by S. E. Smith
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to get myself killed—at least not on purpose. Besides, I wasn’t planning on going out again tonight. I’ve got things to work on,” she muttered.
“Things that are dangerous. Things that will get you hurt! I had plans to return to my world,” he said.
The spoon in her hand paused mid-level, and she looked at him with a startled expression before she lowered her eyes. His heart was in his throat as he waited for her response, and he almost winced when it came.
“No one’s stopping you,” she mumbled.
He ground his teeth together when she continued to eat. “With you,” he added.
She shook her head. “Not happening. I told you, I’ve got things to do,” she responded.
“Amelia…,” he growled.
“Runt! I told you that my name is Runt now,” she snapped, glaring at him.
He placed his spoon in his bowl, reached across the table, and gripped her hand. His expression softened when he saw a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. She tried to pull her hand free at first, but stopped when she realized he wasn’t going to use his grip to pull her from her seat, he just wanted to hold her hand. The tension in her body melted and she sighed deeply.
“Why is it so important that you stay here? Can’t Avery and Cosmos take care of finding this man you are searching for?” Derik asked.
She shook her head and looked down at her soup. He tenderly stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. Her hand trembled and she looked up at him again.
“They can’t. It’s… personal,” she whispered.
There was a moment of silence before he breathed a long, audible sigh and squeezed her fingers. He released her hand and shot her a crooked smile.
“In that case, what can I do to help you then?” he asked.
A flash of uncertainty crossed her face before she gave him a tentative smile. He sat back in his seat and picked up his spoon again. He loved the way her face lit up.
“Let me think about it and I’ll let you know,” she replied.
Chapter Twelve
Suburb of Washington, D.C.
* * *
A brief knock on the door drew Afon’s, aka Aaron Dolan’s, attention from the report he’d been reading. He gave permission to enter and looked up when the door opened. His head of security stood in the doorway.
“What is it, Marcelo?” Afon asked.
“Mr. DiMaggio is here to see you,” Marcelo replied.
Afon clenched his jaw in irritation. While he had never done business with the man, Afon knew of him. His whole life had once revolved around men of DiMaggio’s stature. The question was—why was the man in his home?
“Show him in,” Afon calmly ordered.
“Yes, sir,” Marcelo said.
Afon rose from his seat and walked over to the window that had a view of America’s capital. He’d carefully chosen each of his residences around the world. Here, he was near the powerful men he wanted to keep an eye on and he had the ability to use them if necessary to protect his new identity. In fact, the papers in his hands were one of his insurance policies.
Afon turned when Marcelo briefly knocked on the door again to warn him that he was about to have company. He critically observed the large, nervous man who entered the room.
“Mr. Dolan, sir,” Ramon greeted.
Afon looked over DiMaggio’s shoulder to Marcelo and gave his security chief a brief nod, then waited until Marcelo quietly exited the room, shutting the door behind him, before he walked over to replace the report in the folder lying open on his desk. He closed the cover, and motioned for DiMaggio to sit in the plush leather chair across from him.
The bulky man hurried over to the chair, wafting scents of cigar smoke and sweat as he came closer. He sat with a huff, clearly relieved to get off his feet. Distaste and irritation filled Afon when the smell caused a slight burning sensation in his sinuses.
“What brings you to my home, Mr. DiMaggio?” Afon asked, sinking into his own chair after his guest was seated.
DiMaggio swallowed several times before he reached inside his sport coat. Afon stiffened, then relaxed when the man pulled out a white handkerchief and mopped at his sweaty brow.
“Yes, well… I hate to bother you, Mr. Dolan, but I felt like I should be the one… I’m here as a professional courtesy. One good turn deserves another… or so they say,” Ramon stammered with a strained smile.
Afon formed a steeple with his fingers. Impatience flared inside him when DiMaggio did not continue. The man appeared to be having difficulty speaking.
“Would you care for a glass of water?” he dryly asked.
