The Kill Order

by Robin Burcell

  “I know.”

  His response seemed to surprise her, as if maybe she’d expected him to deny it. “You mean you were supposed to . . . ?”

  He refused to answer. There were so many variables, so many things he couldn’t even begin to explain right now.

  “I asked you a question. Were you supposed to kill me?”

  “It’s not as cut and dried as ‘supposed to.’ ”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. A kill order? Why would you keep something like that from me?”

  “I’m sorry. I—”

  “No.” She shook her head and backed away. “You don’t get to apologize like it’s some minor transgression. You shot at me. And you kept it a secret. How the hell am I supposed to believe that anything we have together—had—is even real?”

  “It is—”

  She closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around herself. “Why are you even telling me now? Here? In the middle of a parking lot? It’s not like there weren’t plenty of opportunities.”

  “You wouldn’t answer your phone.”

  “Oh. You were going to tell me on the phone? That’s rich. Because I have nothing to say to you. It’s January. Or did that escape your notice? And this happened when? Last October?”

  “Syd . . .”

  “I don’t want to hear it right now.” The bottom of her eyelids glistened and he knew she was having a difficult time keeping it together.

  She turned away, started to walk off.

  “Syd.”

  She stopped, rounded on him, an anger like he’d never seen lighting her eyes. “No. I knew you were involved. That ATLAS was involved. I guessed that much, after Carillo called. The whole timing thing with the murder over there and Tex showing up at his place. But not this. This I never expected.”

  “At least let me explain.”

  “I think the time for that is long past.” She looked like she might walk off, but stopped, suddenly. “Are you responsible for tearing up my apartment? Couldn’t find the list at Carillo’s place?”

  “What? No. I—”

  “Go to hell.”

  She turned away, walked toward the apartment building. When she stopped at the doors, hesitated, he thought she might return, talk to him. But she merely reached up, brushed at her eyes, apparently composing herself before entering. She never looked back.

  12

  The meeting at ATLAS the following morning dragged on for far longer than Griffin had hoped. As McNiel spoke, going over possible actions they needed to take, Griffin’s attention wandered. He’d had little sleep, his mind turning over every possibility of how to straighten out this matter with Sydney. A thousand what-ifs, and not one would have solved the problem. It didn’t matter that Tex had warned him, for weeks in fact, because in every scenario in which he informed her of their shared past, her reaction was always going to be the same.

  Hurt and betrayal.

  He hadn’t wanted to inflict either on her. Surely that should count for something?

  Deep down, though, he was very much aware that the reason he hadn’t told her was completely self-serving. He knew she’d leave, walk away, and never look back.

  Just as she had yesterday.

  And he didn’t know how to fix this. In fact, he was fairly certain he couldn’t. Not without some divine intervention, something he had little faith in these days.

  “I’m assuming that’s what you still believe?”

  McNiel looked directly at him, waiting for an answer.

  “Still believe?” Griffin echoed. He had totally lost track of the conversation.

  McNiel’s gaze hardened. “That the Black Network’s involved. Wingman and Wingman has never been implicated in any of the Network’s activities. Or in any illegal activities. At least not enough to be charged.”

  Donovan Archer got up to pour himself another cup of coffee. He was a relatively new agent, and hadn’t worked the number of cases that Griffin had. “In my book,” Donovan said, “that makes them a bigger candidate.” Which was exactly what Griffin was thinking. The Network specialized in politics—handpicking their own candidates or bribing public officials already in office, be it in the U.S. or on foreign soil—the better to set domestic and foreign policy that furthered their own agendas and lined their pockets. The problem with keeping such an organization viable was that it took vast amounts of money, and the Network had no qualms about lining their coffers with drug and arms trafficking, or selling of technology, or any other means that they saw fit.

  “Why do you think that?” McNiel asked Donovan.

  “Are you telling me that an organization like the Network that’s infiltrated the U.S. government, doesn’t have tentacles reaching into the intelligence arena? How else are they always one step ahead?”

  How indeed? Griffin thought. “Whether W2 is part of the Network or not,” he said, “it has no bearing on the bigger question. Someone’s been monitoring electronic data, or they wouldn’t have been at that warehouse looking for something they shouldn’t have even known about.”

  “The Devil’s Key? Agreed,” McNiel said. “The timing is far too close to ignore. So whoever it is, they had to have knowledge of the program’s capacity to begin with, or they wouldn’t have known what to even look for.”

  Which didn’t bode well. The Devil’s Key exploited a back door into a data mining program developed more than twenty years ago by a software company. The Strategic Integrated Network Case Management System, better known as SINS, was marketed as cutting-edge case management and sold to a number of foreign countries around the world. Of course, it was also stolen—they suspected by someone at Wingman and Wingman—and sold on the black market to even more countries. Once the NSA discovered the back door’s existence—and the very real threat of it possibly being used against the U.S.—they started on damage control. What the intelligence communities didn’t know was who proposed, then implemented the spyware into the program. McNiel believed it was a Network operation from the start, and Griffin tended to agree.

