“China,” he said, echoing her thoughts.
She wasn’t so easily convinced. It could be a false lead. A trap. A way to force attention in one direction when the real enemy was somewhere else. “But―”
“But?”
“There are too many inconsistencies.”
“Your assessment?”
“The only one that ever makes any sense.”
“Russia.” He stopped his ambling strides, focused his eyes on a distant point, and weighed everything she told him. “You’re sure about this?”
As sure as she could be, but she’d been wrong before. Shrugging, she said, “It makes the most sense.”
“Have you told anybody else about this?”
“Only you.”
“Keep it that way. I want a full report on my desk first thing Monday morning.” He started to walk off. “And take off early. You deserve it.”
She wasn’t sure whether she heard him correctly. “Please repeat. I want to hear that again.”
He strode back, lifted her chin with the crook of his index finger, and looked unblinkingly into her eyes. “Just don’t tell anyone what a nice guy I am.”
“You? A nice guy?”
And he was gone, practically tap dancing down the corridor.
3
Fairfax County, Virginia
Friday, July 25
JACK LAY SPRAWLED on a bed in a cheap motel room. The entry door led straight to the parking lot. Two small windows glowed blood-orange every time the roadside sign flashed MOTEL! WELCOME! The sparse accommodations must have entertained countless couples renting the room by the hour, usually at midnight when both were drunk or stoned or both.
The constant drone of motorcycles, semitrailers, and passenger vehicles rumbling down the highway were reminders of his aloneness in a world gone mad. While the clanking hum of the window air conditioner blotted out most outside noises, it didn’t stop the replays of a woman minding her own business one moment, and the next, being smashed to a pulp by the tonnage of a train rolling down the tracks.
The force of the body slam knocking him senseless for those few seconds did more damage than he realized. Surprise and shock must have intervened, his central nervous system having poured massive quantities of neuro-endogenous morphine into his bloodstream, allowing him to act and think and get the hell out of there. He must have landed on his left side. Multiple abrasions and contusions were left behind along with a pounding headache. He could have a concussion, but going to the emergency room was out of the question. He would sooner croak than risk going back to jail. Then again, dying alone is a terrible prospect. Who would he say goodbye to?
Jack had been taught by a sensei at a storefront dojo that it was indispensable for a man to be terrified every now and then, if only to sharpen his skills and strengthen his reaction times. Someone should have told the dumbass he was full of shit.
He turned on the TV and flipped through local news channels. If it bleeds, it leads. The train accident had become the lead story of every fifteen-minute news cycle. Reports alternately described the woman’s death as a tragic accident, a suicide, a domestic squabble, a mugging, or a deliberate attack. The victim’s name was being withheld pending notification of family. Two men were being sought as persons of interest, neither identified, bulletins breaking when more details became available.
Life, he decided, is a sequence of pretty dreams interspersed with cruel realities.
He reflected on the killer. There was something odd about his appearance, as if he had dressed up for a night of trick-or-treating at the local mall. Hair, baseball cap, sunglasses, windbreaker, backpack, the costume of a psychopath, everything cobbled together in haphazard fashion, a little of this and a little of that, the overall effect appearing quite ordinary, yet slightly off and suggestive of a disguise. Jack made certain assumptions. The blond hair had an artificial look about it, signifying a wig. The baseball cap kept the wig in place. The stiff bill of the cap shielded the top portion of his face. The aviator glasses hid his eyes.
It had grown darker outside. A storm was brewing. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Lightning flashed. The flickering motel sign ignited the ceiling and walls at regular intervals, matching his pulse. He strained to his feet, limped over to the windows, and peered outside. Lodgers came and went. Vehicles pulled in and out of the parking lot. Conversation and laughter intermingled. Everything appeared normal. Placid, even.
In the quiet of this room, in its neon glare and insular darkness, fear can destroy a man.
He drew together the ragged curtains and turned on the bedside lamp. Cooking smells wafting from the diner had given him an appetite. He didn’t think he could eat but went out anyway, gambling on beating the rains. He limped across the highway, ordered the house special, carried the greasy takeout bag back to his room, and ate like a warrior after battle. Steak sub, tossed salad, oven fries, apple pie, and two beers to wash everything down. Basic but filling. He set the leavings aside and eased himself back into bed, using his good elbow as leverage, and moaning pitifully as he lowered himself against stacked pillows. He was a bruised and broken man, but alive. Not like that poor lady whose luck had run out.
His mind went back to her cold-blooded killer. His constant grin had taunted Jack. Purposefully. Knowingly. Gleefully. The windbreaker was two sizes too big for his frame, hiding his physique, diminishing his true strength, and making him appear relatively harmless. He weighed about a hundred and eighty, impressive for his frame and height, yet still limber and agile. Jack wasn’t in his best shape, but he wasn’t a slacker either. He held a membership at a local gym and regularly worked out with a trainer. But the killer? He followed a daily workout of bench presses, a minimum of ten reps by three, followed by the same number of chin-ups and push-ups, everything capped off with an easy ten-mile run before showering. Jack could attest to his punishing strength and the ease with which he could toss around an average woman or a physically fit man. Had they met before? Jack didn’t think so, but there was something familiar about him, something he couldn’t quite place. Or remember.
