by Meli Raine
“What?”
“That's what Romeo gave you. Nearly ten years ago. Remember? He said we had two minutes to say goodbye.”
The remnants of rage are still in me, even as my rational brain recognizes what she's saying. Blood pounds through me, coarse and rough, seeking an enemy who is long dead, wanting to fight a system that no longer controls me.
Standing on tiptoes, she kisses me, a slow, loving exploration that feels more like a farewell than a passionate connection. My arms wrap around her waist, our bellies pressing hard against each other, my nose seeking to breathe in her essence as my tongue says all the words we can't process in any way other than touch.
“That,” she says with a smile, one finger pressed against my lips, “is a promise.”
“Promise?”
“To come back.”
“I hate that they want me to stay here.”
“Drew's right. You can't go.”
“I know.”
“And we need you hacking systems.”
“That, too. But I need to know you're safe.”
“No one can know that. I need to know the children are safe, but I can't know that. All I can do is get in, get out, and hopefully what I learn can be used to make them safer.”
“I wish I could do this mission for you.”
“That would require a lot of plastic surgery, Callum.”
The unmistakable sound of tires on gravel makes us look toward the window.
“It's time,” I tell her, taking her hand as she walks ahead of me. The march downstairs is so quiet, I can hear my stomach growl.
It's the only sound either of us makes.
Downstairs, Mark and Duff are watching the news on a small screen. Bright graphics that signal alarm and fear dominate the screen.
“A yeshiva's been destroyed by a gas line explosion. Confirmed seventeen dead, mostly children,” Duff says in a tight voice.
“That's one of ours,” I confirm sadly.
“Why are they targeting children?” Kina asks, her voice shrill.
“It's not only children. Plenty of adults dying, too.” Duff frowns. “And in London there was a subway bombing. Djibouti has a massive hostage situation in a major airport. Reports are coming in from all over. Smaller operations, but mass casualties.”
Paulson puts a hand on his shoulder, the flow of words stopping. “Kina needs to go. We can give her the news info later, when she comes back.”
The word if hangs in the air.
If she comes back.
“I'll keep this simple,” she whispers in my ear, her lips grazing my jaw. “I love you. I want to say it in case I–”
My kiss covers the words, words I can't bear to hear because they sound less like a confession and more like a goodbye. My chest is hanging over a cliff, my midsection ready to snap in two. Once she leaves, there's no turning back.
And yet there's no other option.
Breaking away, I gaze into her eyes, Kina fading rapidly, elevating, turning away, curling inward.
“I won't say it back. Not until you return.”
A hint of her responds with the curl of a smile.
And then it turns into a sneer.
She leaves.
And something in me dies.
A car door opens. It closes. Tires move on the driveway, my ears catching everything, matching it to the flicker of images in my mind.
“Hey. Let's get cracking,” Duff says, appearing by my side.
“Right.”
“She's...” He's too professional to use stupid platitudes to make me feel better. “She's one hell of a woman,” he finally finishes.
“You have no idea.”
“I've got one of my own. I do know.”
There is no good answer to that comment.
Back in what Kina called the “war room,” I take my place at a screen and pull up a terminal window. The goal is to swap out Kina's fingerprints for Glen's, for just long enough to get her in.
I have about forty-five minutes to get this done.
Forty minutes later, I'm almost done.
I realize I need caffeine to continue. With the process running, I get up and pour some. As I stretch, adrenaline fills in the gaps in every piece of my body. Sitting at a screen is the last thing my pumped-up warrior self wants to do.
And yet, I'm a warrior in code. It's my weapon.
It's how I will win.
Hacking into The Grove's internal systems would be a lot harder if they didn't allow smartphones to connect to their wireless network.
They have biometric security systems at every entrance and doorway. It looks like no one has updated the latest security patches on the entrance to Glen's bedroom and her office, which is unexpectedly sloppy.
And so I'm in.
Then, yet another stroke of luck. The Grove's security systems are run by the Secret Service's main servers, which are unhackable from the outside. Fortunately, I am already on the inside. I log into the Secret Service database using Glen's cached password and add Kina's fingerprint and retinal scan alongside Glen's.
“Sloppy, sloppy, Glen. A cached password. Really?” I mutter, secretly pleased she could screw up something so simple.
Now Kina will be able to access any U.S. government facility where Glen has access.
I get a database constraint error as I'm committing the changes.
Kina's fingerprints are already in the system.
“We've hit a snag with Kina's fingerprint permissions,” Mark says to me as I stare dumbly at my screen, his eyes bouncing between Duff and me like he's sizing up the situation. “They’re already in the system.”
I wave him away. “No. I'm just getting this error, but it can't be right. I must have typed something wrong.”
“That's not what I mean.” He pulls up a page on his laptop. “Her fingerprints are already registered in the FBI database.”
“Impossible. Stateless wouldn't let that happen.”
“Someone did. Comes up as Sawyer Moray.”
“That's her real name.” Like an eel, I think for no reason.