“Yes…. Water… would be nice,” Ramon hoarsely agreed.
Afon reached under his desk and pressed a button. In seconds, Marcelo appeared. He had one hand on the door and the other behind his back. Afon signaled Marcelo to put his gun away.
“Please have a carafe of water and a glass brought in for my guest,” he ordered.
Marcelo raised an eyebrow, but he tucked his gun back into the low-back holster underneath his jacket and nodded. “Anything else, sir?” he inquired.
Afon looked at DiMaggio, who was mopping his brow again. “No, I believe that will be all,” he replied.
“I’ll have one of the kitchen staff deliver it,” Marcelo said.
Afon studied DiMaggio as they waited for the water to arrive. Less than five minutes later, a middle-aged woman entered the room, pushing a cart with a clear carafe of water and two glasses. Small slices of lemon, lime, and oranges floated in the chilled liquid.
The blonde staff member poured water into the glass and handed it to DiMaggio. DiMaggio took the offered glass and drained it in one long gulp. He held the empty glass out for a refill. The woman glanced at Afon, and he motioned for her to refill DiMaggio’s glass.
“That will be all, thank you,” he dryly stated.
“Yes, sir,” the woman replied.
She left the cart in the room, and Afon once again waited until the door was closed before he leaned forward and stared intently at the man who was draining his second glass of water. He pursed his lips when DiMaggio refilled the glass again. The man’s hands shook as he replaced the carafe on the serving cart.
“I want to know why you are here,” he demanded.
DiMaggio’s gaze locked with his, and Afon let the man see that he was growing impatient. DiMaggio nodded and placed the glass on the tray.
“There’s a hack named Runt. She’s trouble. I should have taken care of her years ago, but she’s smart—not like other hacks. She can do things others have only dreamed about,” DiMaggio explained in a rushed voice.
“What does this have to do with me?” Afon demanded.
DiMaggio reached up and pulled on the collar of his dress shirt to get more air against his heated skin. “She broke into my computer tonight. She—and she took something from me. She wasn’t alone either. There was this—well, I don’t know what he was. He looked human, but he wasn’t. Runt called him an alien vampire. He moved too fast to be human and his mouth…,” he muttered.
Afon tensed. He glanced at the folder on his desk before he returned his focus to DiMaggio’s face. The man was draining another glass of water.
“I want to know everything that happened—and, Mr. DiMaggio…” Afon waited for DiMaggio to look at him before he continued. “Do not lie. Do not leave anything out.”
DiMaggio slowly nodded and lowered his glass. “Yes, sir. I have a business… a very successful one. I… provide security and financial loans among other things,” he said.
“I am well aware of the nature of your business. I want to know how our paths interconnect,” Afon demanded.
“I recently acquired a file from a friend of a friend. Your name may have been mentioned during the exchange,” DiMaggio reluctantly admitted.
Afon sat back in his chair. “Why?” he bluntly asked.
“You see, I was hoping we could do business in the future. I
haven’t exactly had much luck opening the file yet, but I was hoping that it might contain some useful information, if you know what I mean,” DiMaggio explained.
“Oh, I know exactly what you mean. Tell me about this hacker,” Afon instructed.
DiMaggio gave him a weak smile. “So, this hacker—they call her Runt because she’s always been small for her age—she stole some money from me a couple of years ago. It caused me a lot of headaches ‘cause the money wasn’t exactly mine. She disappeared, and I’ve been looking for her ever since. Well, tonight, one of my men saw her and brought her to me so we could have a bit of a talk,” he said.
“And did you… have a talk?” Afon asked.
DiMaggio’s nervous countenance became frustrated. “The conniving little bitch gave my money to charity! Charity! She gave over five million dollars to feed some homeless animals!” he exclaimed.
Afon would have been amused if it hadn’t been for the seriousness of the situation. He did feel a slight interest in this tiny young woman who had stolen from DiMaggio. He couldn’t remember ever meeting a hacker with a conscience.