Thunder and lightning moved in, turning daytime into nighttime.
He remembered the horrifying moment when the woman was propelled to her death. Her terrified face, flailing limbs, ululating cries, and the thudding impact when the train struck her, smashing bone, muscle, and sinew. Was there blood? He didn’t remember. Had there enough time for her to see her life flash before her eyes or was it over in an instant of fear and confusion?
Then there was the killer. Always the killer. What did he want? Why was he following him? And why did he kill the woman? Only three logical conclusions came to mind. To teach Jack a lesson. To warn him this could happen to him. And to tell him more innocents could lose their lives if he didn’t go quietly away. Yessiree Bob, chalk up one more wanton murder of an innocent woman, this time in broad daylight with a hundred eyewitnesses and closed-circuit security cameras posted every ten yards. Smile, Coyote. Smile for the good people.
The heavens unloosed a downpour. The rains slapped the pavement, pounded the roof, and sluiced down the gutters. Eventually his eyes drifted close, but his sleeping dreams weren’t any better than his waking nightmares. He was moving through a fog of sluggish furtiveness, blind to the dangers lurking just ahead but mindful of being watched. A yellow kitten with glowing green eyes bared her claws and scratched him the length of both cheeks, drawing streaks of weeping blood. A gorilla with hallucinogenic eyes grinned down at him, thumped his chest, stamped his feet, chattered and grunted and screeched, and cried a deafening, “Ooh-ooh-ooh eee-eee-eee aah-aah-aah!” A black dog with a snarling muzzle and dripping teeth yipped and snarled and strained at his leash. A psychic wearing flowing silks and glittering rings gazed into a crystal ball and predicted the future, but though she spoke slowly, no audible words came from her mouth, only a black tongue slipping between black lips.
He jolted awake. It was still raining. The neon glare penetrated the cu
rtains and turned the motel room a putrid orange. He sat up with effort. Put his bare toes onto the worn carpet. Rubbed the back of his neck, palmed away sweat, and shut his eyes against the pounding in his head. He took a steadying breath. Strained to his feet. Padded into the bathroom. Turned on the light. Stared at his emaciated face in the warped mirror. Took a leak. Splashed cold water onto his face. Swallowed a handful of aspirin. Padded back to bed. Sat on the edge. Waited for the cheerless room to stop spinning. And gently lowered himself into the prone position of a dead man awaiting judgment day.
4
Annapolis, Maryland
Friday, July 25
LIZ LANGDON STARED vacantly through gray-tinted picture windows at a charcoal sky in a steely town, and lost track of time. She had taken a break from staring at a computer monitor filled with meaningless words and disjointed numbers. Nothing made sense anymore.
Her job as head of the Domestic Intelligence Unit at the Homeland Intelligence Division—also known as HID, or the Firm—likewise made no sense. Ironic, since only last month, she was a dynamo, serving her country with unbridled enthusiasm at the prospect of making a difference, however small, in a large and increasingly dangerous world. Her career had been coursing along a trajectory pointing straight to the top. She had curried the favors of countless political allies, many at the highest levels in government. They depended on her, often tested her, sometimes revered her. She came through every time. She was a force to be reckoned with.
That was gone now. Her work had been reduced to an exercise in futility. Colleagues whispered behind her back. Management doubted her abilities and suspected her loyalty. Never again could she be trusted. In their eyes, she had become a traitor to the cause, as guilty as the man who once worked for her: Jack Coyote.
As a mid-level manager, her assigned cubicle was positioned at the periphery of a sprawling bullpen of soft-sided half walls. The floor-to-ceiling windows flanking her back was a privilege she had earned, and no small prize. She only had to swivel her chair around to enter a brief meditative state. Even if the view was anything but spectacular—consisting of squat office buildings, stunted parking garages, and smoggy horizons broken up by distant skyscrapers—the scenery provided a vital connection to time and place. Most importantly, it took her out of herself and her worries, worries that of late had become impossible to deal with.
Ever since Jack had been released on a technicality for the murder of their colleague, the halls had been buzzing with speculation. Would he be exonerated? Or would justice inevitably catch up to him? Everyone was betting on the latter, gleefully, with teeth bared and venom dripping. Either way, his fate was sealed. Hers was, too, since it wouldn’t matter whether the mob at the gates got the spectacle they came for or not. She had been the one to hire him. In their eyes, she was just as guilty of what happened to Milly as he was.
There was no upside in placing the blame on anyone else for bringing him in. On balance, the initiative was an important one: to track down security breaches affecting several high-profile agencies who worked closely with HID. Jack was the best man for the job. She knew that better than anybody, and she wasn’t about to let personal considerations get in the way. And anyway, others more influential had urged her to hire him. Janey Matheson, deputy director of HID’s Research Bureau, for one. Sam Soderberg, Under Secretary of Political Affairs at the State Department, for another. But Liz was the one who signed off.
