#RedTeam Attack

by S J Grey

  Freshly washed and dressed, he made himself as comfortable as he could on the sofa and opened up his laptop. Did he have the mental energy to check on his searches? Maybe not. They could wait. As could setting up the new phone. He’d take his next dose of painkillers, and then sleep for a few hours.

  Right on cue, there was a knock at his front door.

  Caleb groaned. From here, he couldn’t see who it was, and that meant getting up. Or did it? If it was someone who knew him, they’d text first. Only a handful of people knew his address, and they wouldn’t turn up unannounced.

  He’d ignore it. If it was important, they’d come back.

  He heard a crunch of gravel. Footsteps, approaching the lounge window. Who the fuck was this?

  A familiar face appeared at the window. Detective Sergeant Miller. The cop peered through the glass, his view into the house obscured by the blinds. “Caleb Rush? You in there?”

  Caleb had every reason to mistrust the police, but DS Miller seemed to be a good guy. There’d be a valid reason for him to be here.

  With a grunt, Caleb pushed himself to a standing position. “Yeah. Gimme a minute,” he called back and made his slow way to the door.

  It took Miller a few moments to get back there. He was hurt in the explosion too, but with no broken bones. He was lucky.

  His face was bruised and scratched, and he walked stiffly, but he was mobile. He gave Caleb a glimmer of a smile. “May I come in?”

  Caleb leaned against the doorframe. “Depends. You here to arrest me for something?”

  “Not this time. I want to update you.”

  “Come in, then.” He wasn’t making coffee. Miller wasn’t that welcome.

  Miller waited until they were both sitting in the lounge, before he spoke. “We have a lead on the arson attack on your house at Peka Peka and the associated murder of Freddie Sparks.”

  It was only a few days since the cops were interrogating Caleb for both of those offences. It was about time they figured out he was innocent. “Go on.”

  “The independent forensics team that investigated the house fire concluded it was started remotely, using a time-delay device. They found evidence of something called plastic igniter cord.” Miller dug into his pocket for a notebook and flicked it open. He read aloud. “It has a core of pyrotechnic powder, wrapped in wire. It’s used in special blasting operations, when high temperatures and quick burning times are desirable.” He looked up at Caleb. “After burning, it leaves a fine spiral of wire behind, and that’s what the forensics team found.”

  “And?” Caleb prompted. “Does that mean I’m off the hook? Or do you think I have access to stuff like that?”

  To his credit, Miller didn’t rise to the bait. His expression was serious, his frown deep. “It’s mainly used by pyrotechnic professionals, but some parts of the German military like it—the KSM in particular. That’s their version of the Navy SEAL.”

  No shit. This had the elusive Erich Morgen written all over it.

  Miller was gazing at him and maybe waiting for him to speak.

  “I don’t know anybody in the German military,” Caleb said.

  “I’ve seen this used somewhere else, and so have you.” Miller paused. “The tunnel. It was filled with plastic explosives that were linked with ignitor cord. I took pictures of it all before it went up. Can you think of any way these incidents are connected?”

  The implication was clear. “I’m the connection. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “What I’m saying,” said Miller, “is that whoever murdered Freddie Sparks may be linked with the illegal brothel that was running underneath Browning Street.” He held up a hand to forestall Caleb’s interruption. “Nicole Golden has given us a statement which makes it clear that you were in no way involved with the sex video. On that premise, it’s unlikely that you had any connection with Freddie Sparks.”

  “You finally believe I’m innocent?”

  “Police work isn’t all hard facts. Gut feel plays a part too. I want to believe you, Caleb, but there’s something I don’t understand.”

  “What?”

  “Why someone would try to frame you like this?”

  Wasn’t that the million-dollar question? “You tell me.”

  “I read the statement from you, taken last night after the incident, but it was missing a few things. Like why you were involved in surveillance and how you knew about the illegal brothel. And when I asked about these gaps, I was told it was classified. Part of a joint operation with the New Zealand Security Intelligence Agency.” Miller sat back, and ran a hand across his jaw. He looked as tired as Caleb felt.

