Secrets & Lies

by Lauren Landish

  Ten. I kick over and land on my feet, shaking out my arms. I don't need my pills yet, in fact since the night with Jackson I've only had to take them once. Still, the image of the explosion is hot in my brain, and I have to do something constructive before the anger morphs into depression. I know the pattern, but I'm going to fight it this time.

  I grab the sandbag next to my handstand bars and lift it, whipping the forty-five-pound bag up and onto my shoulders. I start crossing the floor of my loft with long, lunging strides. Each one brings me nearly to the floor before I force myself to rise and take the next long step.

  I'm on my second trip back across the loft when my computer beeps from the corner. Darcy's little setup on the shipping company she wants me to crack is tougher than I thought it'd be, and I wonder if she's calling me on time. I still have thirty-six hours left on the deadline that she gave me though, even if my tools are still barely chipping away at the firewall, still searching for that elusive crack. I know one has to be there, so it's just a matter of patience, processing power, and tools.

  I set my sandbag down and see that I have an IRC chat window up on my screen. Only Darcy and a few others have my IRC handle, although it's not that hard to figure out if you know my hacker name. I mean, CDGrace and Coup De Grace aren't really all that different, after all.

  But I don't know this IRC handle at all. Blue Sakura... intriguing. Maybe it's one of Darcy's Japanese contacts?

  CDG- Hello.

  BS- You're a hard woman to find.

  CDG- I prefer my privacy. Who are you?

  BS- An ally.

  CDG- An ally? In what? I can count my allies on one hand.

  BS- An ally who agrees with your vendetta against Peter DeLaCoeur.

  I'm tempted to close the window now and reset my router. It'll cost me Darcy's contract, and six thousand dollars because of it, but this person knows who I am. I'm reaching for the power button when Blue Sakura pops up again.

  BS- Please don't shut me off. I'm really not trying to expose you or hurt you. I messaged you to warn you.

  I pause, my finger hovering over my power button, and go back to my keyboard.

  CDG- About?

  BS- Nathan Black has found out where you live. He's passed along that information. You need to get out of there.

  CDG- If they want to come here, they can. Makes my job easier. Little messier, but a lot easier.

  BS- Please watch your back, in any case. You deserve closure.

  CDG- What do you know about closure?

  BS- You're not the only one who's lost a parent because of Peter DeLaCoeur. Be careful.

  The IRC window says that Blue Sakura has left the room, and I consider what just happened. Blue Sakura, huh? Makes sense... Andrea. That you found me at all online tells me that you've got some skills yourself. I run a backtrace on her IP and see that she's also using at least one signal relay, as the address says that Blue Sakura is currently on the Ross Ice Shelf, Antarctica. Doubtful at best.

  I could use my tools to continue running the backtrace, but I don't need to. It'd be easier just to get Andrea's phone number if I really want or need to contact her again. I've had access to that particular database for years. Instead, I go back to my workout, not letting myself get distracted. I've still got three hundred pushups to do, and then I'll go into my form training. Without a lot of partners, I have to keep my skills up as best I can, and that means lots and lots of mental imagery while I drill on poor substitutes for real people.

  I wonder if Andrea can be a resource? There are so many things I can't verify yet, the things that can really take my campaign against Peter DeLaCoeur from just harassment to putting him behind bars. Not that I want it to stop there, but it's a start. The dirty cops, the mob connections, the bodies dropped off in the swamps or somewhere in the Mississippi... if I can verify those, I can really put the pressure on him. Maybe not enough to get him into a court of law, but certainly enough that his allies would move to distance themselves. Without their support, the walls he's carefully built over the years would surely start to crumble. If I can take down enough of those walls, maybe I can get him out of his fortress.

  As I start my first set of fifty pushups, I think about the juiciest case I'd like to connect Peter to. He's no longer in office, but Dutch Landry is from one of the two biggest political families in this city. The Landrys and the Morrels have traded the mayor's office back and forth in five of the last six administrations. His son is currently on the city council and has a good shot of running for mayor himself in three years.