When people undergo the unthinkable—an accident, a medical diagnosis, a death in the family—they enter a state of numbing shock. The mind shuts off so the body can function. This is how it had been for her since Jack called her that morning, mumbling something about Milly, making no sense. In the hours that followed, she did what must be done, moving through the drill on automatic pilot. When the day ended, she realized that worry and dread and panic had fled, only to be replaced by a lack of emotion and an absence of grief. It had gone on for days, these feelings of emptiness. Soon, in a day or a week or a month, she reasoned, everything would balance out, making her whole once again. It hadn’t. She had become cold and displaced, an empty vessel with nothing to her. All that remained was a pencil sketch of her likeness.
When next she looked at the clock, thirty minutes had ticked by. And still she sat, staring through grayed-out windows. The sky billowed with thunderclouds. Gloom ushered in the close of yet another long week and the culmination of probably the most turbulent three weeks she had ever experienced. As was her habit, she was working diligently inside her semiprivate cubicle on a Friday afternoon when nearly everyone else had sneaked out. This was her quiet time, a chance to cap off the week without interruption and plan next week’s agenda. Only after putting everything in order could she leave the office with a clear conscience. But who was she kidding? Nobody. Not even herself. Any pretense of life as usual had gone by the wayside.
A few days ago, following the adjournment of yet another meeting on the Coyote Situation, as it was glibly referred to, the deputy director of the Special Collections Bureau caught up with her. Neville Brandon made a point of complimenting her. Told her what a hard-working lady she was. Approved of the way she was handling herself. Assured her of a bright future with the agency. “This latest thing with Coyote … not your fault. If there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know.”
He had already hurried halfway down the hall when she spoke up. “About Harry ….”
On the same night Jack was presumed to have murdered Milly, Harry Tobias went missing. He planned to pick up his wife at their suburban home, take her to the garage where her car was being serviced, and join the Fourth of July celebrations at Club Seven. He never arrived and was still missing in action. Everyone at the agency surmised it was a kidnapping, for what purpose or by which side, no one dared guess. A select few might know full well what happened to him but weren’t speaking. The official stance was that Harry was on a special mission, date of return unknown.
Brandon had stopped and twisted around, his eyebrows shooting up. She hadn’t had many dealings with him and always thought of him as a rabid dog who would go for the throat given the slightest provocation. From what she heard, his bite was much worse than his bark. “You think there’s more than meets the eye.” It wasn’t a question … closer to an admission.
Liz angled her head but didn’t let his keen stare unnerve her. “As a matter of fact. Yes.”
He checked his watch. “We’ll have to put this off to another time.” She hadn’t heard from him since.
Ever since that Fourth of July weekend, the halls of the Homeland Intelligence Division had been in disarray. No one could trust the person sitting on their left or their right. Certainly no one would ever again believe in a gentle god, Liz least of all. The staff needed clarity. Senior management remained silent and insular, huddling behind closed doors and whispering in corners. Whatever they knew, whatever they were deciding, whatever actions they planned to take or had already taken were closely guarded secrets. Questions remained. No answers were forthcoming. But the human equation couldn’t be ignored. Whatever happened that night had been a clarion call. If tragedy could come for Milly and Harry, no one was immune.
And the man who put the agency in the limelight? The man whose name had become a curse word? Free or not, Jack Coyote was still under suspicion. His temporary reprieve aside, eventually he would have his day in court, found guilty by a jury of his peers, and transported directly to a penitentiary, never to be heard from again.
Memories would fade. But not for Liz. For her, what happened to three good people was personal. Extremely personal. With a sudden clarity, she saw what her life had become, and more importantly, what it should be. She swiveled her chair around, opened a blank document on the computer screen, and began to type. It only took a few minutes to write two paragraphs, both concise. She clicked, saved, and printed the document, and after reading it over, signed and dated it. She was about to put it on her boss’s desk when footsteps approached.
Smiling up at him, she smoothly flipped the document over. “Not particularly.” And with a welcoming sweep of her hand, indicated a nearby chair.
5
Fairfax County, Virginia
Friday, July 25
JACK AWOKE WITH a start. It took a while for him to remember where he was. And why.
He was hiding out in a squalid motel room at the outskirts of town. It was the last Friday of a steamy July. He was a man wrongfully accused and on the run. And he was recovering from injuries inflicted on him by a psychopath.
The neon tubes of the roadside sign flashed on and off, the eerie glow penetrating the curtains. He reached for the remote, clicked on the television, and flipped through local channels. News about the accident victim in the train station was still running in soundbites and sensational segments, each account sanitized compared to the real-life tragedy. The incident had escalated from an accident to an act of terrorism. One eyewitness reported that a man wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap had deliberately pushed her onto the train tracks. Then they broke for weather.
Jack painfully sat up and ran a hand through his hair, wet with sweat. He indulged in a long hot stinging shower and dried off with the sole frayed towel hanging on the tarnished rack. He crawled back into bed, dampness escaping like steam from his pores and prickling the skin of his bruised and battered body. The man who attacked him had meted out more damage than Jack first grasped. He needed a week, two weeks to mend. He only had a few hours to push through the hurt and get his body working again.
He ran his eyes around the room. When a man is alone, every room is a lonely room.
Cyber Warfare (INTERCEPT: A Jack Coyote Thriller Book 2) Page 3
