Deep State Stealth

by Vikki Kestell

  “God made a way out, too. A way to escape the coming reckoning. For all the sinful, wicked, unconscionable things I had done in my past, for every appalling act I had committed, God made a way of escape.

  “His name is Jesus.”

  Chapter 34

  IT WAS STILL EARLY the next morning when I heard a soft tapping on our door.

  I nudged Zander. “Hey. Someone’s knocking.”

  He climbed from the sofa bed, pulled a t-shirt over his shorts, and cracked the door.

  The visitor whispered, “Sorry to wake you, John-Boy, but you’re due on the roof in fifteen. Didn’t know if you were up or not.”

  “Thanks, McFly. I wasn’t. I appreciate you waking me.”

  “Yeah, no worries. Um, say, I thought about what you said last night. In fact, I didn’t sleep much, thinking about it. I . . . I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Sure, man.”

  Zander eased out of our apartment onto the walkway. I could have used the nanomites to listen in, but I didn’t. Instead, I prayed.

  Lord, your word goes out like bread upon the water. It goes out to accomplish your purposes, and it does not return empty or fruitless. I ask that you have your way in McFly’s heart this day. Like you wooed me, please draw him by your Spirit. I’m asking in the name of Jesus that you bring him into your kingdom.

  THE WOMAN STEPPED OUT of her home and onto the back patio. The morning was warm and the air moist, filled with the scent of pine sap and flowering shrubs as were most summer days in Virginia. She walked to the edge of the patio and gazed across the expanse of lawn to the thick woods bordering her property. Out there, among the trees, her personal guards were patrolling the fence line, vigilant to protect her.

  She began to walk a path that wound around the house. She did her best thinking on her feet, on the move, and the question that was on her mind this morning had preoccupied her for the past four days: How had the President come into possession of evidence that implicated Danforth in the elimination of that meddling fool, Overman?

  Furthermore, how had Danforth’s situation so degraded over the course of one night that, according to her unimpeachable source in the White House, Danforth had thrown himself into the arms of the Russians?

  A rash move, Lawrence, but you were no fool, she reminded herself. After many years in my acquaintance, you knew when your usefulness to me was at an end. To save your worthless skin, you attempted to put yourself out of my reach.

  The former question remained: How had President Jackson found Danforth out?

  It had to be Gemma Keyes—or whatever she calls herself—Gemma/Jayda and the nanomites.

  The woman paused her pacing. Danforth was right to be concerned. Jayda and Zander Cruz moved here the last weekend in May. Conceivably, they could have been in the White House for weeks, deactivating listening devices, sickening the Secret Service agents loyal to our cause, even informing the President of their progress.

  No wonder her operatives had been unable to locate the Cruz’s loved ones in New Mexico: Jayda and her husband had warned them to hide.

  “We have been behind in the game for months, while Jayda and her husband have systematically stymied our progress and every move we’ve made against the President.”

  She began walking again. No, not every move. Not all our progress. They cannot know all.

  Few people knew that the woman had served in America’s intelligence community in her early years. Those who did know had no inkling that she had served her own needs concurrently, acting the agent provocateur—double agent and even triple agent when it suited her objectives or paid well enough.

  When she retired from covert work, she had accumulated substantial wealth and had turned her intellect to other disciplines: engineering, physics, chemistry, and the behavioral sciences. She relished and ingested knowledge much as a predator does meat, snapping up what satiated her hunger, what appealed to her senses, what informed her interests and needs.

  The nanomites were of such significance to her, both intellectually and politically. She had devoured the reports Cushing had pushed up the chain to Harmon; she had foreseen the vital role the mites would play in their plans. But the behaviors she had witnessed when Jayda and Zander Cruz had defeated her task force’s attack on Malware, Inc.? Those powers were beyond anything she had envisioned—and, oh! How she lusted to acquire and wield such abilities herself.