  But Dutch... Dutch Landry was the type of mayor loved by the press, and hated by the underclass. Virginia and Darcy showed me the evidence firsthand, but hell, I grew up seeing it often enough in Virginia's foster care. I saw the drugs, the street crime that was only checked when the police rolled through in paramilitary fashion. I saw classmates show up with wounds from both police and gang bullets, and I know that a lot of the guns were bought through Dutch Landry's connections. The drugs for sure came in with his authorization. Of course, someone had to arrange transport for all of that, and wouldn't you know, Peter DeLaCoeur knew some friends among the longshoremen who were willing to look the other way as the shipments flooded the Port of New Orleans.

  It's how Peter's stayed in business so long. He doesn't directly touch anything. Instead, he makes introductions, facilitates communication between interested parties, and collects his middleman's percentage regardless. He's the ultimate in one-stop criminal shopping. You want it, he knows a guy.

  He's completely crooked, but there's no hard evidence. His business dealings are done face to face with cash on the table most of the time, and the IRS thinks he gets his money through renting residential properties in the Lower Ninth Ward. Hell, in their estimation the man's a saint, owning so many Section 8 properties. He's not looking out for anyone but himself, though—he filters his money through those houses.

  Say you have a house that you're renting for a thousand dollars a month. Sometimes housing assistance provides full credit for rentals, and sometimes they only provide partial credit. Peter DeLaCoeur only rents to those with partial credit. The government gives him between three hundred and five hundred a month... and the rest of the thousand comes out of his illegal business. He makes friends with the IRS and HUD, who think his fifty houses are all rented out to families in need. Meanwhile, the families think he's renting to them cheap on the down low.

  He's just using those same poor families as a cover, since the funds he's filtering are in fact coming from the same drugs and guns that are killing the neighborhoods he owns. He makes even more profit from the Section 8 money. I have to admit, it's a smooth scam, but it's just one of half a dozen that he runs.

  If I could just prove it... maybe Andrea can help with that. It'd damage him more than just exposing an embarrassing affair. I don't know. In the meantime, I keep doing my pushups, even though my chest and shoulders are screaming at me at this point.

  Someone knocks on my door and I pull my right leg up, bounding to my feet. I approach the door slowly, since it's one of only two entrances to my loft. The other entrance is the old freight elevator that connects to the boxing gym downstairs. Unlike the door, I can control the elevator entrance fully.

  Next to the door is one of my home defense weapons. After all the years of martial arts training, you'd think that I'd have something exotic like sai or a wakizashi sword. Maybe a hundred years ago, but what I have instead is a Glock 18. They're highly illegal since they're fully automatic, but since I don't officially exist as far as the law's concerned, I'm not worried about illegally owning this gun. If I need to, I can fire all fifteen rounds through the door in less than a second, and whoever's unlucky enough to be on the other side is going to get turned into Swiss cheese.

  I pick up the Glock and flick the fire selector switch from safe to semi-auto, and look through my peephole. I really should invest in a higher tech security system, but it hasn't been a priority.

>   Whoever it is knocks again as I open the cover on my peephole, and my fingers go numb when I see who it is. I'm only dimly aware that I drop the cover on the peephole. Jackson?

  “Open the door please, Kat. I'm alone, and we need to talk.”

  “What are you doing here, Jackson?” I yell through the door. “Don't try and knock the thing down either, it's steel core.”

  Actually, my door isn't steel core, it's just a plain hollow metal door, but that's beside the point. If Jackson is alone, then just what the hell is he doing here?

  “Please Kat, open the door,” Jackson repeats. “It's just me... I want to talk, that's all. Come on Kat, it's been ten years. If our friendship meant anything to you... I just want to talk.”

  Against my better judgment, I lower my Glock for a moment and unlock the door, stepping back before raising my gun again. “It's open.”