  “Maybe I’m missing something,” Donovan said, returning to his seat. “Devil’s Key? This is about what Sydney Fitzpatrick found in Mexico?” Donovan had not worked the BICTT case when Sydney had found the key in Mexico, and since it had been on a need-to-know basis, he hadn’t been included in the intel.

  “Yes,” McNiel said, and Griffin could see the stress in his face.

  “So it’s true?” Donovan asked. “There really is a back door built into the SINS program?”

  “Not just built into the program,” McNiel replied. “But into the millions of computer chips throughout the world. They can infiltrate any system.”

  Donovan was just taking a sip of coffee and nearly choked on it. “Uh, did I hear that right?”

  “You did.”

  Unbeknownst to all but a few select individuals, because of the chips used, the program allowed for a back door into any computer that contained one and was running it—providing one had the code to get in.

  It was not only a political nightmare, it was a national security disaster waiting to happen. Once this backdoor vulnerability on the chips had been discovered, the U.S. government, realizing the devastation, the potential for evil, took the unprecedented step of destroying every known copy of the code that allowed entry. There were ten codes in all, aptly named the Devil’s Keys.

  Nine were destroyed. The tenth was stolen by a former government operative, Robert Orozco, about to be arrested along with Sydney’s father for their involvement in the BICTT banking scandal. The theft of the code was Orozco’s insurance policy. Leave him alone. If they came after him, he’d make sure the code was delivered to enemy hands, and reveal what the U.S. had allowed to slip through their fingers.

  For twenty years Orozco had been the most hunted man in the world, successfully dropping out of sight until one FBI agen
t did what the entire CIA failed to do. Find him. Sydney Fitzpatrick had wanted answers about why her father was murdered, and Orozco had been a friend of her father’s. Based on some childhood memory of a fishing trip her father had taken her on down near Ensenada, she located Orozco, who gave her the last known key code, apparently thinking he’d be safer without it.

  And he was right—to some extent. When, after several years, the CIA failed to locate him or the code, ATLAS had been given the task—along with the kill order.

  Donovan was clearly trying to wrap his head around what he’d just learned, and McNiel said, “Welcome to our national security nightmare, should the Devil’s Key fall into the wrong hands.”

  “You mean, what this girl in South San Francisco has sitting in her head? That’s the Devil’s Key?”

  “The same.”

  And Griffin said, “We have to assume the Network’s involved, and they’re probably one and the same as W2. They’ve certainly had the capabilities to run a program like this. And for them to show up at some obscure repair shop in South San Francisco of all places . . . That copy machine was sold in a batch of dozens, and the guy who bought it was running the numbers from it on his computer.”

  “Right now,” McNiel said, “we’d be remiss in thinking the Network isn’t doing the same. Who knows where their tentacles reach.”

  “If that’s the case, we’re in bigger trouble than we thought.”

  “If that’s the case,” Donovan said, “stay off the goddamned Internet.”

  McNiel’s phone rang. He answered it, listened, clearly disturbed. “Of course not. The only search I knew of is the one you did . . .” He closed his eyes, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. “No, Brad. We’re not running some rogue operation here. I would have informed you if that were the case . . . Exactly what is she saying happened . . . ? Yes, I’ll hold.”

  He covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “It’s Pearson. Apparently someone was in Sydney’s apartment. Ripped through the whole place, probably looking for the list.”

  “List?” Donovan echoed. “As in the list, key, whatever the hell it is?”

  Griffin’s gut twisted. “She mentioned it last night.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?” McNiel asked.

  “I had other things on my mind.”

  Apparently Pearson came back on the line, because McNiel uncovered the phone. “I assure you, Brad. We aren’t in the habit of breaking into FBI agents’ homes . . . Yes, a lapse of judgment at Carillo’s condo, but my agents were worried about the classified nature of the . . . Of course. I’ll see you there.”

  He hung up. “Hard to deny our involvement when we’ve already conducted one illegal search.”

  “Not quite,” Griffin said.

  “In Carillo’s case, it’s the thought that counts. Lucky for us Pearson’s more worried about the fact someone else is searching.”

  “That’s three,” Donovan said. “The warehouse where Piper was found, Carillo’s before Tex could get there, and Sydney’s. Hard to overlook.”

  “Hers,” McNiel said, “was apparently searched after Pearson had already been there and confiscated her computers. They’re clearly looking for the Devil’s Key—the only place they haven’t hit yet is Mexico.” He picked up the phone and called Tex. “New mission. Contact Robert Orozco and verify that he does or does not have a copy of that key. He may be in danger,” he said, then explained about the search on Sydney’s apartment.

  There was a knock at his door, and his secretary opened it, looked in. “Sir? Lisette’s on your other line. She says it’s urgent.”

  “Thanks.” Then, after telling Tex to call him the moment he made contact with Orozco, he disconnected, and picked up the second line. “Lisette . . . ? He’s here now . . . I’ll tell him.” Then to Griffin, “Your witness said she heard a name mentioned when she was at the scene. Brooks.”