  Jayda and Zander’s demonstration had opened the woman’s eyes. By studying the helmet videos of their second attack on Malware Inc., she had construed how the nanomites worked through the couple and, more importantly, what was required for the nanomites to do so.

  Four days ago, she had tasked a trusted security company to construct a room to her precise specifications. She had expended a great deal of money and personal “persuasion” to speed the construction and stem the crew’s curiosity. The room was not yet ready—but it would be soon. In the meantime, other activities associated with their advancing plans intruded upon her.

  I shall greatly dislike leaving this house, this refuge from the world, but leaving it is, after all, a necessary evil.

  She walked on. The woman knew the path around her house by heart and did not need to watch her steps. Head down, eyes closed in concentration, she continued to probe for her adversaries’ weaknesses.

  They may have warned their friends and relatives in New Mexico to hide, but I must assume that they have made friends here, too, she reasoned. I must explore a little deeper and probe their personal interactions since moving to Maryland.

  Nodding to herself, she thought, No, Jayda and Zander Cruz, you do not know everything. By this coming weekend, the jaws of my pincers will be ready to clamp down. I need only to acquire the appropriate bait for the trap.

  Chapter 35

  NOT MUCH HAPPENED OVER the next five days.

  Agent Kennedy summoned us to the White House to brief the President on the status of our investigation, but we had little to report. President Jackson looked disappointed and worn, while Kennedy’s ever-cool attitude toward us turned downright frosty.

  Mal appointed Zander to regular turns on guard duty and assigned me to the command center’s schedule. On my first shift, I was under Dredd’s supervision, so he could tutor me on how everything worked. After a few minutes, he sat back in disgust.

  “You obviously know your way around surveillance systems, Ripley, although this one is my own configuration. I even built most of the components myself. Don’t know how you figured out my shortcuts so fast.”

  “I, um, have a sort of affinity for computers, electronics, stuff like that.”

  “Sure, pal. Well, since I’m not needed here, I’m going back to bed. Only got four hours last night.”

  “G’night, Dredd. Sleep tight.”

  Alone in the command center, I set some of the nanomites to watching the perimeter. They were a far more effective perimeter watch system than what we had in place.

  I peeked in on the nanobug arrays we’d planted on Danforth’s NSA SPOs, but they had little to report. The officers were awaiting trial in federal lockup and were being kept in isolation, meaning they had no contact with each other or anyone else.

  I also listened in on the four dirty White House Secret Service agents. They had been declared fit for duty and restored to their White House posts, but what the nanomites reported and what I heard myself via their arrays was mostly confusion. Secret Service Deputy Assistant Director, Blake Morningside, conspicuous for his silence, had, I speculated, cut the White House agents adrift.

  It seemed to me that Danforth’s death had opened a yawning hole in our opposition’s leadership ranks, a void that no one had stepped up to fill.

  And while the nanomites kept working to put a name to the mystery woman, it seemed she had vanished like a wisp of smoke on a breeze. For five days, we caught no scent of her. For five days we fidgeted, spun our wheels, and made no progress. For five days we maintained our vigilance and never onc
e glimpsed any indication, inkling, or hint of the trap she had declared she would devise.

  Until its teeth clamped down on us.

  JAYDA CRUZ, MACY UUMBANA is calling.

  “Oh, cool!”

  I picked up the call. “Hey, Macy! How are you, girlfriend? How are my sweet babies, Denzel and Deshaun?”

  The frantic sobbing on the other end of the line froze the words on my lips.

  “Jayda! They took our babies! They took them! They said it’s your fault, that you made them do it!”

  She cursed me then, calling down horrible epithets on my head, swearing she hated me and that she’d rip me apart with her teeth and bare hands if anything happened to her babies.

  As she dissolved into hopeless and inarticulate sobs, I whispered, “Nano, get Zander. Hurry.”

  Yes, Jayda Cruz.