  Chapter 8

  Jackson

  The first thing I see when I open the door to Kat's loft is the pistol pointed at my chest. Her hands are completely steady, and she keeps the gun solidly trained on me as I approach her. I don't know what type of pistol it is, except that it's not the same as Nathan's 1911, and that the whole damn thing is black.

  Next, I see Kat, sweat glistening on her skin as she stares at me with killer's eyes. She's wearing a dark gray sports bra and what looks like martial arts pants, plus a pair of black Nike Frees, and that's it. Her eyes flicker over my body for a moment before she jerks her head to the side, and I get the message. I go deeper inside her loft while she checks to make sure that I was telling the truth about being alone. She reaches out and jerks her door shut, throwing the bar lock that's at the top as soon as the door's closed.

  “How'd you find me?” she asks, spinning around. She's still got the gun pointed at my chest, and to be honest, it's pissing me off.

  “Think you can lower the fucking hand cannon first?” I ask, keeping my hands out. “Seriously, I know you're pissed at my family, but I'm unarmed and alone. And the longer you keep that thing pointed at me, the more you're pissing me off.”

  Kat considers it for a moment, then lowers her gun slowly, flicking a switch on the side and tucking it into the back of her pants. She smirks, and for a moment I see my old friend in her eyes. “Fine. Would you like a drink of water, Jackson?”

  “Uhhh... sure,” I mutter, caught off guard again. Seriously, she was just pointing a gun at me five seconds ago, and now she's asking if I want a drink. “Actually, beer if you've got it.”

  “I never touch alcohol except to treat wounds,” Kat says tersely as she passes by me. I reach out to grab her shoulders to get her to stop, but before I can even touch her she's grabbed my wrist and flipped me over her hip like I weigh nothing, sending me crashing to the floor. She twists my hand and my left arm is in immense pain, and twisted in ways I didn't think arms were supposed to go. Her gun's suddenly in her hand again, and the momentary friendliness in her eyes has completely vanished, replaced by the look of a stone-cold killer. “And I have a thing about personal space. As in... don't try and breach mine.”

  “Goddammit Kat, I'm not your enemy!” I hiss. She steps back and puts her pistol down on a small table. I glance at it, then see her eyes. The message is clear. I reach for it, and regardless of what I might say, I'm leaving this room in a body bag.

  Instead, I roll away and get to my feet, shaking my wrist. “Where the fuck did you learn that?”

  “Tamura-sensei,” Kat says simply. “I learned from him after my foster mother got done teaching me what she knew. He taught me aikijujutsu.”

  I look around and really look at the loft that Kat's living in. To be honest, calling it Spartan would be an insult to the Spartans. Her bed looks like it's some kind of reject from a military surplus store with only a thin mattress on top of the cheap metal frame. My eyes drift over to a cheap Formica dresser that looks like it doubles as one of her tables, then to a couple of wooden folding chairs. Her kitchen... well, I've seen office break rooms better equipped. A hotplate, a mini fridge, a cheap sink with a single cupboard above it... I don't even see a shower, although most of the loft is dimly lit, so I guess it could be on the far side of this huge space. “Love the decoration style. What do you call it? Goodwill Chic? Haute Homeless?”

  “I call it functional,” she replies, coming around and pulling two jelly jars down from the cupboard and running the water until it's obviously cool to her touch before she fills them both up. “Vengeance isn't a well-paying job.”

  “Yeah, about that,” I say, sitting down in the folding chair that looks slightly stronger than the other. I notice that she's got a computer in the corner on a table that looks strong, if a little cheap. Like one of those all-plastic office desks you can get at Wal-Mart for about thirty bucks. The computer, though... damn. I don't know a lot about computers, but any computer that's running an actual antifreeze-based cooling system and pump has to be some serious shit.

  “You use that thing to help set up your little stunt on me?” I ask, taking a sip. The water's not the greatest I've ever tasted, since it's unfiltered city water, but at least it's cool. “That shit'll give you cancer.”