“Her mother was undercover CIA. News reports claimed she committed suicide, jumped off a bridge. Threw her kids in, too.”
“You know that's a cover story.”
“Clearly. Stateless took the twins and now we have Glen and Kina. But the mom... you know about the connection to the White House?”
“White House?”
“Paula Moray was a cover name. Field name. The kids have fake birth certificates, though their mom did call them Sawyer and Madison.”
“Moray isn't her real last name?” My mouth goes dry. Duff looks like he's about to deliver news that will change everything I know.
Everything Kina knows.
“No. The real last name is–what the hell?”
“What's wrong?” I snap.
“There's a layer of files I didn't have access to a minute ago.”
“So?”
“And–this can't be correct.” He peers at the screen, which suddenly goes blank.
Power in the house goes out.
Alarms go off, the beep beep beep of battery backups filling the air.
All the security guys flock to the windows, checking to see if this is some kind of on-foot invasion.
“Sir? Looks like the electric company is doing unplanned shutdowns of the grid. Wildfires a few counties over are just dangerous enough. No apparent sabotage,” an operative tells Duff.
“Does that mean The Grove has no power?” I bark, instantly processing what this means for Kina, none of it good.
A generator's pneumatic wheeze fills the air, an under-rumbling beneath the beeps of the battery backups. Lights come back on.
“I'm sure the president's personal residence has plenty of backups and more than enough generators. Security systems will be top priority,” Mark tells us.
“Of all the damn days for the grid to go down.”
“You finished coding her finger, right? For the security system?”
>
“No! It won't let me because of the other set. The system's designed to stop the coding when there's a duplicate. It's a security measure.”
“Damn it.” Paulson looks up from his phone. “Huh. Cell phone towers are fine. Lindsay just texted to say they're in. Kina's fingerprint worked.”
“But I didn't code it! The duplicate wouldn't let me–what the hell?”
The three of us stare at each other, too stunned to act, too well trained not to. It's an amateur move, and we all know it.
In unison, we stand.
“It's an ambush. Holy shit,” I yell, surprised that I'd let so much emotion come out, unable to stop it.
“Why would someone code the system to give her access?”
“Someone plans to take her down from the inside.”
“Why the fuck isn't Foster answering any communications? He's inside now. We have a secure line,” I growl as I tap my phone screen over and over, the call unanswered, texts not delivering.
“Lindsay's not answering mine. Signal's jammed? I don't know. They may still have power there. We need more info.”
“And we can't get it!”
Mark grabs a set of keys, Duff standing and looking at us, calculating.
“I need to go there. I need to stop whatever's happening,” I insist, reaching for the keys.
“That's the fastest way to end up in a jail cell,” Mark says. “It’s the president’s residence.”
“And you won't do anyone any good from there, anyway,” Duff adds.
“I'm not sitting in this house doing nothing while Kina gets attacked!”
“No one said that. Just... think for a second.” Mark's words are clipped. Tight. He has the authority of a commander, battle strong and sharp. “Duff's familiar to the Secret Service. So am I.”
“But I'm more accepted,” Duff says. “You have a … checkered past with the president.”
“That's diplomatic.”
“I don't care how you say it, just do something!”
“I'll take you,” Duff says. “Code my fingerprint.”
The screen shakes in front of me as I upload the files and insert the necessary database records. Unlike Kina's fingerprints, there are no duplicates for Duff.
And he's already in.
“You're coded just fine.”
“What about you?”
“I don't exist. Remember? I have no fingerprint profile anywhere. Born without a trace. No birth certificate, no fingerprints, no nothing.”
“You tried to swap Kina's fingerprints for Glen's.”
“Couldn't even get past her prints being dupes. The system locked me out because Kina's prints are already in there. Why would they be in there? This is crazy.”
“Let's go,” Duff says, grabbing the keys from Mark. “You work on reaching Foster. If communications are cut, we need backup.”
“Got it,” Mark replies, turning to one of the operatives in front of a computer, already deep in conversation before we hit the door.
And leave to try to storm the president's private home, to save the one person who could bring him down.
Chapter 16
Kina
Pressing my finger against the electronic pad is an act of faith.
Lindsay's smart enough not to say a word as I casually wait, the split second before the door clicks open, turning my insides to vibrating jelly.
And then, just like that, it works.
Callum must have done the job right.
I can't show relief. Can't show any emotion. Lindsay is a wall of nothing, Drew even less expressive. We're cool and cultivated, here to work, here to support the freedom and ideals of liberty championed by the great experiment in democracy that is the United States of America.
No pressure.
“That's where she 'sleeps' when she's here with Daddy,” Lindsay hisses as we walk down a long hallway. She's already told me this, so I don't understand why she'd repeat it, but her venom tone makes me think it's more emotional than operational.
Various workers in the stately home give Lindsay polite smiles, skimming over me with harder looks, the smiles freezing, never reaching the eyes.
I get nods.
They don't like Glen.
“Not that she uses it. But it's right over there.” She points, wincing. “The housekeeping staff tells me she's never there.”