  To my weeping, distraught friend, I vowed. “Macy? Macy, we’re coming. Don’t lose hope. We will find your babies, I promise you.”

  O God! We need you!

  I hung up and used the radio to call for Mal. When Zander and Mal arrived, I tried to explain, but I made a hash of it. I couldn’t form the words, so badly did my throat and chest hurt.

  I couldn’t play the stoic role of Ellen Ripley. Not for this.

  In the end, the nanomites had to explain the situation to Zander. He passed the information to Mal, and Mal called Dredd to take over the command center.

  Then he huddled up with me and Zander. “You guys didn’t remove my memories of what you did to win the battle at our clubhouse. I saw you in action, and I know you have more firepower than Malware has. How do you want to handle this? And what do you need from us?”

  “We’ll go the Uumbanas’ first,” Zander answered. “Whoever stole the babies may have left a message for us.”

  “Take one of our vehicles.”

  “Thanks.”

  Zander put his arm around me. “Jay?”

  I shoved my anguish into an iron box of my own construction. I slammed the lid tight. Locked it. I sucked up all my tears and hardened my heart against the pain and fear.

  “Yeah. I’m ready.”

  Zander and I drove in silence, both of us twisted up in our own thoughts, mine circling around a single word:

  Bait.

  We thought we’d hidden those we loved, but the mystery woman had simply probed our lives until she found another vulnerability with which to bait her trap.

  Well played.

  O Jesus! O Lord! How could we have been so foolish and blind? Our shortsightedness has caused this heartache. Please don’t let our mistake cause any harm to come to these precious babies.

  WE HAD BEEN SILENT thirty-five minutes by the time we arrived at the Uumbanas’ house near Ft. Meade. Darius met us at the door and, if looks could have killed, Zander and I would have been DRT—Dead Right There—scorched into the cement of the porch where we stood. Without comment, Darius led us into the house.

  From within, we heard little Daniel Uumbana sobbing. When we entered the living room, Macy was rocking the boy, her own tears raining down on Daniel’s curly head.

  “Mama, want Denz!” Daniel wailed. “Want ’Shaun, Mama!”

  I felt lower than dirt and could think of nothing to say by way of greeting that would not pour gasoline on the grief raging over Macy and her son.

  Zander took the lead. “Darius and Macy? We’re going to get your babies back. Please tell us what happened—word for word.”

  “We don’t need to. They left you this.” Darius’ eyes glittered like hard, black stones as he tossed a weighty, sealed envelope at Zander.

  Before opening the envelope, Zander looked at Darius. “I know you have no reason to believe or trust us, but we are brokenhearted that those who hate us have taken it out on you.”

  “Save it. We’re not interested.” Anger oozed from every syllable.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off Macy, the way she held Daniel. She was terrified he would be snatched from her arms.

  Like her babies were.

  I was going to be sick. I lurched toward the front door and made it outside before my stomach purged its contents.

  Then Zander was there. He turned on the Uumbanas’ hose, helped me rinse my mouth, and sprayed the ick off their sidewalk.

  “We need to go, Jay.”

  We got back in the car. There Zander opened the envelope left for us. It contained a generic smartphone and a typed note.

  The note was short. To the point. Unequivocal.

  We have the infants. If you follow the instructions we provide, we will return the children unharmed. However, until you complete the instructions, the babies will not be fed. The longer you delay, the hungrier they will become.

  We are monitoring both you and the destination to which the instructions will eventually lead you. We will know if anyone follows you or approaches within two miles of your destination.

  Disable your vehicle’s GPS. Toss your phones. Find the closest Taco Bell. Your next instruction is taped under a table.

  The nanomites severed the wires to the car’s GPS for us. Then we dumped our phones on the curb. I used the provided smartphone to find the nearest Taco Bell. When we arrived, the place was packed, the lunch rush underway.

  We didn’t care.

  We went from table to table, squatting and feeling each underside, ignoring protests and rude comments until we found the folded note and tore the tape holding it in place.