“A noble cause, I’m sure. What I want to know is what was on the file that contained my name,” he responded.
“I don’t know. Howard, my tech guy, wasn’t able to open the file. The man that originally had it—well, let’s just say he forgot to give anyone the password before his accident. Howard was working on the file before the girl came and now it’s gone—disappeared,” DiMaggio finished.
Afon watched the man nervously rotate the glass in his hands for a moment. Irritation flared inside him at DiMaggio’s ineptness. He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, needing to put some distance between him and the stench of the man sitting across from him. He walked around his desk and made his way to his favorite window. There was just something about seeing the capital from this height that gave a man perspective. He turned to face DiMaggio at his leisure. DiMaggio was growing more nervous by the second.
“Who gave you this file?” he quietly asked.
“He’s called Bobby the Blade—‘cause he’s good with a knife, you know. Bobby said a fella named Digs gave him some old stuff. He found the thumb drive in an envelope that was stuffed inside one of the cases the guy gave him. Bobby was going to ask Digs about it, but we think the guy who gave Digs the stuff died a few months back,” Ramon replied.
“The man who died—what was his name?” Afon impatiently demanded.
DiMaggio’s brow creased. “Digs doesn’t give out info like that—all his sources are hush-hush, you know—but Bobby was able to do enough digging around. He thinks it may have belonged to a man named Wright—he isn’t sure what the guy’s first name was. Things got difficult and he told me he couldn’t help me no more. That’s when I hired this smart-ass college kid, only he ain’t as smart as Runt,” he added.
“You no longer have this file, you said? The hacker, Runt, has it now?” Afon questioned, carefully scrutinizing DiMaggio’s expression.
“No, sir, I don’t have it, but Runt probably does. Like I said, that girl ain’t right in the head, givin’ away five million to a bunch of homeless dogs and cats. If anyone can open that file, she can, and then heaven only knows what she’ll do with it,” DiMaggio swore.
DiMaggio carefully placed his glass on the cart, the clink of glass against metal emphasizing the finality of his point, and he heaved himself out of the chair. Afon walked over to the man and stopped less than a foot from him. DiMaggio moved uneasily from one foot to the other.
“Let me be very clear about this, Mr. DiMaggio. I don’t like people who try to stick their noses in my business. I suggest for the sake of your health that you remember that when you leave here,” Afon quietly stated.
“Yes… yes, sir, Mr. Dolan,” Ramon hoarsely replied.
“Do you have another name for the girl?” Afon asked.
“Yes… Her dad did business with me. He called her Amelia—Amelia Thomas. If you find her—well, I wouldn’t be upset if you were to pass on the information to me. The two of us have some unfinished business that I’d like to take care of,” Ramon said.
“It is time for you to leave, Mr. DiMaggio,” Afon coldly stated.
He moved back to his desk and pressed the button for Marcelo. A second later, the door silently swung open. Marcelo looked from DiMaggio to him.
“Escort Mr. DiMaggio off my property,” Afon ordered.
“Yes, sir,” Marcelo replied, stepping aside and holding the door open wider.
DiMaggio’s lips parted in protest, but he remained silent as he quietly turned and walked to the door. He paused and looked back at Afon with a determined glint in his eyes.
“There’s one more thing you might want to know about the girl,” Ramon said.
“What is that, Mr. DiMaggio?” Afon inquired in an icy tone.
“She ain’t working alone. Besides that alien creature with her, she’s working for a man named Cosmos Raines. He might even be the reason that alien vampire creature is here. Something just don’t feel right about Raines and his company,” Ramon said.
Chapter Thirteen
“How is it going?” Derik asked.
Runt looked up and blinked at him, her gaze unfocused. It took a moment for her brain to disconnect from the encryption code that she was unraveling and reconnect with the world around her. She glanced at the clock on her screen and realized that she had been working for nearly two and a half hours without a break.