  “Not worried about cancer,” Kat says, taking a seat in the other chair. I get a better look at her, and my cock twitches in my slacks again. Jesus, she's fucking sexy when she's angry. Her eyes are sparkling with an inner fire, and the way her body's put together, she's built like a cat, all feminine curves and deadly sleekness.

  “You... Katrina, what the hell were you doing, pulling that stunt in the limo? I mean, in the past few days, I've learned a lot about why you might want to be pissed at Pops, but why'd you have to do that to me?”

  “You think what you've been through the past few days is hard?” Kat spits, angry again. “You didn't have to go through what I did! Try three foster homes in six months! You try finding out that your best friend's father ordered the car bomb that blew up your parents! You try watching as your parents are turned into a fucking fireball!”

  She's on her feet, yelling at me, her chest heaving and her forearms bunched. I'm kinda glad she left her glass on the floor by her feet. I think she might be able to crush that jar in her fist the way her muscles are flexing. My cock twitches again, but I tell it to shut the fuck up. I'm pissed off too, and I'm on my feet before I know it. “That doesn't mean you go and humiliate me! Hell, I barely talked Nathan out of killing you and giving me your address instead!”

  “Killing me? I don't fucking care if I die,” Kat responds, stepping back and turning around. “If I can take down your father, I don't care if my next home is six feet under. After what I've been through the past ten years, death would be a vacation.”

  Her words chill me to the bone, and my anger dissolves, at least temporarily. Instead, I back up, away from the chair. “Kat... Katrina. Whatever you want to be called right now. Tell me what you know.”

  She turns back around, and I see a hint of humanity in her face, and not just the enraged warrior I'd been looking at most of the time since I walked in the door. “You really want to know?”

  I nod and sit down on the wood floor. “Yeah, I do. If it makes you feel better about it, you can get your gun and keep it on me. For the first time in my life, I want to know the truth.”

  After a moment, Kat nods and comes over close to me before sitting down. The way she sits hikes up one of the legs of her martial arts pants, and her calf is just a foot away from my hand. It's defined, and perfect, and oh my holy God so sexy. I start to reach out, but stop. Kat notices, and gives me a little nod of appreciation for my restraint. “So what do you want to know?”

  “Why didn't you reach out to me before? All I knew was that you'd left school, and that one day you just dropped off the face of the earth. I didn't even know your parents were dead until months later.”

  “Probably had your head buried in that '67 Corvette model we were working on,” Kat says with a little smile. “We'd what, gotten the engine block completed toget
her?”

  “And the tires,” I added. “We'd just finished the hubs the day before you disappeared. I never did finish that kit. I did a little of the framework, but after you left school... I just never wanted to finish it. It wasn't any fun anymore. I think it got thrown away maybe six months later or so.”

  “Shame, it was a nice kit,” Kat muses, then sighs. “But you asked what I went through. Well, at first I was pretty fucked up, it's the only way to describe it. The first foster home... to be honest, I don't remember much of it. I was going through a lot of shit back then, but I do remember them trying to hit me. I hit back and ended up right back in the orphanage with a broken arm. The second home, well, they were nice, but way too old, and they didn't know how to deal with my anger. You see by then I'd started to hear the rumors, a lot of the older kids at the orphanage were running in gangs pretty much, and word on the street was my parents were killed by a car bomb, and it was your father who ordered it. I wasn't sure though for a few years after that, but I had a name. Still, I was too angry, and took advantage of them. I lasted a month with them before they sent me back after I slapped the woman. Then they sent me to Virginia... she was my first real teacher.”

  “And what did she teach you?”

  “Quite a few things. Krav Maga at first, then later on, she hooked me up with people who could supplement my education. I spent more time on my real education than I did on my high school education, not that it mattered. When I was sixteen I took my GED and said farewell to public education. Actually scored a ninety-nine percentage overall. I spent the next five years doing my real training.”

  “Ten years... well, I guess nine if you account for the time before you met this Virginia... all to do what?” I ask, caught up in her face. My body remembers the feeling of her in my arms, the way she caressed my body, the feeling that shot through me. “And what did you do to me in the limo?”