  He was in a hospital bed. Again.

  And whatever had happened had been bad.

  “Tutu.” Alika’s voice was a rusty whisper he hardly recognized.

  “Oh, my grandson!” Esther set aside her crocheting. “Finally, you’re awake!” She picked up a Styrofoam cup with a straw and held it out, pressing the plastic tube to his lips. “They took you off all the machines yesterday.”

  Alika sucked the entire cup of water through the straw, and when he spoke, his voice was stronger. “That box was a bomb, wasn’t it?” He was surprised to feel so mentally alert—he could remember everything about the moments leading up to the explosion.

  “Yes. It’s a miracle you lived. God has a plan for you, ipo.”

  Alika’s lips were sore as his mouth moved in an ironic smile. “Some plan.” Someone else had been with him during that explosion. “Sophie? How is she?”

  “I don’t know why you’re asking about her—didn’t you two break up? The woman and her dog who were with you in the lobby were injured, but okay.” Tutu picked up her crocheting and resumed. “The police say it was a random hate bomb. Thank God it wasn’t bigger. They think it was supposed to go off when you were in the elevator with the door closed.”

  Alika shut his eyes, exhausted by the small effort of drinking the water. Sophie was okay.

  Pain was a dull throb off in the distance, held at bay by medication. But things felt different in his body.

  “You’ll learn to deal with this, I know you will,” Tutu’s voice. “People live with this kine thing plenty and it never holds them back.”

  “What kine thing?” Alarm prickled along his nerves. Alika opened his eyes again and struggled to sit up. Tutu pressed a button and the back of his bed lifted up slowly.

  He looked down and surveyed himself. “What the hell?”

  His brain took minutes to process that his left arm was gone, because he could still feel it. Feel everything about it, even a sense of the damage it had taken, a burning pain around and above the elbow. He tried to lift the arm, could swear it even moved—but there was nothing to see but a bandaged stump at his side, resting on the blank white of the hospital sheets.

  His grandmother’s eyes were shiny with tears. “You will be okay, ipo. You don’t need two arms to be a whole man.”

  Alika couldn’t take it in. His head swam. He shut his eyes and focused on breathing.

  Alika’s Fight Club manager Chewy was the next visitor he woke up to. “Hey man. You’re looking good.” Chewy’s beard was characteristically thick around his toothy grin. Thick, tatted, ropy arms rested on his knees. He held a small item in big ham hands.

  “I expect that line of crap from my grandma, but not from my business partner.” Alika’s eyes felt gritty, and there was something nasty he didn’t want to remember. Oh yeah. He’d lost his arm. “God bless it.”

  Somehow his tutu was wearing off on him in his old age. No swear word felt big enough to encompass how thoroughly the universe had screwed him over. Multiple times now.

  “You’re alive, which is a lot more than most people would be in your shoes. I was there; I got to see how bad it was.”

  Alika stared at his friend. “What?”

  “You probably don’t remember, but you made me your emergency contact here on Oahu. I got called by the emergency personnel. Got to the building in time to see them load what was left of you on a gurney and haul you away.” Chewy shuddered. “I thought you were gone. Never seen so much blood in my life.”

  Sophie. “What about the woman who was there with me?”

  “She was unconscious and pretty worked over, but they told me she’d likely be fine. Her dog did the most damage; guess that Lab flew backwards into her and smashed her ribs. But the dog got up and was running around. They had a helluva time catching it.”

  Ginger must have been frantic, terrified. Alika shut his eyes, replaying the scene, wishing he didn’t have to.

  Chewy went on. “The cops interviewed me. Wanted to know what you might have been doing at that building. All I could think of was that it was Sophie’s building, right? You must have been going to see her.” Chewy held out the object he’d been holding—a small black box. He popped it open. “You had your good shirt on. And this was in your pocket.”

  Alika’s gaze focused on the band of brilliant, channel-set diamonds in platinum resting on a bed of black velvet.

  Memories bubbled up sluggishly.

  He’d been in touch with Frank ever since he got to Oahu after his one night with Sophie, and he’d taken the man into his confidence. He’d told Frank he wanted to ask her to marry him, planned to offer her a different kind of life. More settled, but still her own. He had no problem with any of the shit Sophie was into as long as she took reasonable precautions and came home to him. He’d told Frank his vision of them living on Kaua`i, running a gym together, her traveling to do her investigation work, maybe a couple of kids someday.

  He still remembered Frank’s face, beaming with happiness as the ambassador shook his hand. “If I could say ‘yes’ for my daughter, I would. That’s just the kind of future I want for my girl.” The man had clapped him on the back that fateful morning and sent him down to wait for Sophie in the lobby.