  “You guys on a scavenger hunt?” an excited kid asked.

  Zander mumbled, “Something like that,” before we rushed to our car.

  From point to point, the instructions led us, moving us farther north, then west, until we were around thirty miles due west of D.C. wandering down the roads in a wooded semi-rural area where the properties were a few acres each and houses far apart. We were looking for a mailbox with a horse on it.

  We found the red box with the black horse painted on it and the note on the box’s underside.

  Drive north. Turn left at the third driveway. Follow the drive. Enter the house.

  Our destination was a simple farmhouse on the outside. Within, things were not so simple.

  Jayda and Zander Cruz, this structure has been subject to extensive modifications and is heavily shielded.

  “Is this where Danforth and the woman watched us rescue Trujillo?”

  Very likely, Jayda Cruz.

  Someone had used painter’s tape to create arrows on the floor. The arrows led down a narrow hallway, turned left, and stopped at a door. We opened the door and discovered steps leading down into a basement. A dotted line of tape pointed the way. A soft light emanated from below.

  Zander put his mouth to my ear. “I’ll go first. Don’t come down until I signal you.”

  “Okay.”

  A minute later, he called to me, and I joined him. The dim light we’d seen from the top of the stairs shone from a corner of the basement.

  How can I describe what that light revealed?

  Someone had gutted the high-beamed basement and laid bare its concrete walls and floor. In the center of the basement someone had drilled out the floor forming a two-foot-deep pit, perhaps five feet by five feet square, and had poured a new floor and cement sides for the trench. Within the pit, workers had built a room, around six feet high but, I estimated, ten inches less in width than the five-feet-square pit, so more like four feet by four feet.

  The result was a cell large enough for two people to stand in but two feet lower than the rest of the basement floor.

  An arrow of blue tape pointed to the cell’s small, hatch-like doorway.

  Zander and I did not move. We’d reached the trip wire—the trap’s trigger mechanism—and our nerves were jangling. The nanomites were alarmed, too, but their continual clicking in my ear was not helping a whit.

  “Nano, stop that, please.”

  I scrutinized the cell’s other unusual characteristics: Its walls, floor, and ceiling were made of dual sheets of clear material
—not glass, but a type of thick plastic. A cage of fine metal mesh was sandwiched between the plastic sheets. I say a cage, because the metal mesh formed four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. Its only interruption was the little doorway. In all, the ingeniously built cell consisted of three cubes—a metal mesh cage lined inside and out with plastic-like walls, floors, and ceilings.

  “Nano?”

  Electrostatic dissipative acrylic, Jayda Cruz, encasing a cage of electromagnetic shielding. A sophisticated Faraday cage.

  A Faraday cage. Used to protect people and equipment from electric discharge or current. A Faraday cage’s conductive material sends current around the outside of the enclosed space, allowing none of the electricity to enter or pass through the interior.

  “Zander . . .”

  “Yeah, I get it. If we go in there, we won’t be able to draw down on any nearby electrical sources.”

  Oh, and I can’t leave this last bit out: Yet another cage hung suspended from the basement’s high ceiling over the three cubes. I glanced into the shallow pit and saw a metal track on the pit’s floor, running around the three-walled acrylic/metal mesh cell. It looked like the suspended cage was designed to drop over the cell and snap onto the track.

  I scanned the basement and found what I was looking for: a power source. An oversized electrical panel was built onto one wall; thick wires led from it . . . into the pit.

  Nudging Zander, I asked, “How much you want to bet those wires connect to that metal track?”

  “Not taking that bet.”

  A second source of light brightened behind us, and I turned my head toward it.

  A monitor. No, two monitors—also encased in a cage of fine metal mesh.

  I tugged Zander’s sleeve.

  On one of the screens we saw Denzel and Deshaun. They were laying end to end, their heads touching, on the back seat of a car. They appeared to be sleeping.