Drew clears his throat pointedly, eyes jumping around, the implication clear.
Don't talk about Glen as if I'm not Glen.
You never know who is listening.
I quirk one side of my mouth up like Glen and say, “I'm sure that's a great idea for a charitable cause, Lindsay, but your father has plenty on his plate right now. I'll make certain it's an agenda item for the next quarterly meeting. In the meantime, the president is on his way back from Japan, and he has a packed schedule. I'm sure you understand.”
I give her a tight smile.
Then turn and give her my back.
“I understand you're a bitch,” she mutters under her breath. “And I'll just wait. I know my way around,” she says in a bitter tone. “A nice lunch cooked by the household staff sounds like a great idea.”
I just snort and don't bother to look at her.
The performance has to be perfect. Nailing my own sister's habits and speaking style is how I do this. A mental map of the home's layout hovers in my conscience, the left, then right I take bringing me to two doors, both closed.
One is Marshall Josephs' office.
One is Glen's.
Heart hammering in my chest like it's chiseling the words on my gravestone, I enter a small room with white oak hardwood floors. This is nothing like the offices at the compound. Unlike those, the walls here are topped with deep crown molding. A small Zen rock garden, complete with a bubbling electronic waterfall, rests on a table next to the window. Smooth rocks, neatly balanced in stacks of five and six, rest in a shallow pond in the basin.
I huff. Glen isn't the type to care about things like this. Must be part of the charade.
A mechanical noise next door makes me jump: the familiar hum of a laser printer kicking in. My brain tells my overly vigilant body that it's just an office sound. No one is coming in.
And if they do, I'm Glen.
A computer sits on a small desk, everything at perfect right angles, a pad of paper with a pen to the right of the mouse. I turn it on.
And wait.
All of Callum's advice comes rushing into my brain like a crowd of confused people, all talking at once. He told me the computer was likely locked down, and everyone uses laptops and phones anyhow, so my goal is to simply observe. Search.
Seek out whatever information I can.
I have no idea what I'm looking for. This has been the weakness in this plan all along. Coming into the president's personal residence to find “something” that my twin has documented about her work to undermine the presidency is pure folly.
I knew it coming in here, but it's glaringly obvious now that I can't find anything.
Tap tap tap.
Not screaming is the best I can do as I turn around to find Marshall Josephs in the doorway, his presence so appallingly confident. The man assumes he has the right to be wherever he damn well pleases. It's so clear in his body language.
“What are you doing here?” he challenges, as if I've picked a fight with him in the past and he's still pissed.
“Flight times were screwy. I came early,” I say. Short sentences, a generally irritable countenance.
Be pissy, Duff told me.
Lindsay had concurred.
The lights flicker, making everyone look up.
“When's Harry arriving?” Josephs demands.
I hold up my hands in a gesture of impatience. “Power outages are causing problems with communications. I’m trying to reach him.” That's one heck of a stretch, but I'll try anything.
“I meant for our meeting.” He frowns. “You didn't realize he arrived two hours ago?”
&nbs
p; “Do you need to get your hearing checked? I said, the power outages are causing all kinds of issues for communications. Plus, the press and the public are screaming about how privatized utilities are causing this mess. Another issue for the president to deal with. I don't need you lecturing me, Marshall.”
“Don't you dare start this b.s. with me, Glen. You know how bad this all looks. Stinks to high heaven. That compound was supposed to be an easy out. It went down in a bad way, and now we're left cleaning up your error.” His easy, open discussion about Stateless makes me confident we’re not being recorded.
“My error?” I echo his words back to him, pretending this isn't real, pretending he isn't telling me that my own sister really was part of the whole compound detonation effort. “Mine? If you'd listened to me about Callum, none of this would have happened!”
“Ahem.”
We turn to find the president standing in the doorway, dressed in a suit, perfectly coiffed. One step inside and he shuts the door, face rapidly changing from professional cool to private fury.
“I'm sick of you two being at each other's throats all the time. Shut it down.”
He turns around, opens the door, and says loudly, “I need a private meeting with Glen to go over our agenda.”
Marshall snorts.
Now I know what private meeting means. I can only imagine what's on the real agenda.
And I assume it doesn’t involve clothing.
“Marshall, what’s the latest on the gas line explosion and all the dead? Too many kids dying in mass casualty events, all in one day. I need some kind of compassion statement.”
“Yes, sir.”
The president waits. Body language makes it clear he wants Marshall to leave Glen's–my–office.
Dominant assholes never, ever want to back down. They only do so in the face of an even bigger asshole with more power. Watching this isn't new. I saw plenty of it growing up at the compound.
Watching it happen between the president of the United States and one of the main architects of Stateless is a very different experience.
They leave.
I let out a long sigh.
And then I go into the bathroom to regroup.
Glen's face–my face–greets me in the mirror. I touch up my lipstick, my muscles slack, then tight, stretching the same features in such different ways. I haven't seen her in person today, yet I inhabit her.