  Alika’s chest spasmed with grief. He shut his eyes to hide his emotion.

  He had nothing to offer Sophie now—and he knew how her mind worked. She’d disappeared on him before, sure she was dangerous to him. Now, she’d be so sick with guilt she’d never want to see him again—because there was no doubt he’d been holding a bomb that was meant for her.

  “Hey, man.” Chewy’s voice was rough. “I’ll just hold onto this ring for you. I’ll put it in the office sa
fe. In the meantime, don’t give up. I’m keeping your friends and family from swamping this room right now. Your parents are on their way—they just went down to the cafeteria for a few. You’re gonna come back from this better than ever. You’ve done it before. You’re like the freakin’ Terminator, man. I think you should get a bionic hook for that arm.”

  Alika opened his eyes with an effort and made himself smile. He had come back before; this was worse, but Tutu was right. His life had been spared for a reason.

  But that reason didn’t involve Sophie. He was done with this particular struggle.

  “Thanks, Chewy. Keep the ring. Give it to someone special. I won’t be needing it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Pim Wat sat on a bench at Ala Moana Park on Oahu. The ocean sparkled in the late afternoon sun. A tiny tropical breeze teased the leaves of a huge, spreading banyan tree overhead. Children played on equipment not far away. A smooth arc of yellow sand before her was cluttered with tourists, the busy sounds of the city behind them lost in the music of little waves.

  Pim Wat tossed bread crumbs to a host of pigeons, hopping and pecking around her feet. Filthy creatures—she hated them. But in her current elderly woman disguise, they were just right to help play out her Script.

  She liked the way her hands looked, their youthful smoothness hidden by cheap net gloves with the fingers cut off. Baggy, food-stained garments completely obscured her beautiful body, and Pim Wat smiled, just a little. She was so good at this. Too bad no one celebrated her secret triumphs but faithful Armita.

  She slid her left hand into one capacious pocket, curling her fingers around the state-of-the-art Maxim 9 pistol with built-in suppressor, a gun she’d bought at the prototype stage because she liked the futuristic look of its matte black, boxy shape and the utility of its design—she always needed a silencer on her weapons. Might as well get one that was small and efficient.

  Pim Wat checked the angle of her shot—as long as the man she was meeting sat on her right, she’d be able to fire right through her skirt from the left, and he’d never know what hit him.

  The assassin known as the Lizard was supposed to be meeting her here after a long, careful series of communications she’d initiated through his website. She had baited the Lizard to this meeting by telling him she knew he was behind the murder of Byron Chang and his top people, information she’d received by text from her unknown informant.

  The Lizard was good with a sniper rifle, so Pim Wat wore sweat-inducing body armor under her oversized garments. She couldn’t wait to get this meeting over with, and to strip everything off. She already had a massage scheduled for this afternoon.

  An elderly man shuffled toward her, carrying a paper bag that looked like it held breadcrumbs. She cursed inwardly, glancing sideways beneath the brim of her sun hat to assess the intruder as he sat down beside her.

  The man’s back was curved with age. He wore a pair of camouflage pants and a Primo Beer tee that had seen better days. A canvas fishing hat, trimmed with dangling lures, shaded a liver-spotted brown face mostly obscured by thick trifocals. “You like feeding the pigeons, too?” His voice was raspy and hopeful.

  Pim Wat ignored him—she had to get this fool to leave. The last thing she needed right now was some misguided old man trying to scrape an acquaintance.

  “They are just feathered rats, but useful for cover,” her companion said.

  Pim Wat’s heart jumped so hard she almost gave herself away with a startled movement. The Lizard was right beside her!

  Fortunately, she was still holding the pistol at the ready. She raised it slightly. The cold metal rested on her thigh, pointed toward him.

  Pim Wat had expected someone much younger, possibly even a woman, and no doubt disguised. But this man’s face and hands were wrinkled and spotted in a way that could not be faked. His movements had been perfect!

  Rage filled her. She’d almost been duped!

  The Lizard set the bag of breadcrumbs on his knees. “You asked for this meeting.”

  She didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t want to negotiate. She just wanted him dead, this man who had tried to murder her daughter.

  Pim Wat shot him.

  The Maxim 9 made a noise like a balloon popping, louder than movies portrayed. The pigeons flew up, a maelstrom of flapping wings.

  The Lizard recoiled, hit in the midsection. He pulled his hand out of the bag of breadcrumbs to reveal a silenced Beretta, and shot Pim Wat.

  The impact, square in her chest, knocked her backward and stole her breath. She clutched the bench’s support with her right hand and pulled the Maxim out of her pocket with her left.

  The Lizard was down on the bench beside her, gasping for air just as she was. No blood showed—he was wearing a vest, too.