She swiped the holographic image off the computer screen and turned her gaze to the steaming mug in his hand. She wiggled her nose and sniffed the air, her eyes lighting up with delight when the delicious aroma of chocolate teased her senses.
“Is that for me?” she asked in a hopeful voice.
“Yes. I forgot that your replicator does not truly replicate, it only warms your food and beverages, so it took me a few tries before I understood how it worked,” he said with a wry grin.
Runt frowned. “Replicator… Oh, you mean the microwave! There is a replicator in the kitchen. It’s behind the pantry door, I think. I forgot all about it. Cosmos and Terra installed replicators in the apartments at CRI last year, too. Avery was worried at first about bringing too much alien tech to Earth, but RITA convinced her that it would give Rose, Trudy, Maria, and me better meals since we tend to forget to eat when we are working. I still haven’t used mine there yet,” she confessed, taking the cup from him.
“Why not? They are very easy to use. All it takes is a simple voice command, and if the product is programmed into the memory, it will create the food or beverage for you,” he explained.
“I know, it’s just…,” she replied with a sigh.
“Just what…?” he asked.
She scooted over on the couch when he sat down next to her, and took a sip of the chocolate before she answered him. The hot chocolate warmed her stomach, but Derik was causing a different kind of heat inside her. She could feel his thigh pressed against hers through the material of her jeans, and she liked it—a lot!
Her reaction to him made her feel edgy, off-centered, and just a little bit self-conscious that he might be able to sense what she was feeling. She tried to ignore her reaction and focus on what they were talking about.
Replicators and food are good, neutral topics, she reassured herself.
She released a soft sigh. “I don’t know—it just feels like cheating,” she finally confessed.
“Cheating?” he curiously repeated.
She shifted slightly, trying to put some space between them. It didn’t help. He immediately moved his leg until it was touching hers again.
“Yeah, you know—there’s no work involved in making what you want, so you don’t appreciate it as much. You just say I want this and it appears,” she mumbled.
“Why should there be work? The replicator is supposed to take away the difficulty and time needed to make a meal so that you can focus on more important things,” he stated.
Runt l
ooked down at the mug of hot chocolate cupped in her hands. Memories of her mom, slowly stirring milk into a pot of melted chocolate, filled her mind. She remembered standing on one of the worn kitchen chairs, waiting with anticipation. Her mom would hand her the wooden spoon, stand behind her with her arms wrapped protectively around her waist, her chin touching her shoulder, and quietly instruct her on how to stir the mixture until it was perfect.
Their meals were often simple—a grilled cheese sandwich, gooey peanut butter and banana on warm toast, a can of chicken noodle soup like they’d had for dinner tonight, or her favorite—making cookies from scratch. How could a replicator ever capture those kinds of memories?
“Sometimes making things is important,” she quietly replied.
“What happened—to the woman you are thinking of?” he asked.
Startled, she locked gazes with him, then lowered the mug to her lap as she stared back at him without blinking. She didn’t talk about that, not ever, but this time….
“They wanted me,” she said, surprising herself.
“Who wanted you?” he asked.
“DiMaggio, this badass Russian mobster Boris Avilov, the government, my father—anyone, really, who thought I could be of use to them, even Cosmos and Avery if you think about it. I was—am—different.… I ‘see’ computer code as if it’s alive and talking to me. When I am in the code, I can travel anywhere, do anything, be… anything,” she awkwardly tried to explain.
“I know what you mean,” he said with a nod.
Surprise swept through her. “You do?”
“Yes. When RITA appears, her code is very pronounced. The code is….,” he paused, trying to think of how to explain it.
“… beautiful. It is constantly changing,” she excitedly answered.
“Yes, and very complex—the dynamics of her algorithms are the most advanced I’ve ever seen,” he replied with a nod.
“Then, you see it, too? You see the lines of code streaming,” she breathed with growing eagerness.