  “If we were looking for a connection to the Network,” Donovan said, “we just found it.”

  That was, unfortunately, all they knew about the man they believed to be instrumental in the creation and theft of the Devil’s Key—just the one name—even after the recent intel on the gunrunning operation with Garrett Quindlen in Pocito, Arizona. “When was this?” Griffin asked. “I didn’t hear it mentioned.”

  He pressed a button so that they were on speakerphone, and Griffin repeated the question to Lisette.

  “Apparently it happened just outside the building, before she entered. And before she realized what was happening. The two men who came into the warehouse were talking to him.”

  “As in she saw him?”

  “Definitely. I think she could do a sketch of the man.”

  “If so,” McNiel said, “it might be our first glimpse of a face that has eluded us for a couple decades.” He looked at Griffin. “Call Fitzpatrick. This takes priority.”

  “Somehow I doubt Sydney’s going to want to help us with this. In fact, I’m probably the last person she’s going to want to talk to.”

  “Notice I’m not asking. So fix it. Whatever it takes.”

  Not wanting to be overheard, Griffin went to his office and closed the door before calling Sydney. He left a message, asking her to get back to him. When he tried again, it went straight to voice mail.

  Resisting the urge to hurl his own phone across the room, especially since it was tethered to the wall by the cord, he leaned back in his chair and stared out the window, trying to think how McNiel expected him to fix something that was undoubtedly broken beyond repair.

  And that was where Donovan found him several minutes later. Still seated, just staring out at the leaden sky.

  “We should talk,” Donovan said.

  “About?”

  “Sydney.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss.”

  “Shouldn’t you at least call her?”

  Griffin grabbed his keys, then his coat and started toward the door. “I have. Several times. She’s not answering.”

  “Thought about driving over there?” Donovan asked, following him onto the elevator.

  “So she can slam the door in my face? Yeah. I thought about it. For all of ten seconds.”

  “Then she slams the door. At least you tried. But if you don’t go? What’s she supposed to think?”

  “That she dodged a bullet—no pun intended.”

  “FYI? There comes a point when the hole you dig is so deep, there’s no climbing out. And you’re getting to that point.”

  Griffin jabbed at the Down button. “I take it you’ve been talking to Tex?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. He’s worried about you,” Donovan said, placing his foot in the elevator door so it wouldn’t shut on him. “Because you’re having a real hard time seeing what’s right in front of your face.”

  Donovan removed his foot; the elevator closed, leaving Griffin alone as it descended.

  He looked at the keys in his hand, knowing that Donovan was right. So what if she slammed the door in his face?

  Any reaction from her was better than not knowing what she was thinking.

  He drove to her apartment, managed to enter the lobby when someone was walking out, and took the elevator up. He knocked on the door, and when no one answered, he called out her name.

  The door behind him opened.

  “Sydney’s not home.”

  He recognized her neighbor, Tina, and her black Lab, Storm, both standing there watching him.

  “Any idea where she is?”

  “No. She took off a while ago.”

  “If she comes back, can you tell her to call me? It’s important.”

  “Sure thing.”

  He left, sat in his car, and tried to think where she might go. And then it occurred to him that she usually kept in close touch with Carillo. He called.

  Carillo didn�
�t answer, either, and so he left a message. “It’s Griffin. If by some chance you know where Sydney is, can you call me? It’s an emergency. And I’m not the one asking. McNiel is.” As if that would make a difference.

  He disconnected. His phone rang a few minutes later. Carillo. “You’ve got a lot of nerve calling her after everything that’s gone on.”

  “I know,” Griffin said. “I don’t know how to make this right. I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “Can’t help you there. Except to say that trying to contact her right now is probably not in your best interest.”

  “We need a sketch from our witness in the South San Francisco murder.”

  “She figured if you were going to contact her, it’d be for that. So in anticipation, she asked me to pass on a message. Something to the effect of go screw yourself. Only four letters. Beginning with an F.”

  “Ever helpful, Carillo.”

  “For what it’s worth? I really don’t know where she is, but depending on how important this is . . .”

  “Very.”

  “I did hear Scotty’s voice in the background. Just thought I’d throw that out there.”

  “Thanks.”

  Not about to chance that she’d leave if he called, he drove straight to Scotty’s. Somehow he was going to have to make Sydney understand that this was far bigger than the two of them.

  Scotty looked less than pleased to find him at his door. He didn’t invite Griffin in.

  “I’m looking for Sydney.”

  “That right?”

  Scotty didn’t budge from the threshold.

  “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t a matter of the utmost importance. National importance.” Scotty of all people could identify with that. Or so he thought.

  But Scotty glanced back into the room, toward a blond woman sitting on the couch. Amanda. Then he turned back to Griffin, lowering his voice, saying, “She’s not here. That’s all I can tell you.”

  So much for Scotty recognizing the importance of it all. Not that Griffin could fault his loyalty. “Thanks for your time,” he said, and was about to leave, when Amanda looked up, saw him, and smiled.