  She’d worry about breathing later.

  Pim Wat hauled herself upright so she was looking down at the Lizard, and shot him in the face.

  The outcome wasn’t pretty.

  His body went slack on the bench, and he slid down to lie flat on his back. His hand dropped, the Beretta falling to the dirt. The paper bag, still on his lap, tipped over, spilling bread crumbs over the ground. The pigeons descended again, a fluttering, macabre horde.

  Pim Wat glanced around—no one was looking in their direction. She could still hardly draw breath but managed a few tiny sips of air as she staggered dizzily around the body to retrieve the fisherman’s hat where it had fallen off of the assassin’s head.

  She dropped the hat over the Lizard’s ruined face and retrieved the Beretta, slipping it into her other pocket. Standing beside him, she emptied her bag of crumbs. The pigeons swarmed around them. A child waved and laughed in their direction from the beach.

  The stage was set—an old man, feeding the pigeons, had fallen asleep on a park bench.

  Her Script was complete.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Sophie rested her head on her father’s shoulder, sinking deep into his hug. She’d just come all the way up the stairs to his penthouse, unwilling to ride the elevator, and she and Ginger were both exhausted from the effort. “So glad the trial’s over,” Frank said. “You’ve given me some serious gray hair these last couple of months.”

  “I’m sorry.” The apology seemed to encompass a vastness of things. “We did it. Akane Chang’s going away, and Marcella told me the Chang operation is in disarray.” Sophie had hardly been processed out of the Witness Protection program and said goodbye to Hazel Matsue, when Marcella had called to let her know that Byron Chang had been shot in his office, along with his secretary and a couple of bodyguards. “I think it’s safe for me to return to the Big Island.”

  Her father held her away to look into her face. “You’re kidding me, right? Nothing good ever happens to you there. You need to stay right here, in my apartment, and recover. Maybe start going to that gym of Alika’s again when you feel up to it.”

  “I won’t be seeing Alika anymore. He almost died because of me.” Sophie turned away from her father to look out of his apartment’s floor-to-ceiling windows, breathing past the pain in her chest. She’d missed that iconic view: Diamond Head’s rugged extinct volcano outline, the gleam of light on skyscrapers, surfers on the inside, a squall blowing in, trailing a rainbow way out to sea.

  “Alika wouldn’t want you to take it that way,” her father said softly.

  Sophie frowned at him. “The man lost an arm because of me. We’re done.” Jake had told her the final extent of Alika’s injuries, and she could hardly stand to think of it. “Don’t bring him up again, Dad.”

  “Coward.” Her father’s mouth tightened as he fisted his hands on his hips. “You owe him at least a goodbye.”

  “None of this is any of your business.” Sophie’s temper flared. “Why did you tell him I’d be coming to your place the day before the trial? If Alika hadn’t met me in the lobby, he would be a whole man right now. I had already decided that my lifestyle is too dangerous for a civilian. I told him t
hat in Hilo and left him without any contact info. And you mucked it up, Dad, by telling him where to find me.”

  “And you’d be dead if he hadn’t been holding that package.” Her father’s gaze was unyielding. “Alika loves you, Sophie. He can offer you a different kind of life. I want that for you, and I am never going to apologize for doing what I think is in your best interest as a parent.”

  “You don’t get to make those kinds of judgments, any more than my mother does.” Sophie’s lips felt stiff as she forced the words out. Her body felt frozen, a pillar of ice. “I will choose my partner, my path, and my lifestyle.”

  “You are throwing your life away fighting dangerous criminals, and someday, you won’t be the winner. You’re my only daughter. I don’t want to stand over your grave!” Frank’s booming voice filled the room. His eyes filled and his hands balled into fists. “You are being selfish and foolhardy! At least consider going back to the FBI, to your tech lab! You didn’t get shot at there!”

  Sophie’s heart raced in shock at Frank’s raised voice—she couldn’t remember a time her father had shouted at her.

  Ginger yelped in distress. Sophie tugged Ginger’s leash, striding away from Frank and into her bedroom. She closed the door and locked it. She sat down at her computers, blindly seeking some form of comfort in her old technological friends.

  Sophie stared at the blank, dark monitors, feeling nothing but despair.

  She’d changed—those “friends” that she’d named Ying, Jinjai, and Amara—they were just machines. They had no wisdom, love or even escape to offer.

  She could count on one hand the number of times her father had lost his temper with her, and his words shook her.

  In many ways, Frank was right. Her life had been one terrifying episode after another since she left the FBI—but it had never been easy there either, the depression whispered. You’re cursed, and someday you’ll kill your father too. Give him a heart attack or a stroke from the stress of being your parent.