  “Yeah,” said Caleb. “I guess that sums it up. Last night… Thank you for helping.”

  There was the glimmer of another smile. “You’re welcome. The Freddie Sparks murder enquiry is ongoing, if you have any leads.”

  Caleb nodded. “Thanks.”

  The interview of sorts was over, and Caleb showed the detective out before stretching on the sofa again. Maybe working for the spies wasn’t a bad thing after all, but now he needed to update Jonathan on his conversation with Miller.

  He dialled his number, but it dropped to voicemail. Jonathan was probably interviewing Erich Morgen, so Caleb called Will instead.

  “Hey,” said Will.

  “Hey. I just had an interesting conversation with DS Miller, and I need to get a message to Jonathan. Do you know where he is?”

  “Yeah. He’s in with Morgen. I can pass it on.”

  Caleb summarised what Miller told him about the igniter wire, and Will promised to pass it on at the earliest opportunity.

  Maybe now Caleb could relax?

  Sleep beckoned, but when his damaged phone jangled with a call from Emma, he couldn’t ignore her. “Hey,” he rasped.

  “Caleb, have you heard from Mark?”

  She sounded upset, and he was instantly alert. “No. Not since yesterday. Why?”

  There was a rustling noise, like a tissue being pulled from a box. “It’s… well…” She hesitated. “He’s breaking up with me.”

  “What?”

  “You heard right. I just got off the phone with him.”

  “No. That’s not right.” Mark was crazy about Emma. He asked her to marry him.

  A sob drifted down the line. “That’s what I thought. But now he says he’s got the chance of a great assignment—fantastic boost to his career, yada yada—only he needs to be single, because… Well, you can guess. And he’s going to cut me loose. They made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. That’s what he said. His words exactly.”

  “He needs to be single so he can go undercover again?”

  She huffed a sigh. “I really don’t know what to think, you know?”

  An offer he couldn’t refuse. A horrible suspicion formed in Caleb’s mind. Mark would do anything to keep Emma safe. Even leave her? “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Are you sure he didn’t hint at this to you?” she asked. “You spoke to him yesterday. Did you only talk about work?”

  Should he tell her he thought Mark was lying through his ass? No. Mark had sworn him to secrecy as far as Emma was concerned. “Yeah. It was brief. He was busy.”

  “You’d tell me the truth, wouldn’t you?”

  Jesus. He hated lying to her. “Of course.” He tried to sound convincing.

  She sighed again. “I’ll come over to see you later. Let me know when’s a good time, okay?”

  “You got it.”

  They said their goodbyes, and Caleb disconnected. What the fuck was that about? He could ask Mark directly. Caleb dialled Mark’s number.

  The automated voice that answered was as crisply English as he could imagine. “The number you are calling is out of service.”

  Mark was in trouble. Caleb would stake his life on it.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Caleb needed to contact Aiden Bradley, but that wasn’t working too well. Every call went straight to voicemail, and after leaving four
messages, there was no point in trying again. What else could he do?

  He sprawled on his sofa, laptop on his knees and a glass of water at his side. He was due another dose of painkillers soon, and maybe he’d think clearer after that, when the pain from his two broken ribs dulled a fraction. His right leg hurt like a son of a bitch, and his head pounded fit to burst, but that was to be expected. Things could be much worse.

  Eleven young women died in the explosion. Caleb would see their faces in his sleep for a long time to come.

  He dragged his mind back from death and blood, and concentrated on the search spinning out on his laptop. There was a reason Aiden Bradley wasn’t answering his phone. He might be out of the country, doing whatever these shadowy spies did, or his number might be wrong, or he might be unable to take Caleb’s call. What did Mark say about him? He’s got shit of his own to deal with. That could mean anything. Maybe he was going through a divorce or had issues at work. Or maybe he was also caught up in whatever danger Mark was facing.

  Any information Caleb could dig up on the guy would be useful.

  Damned spies. There was next to nothing about Aiden on the internet, so Caleb started to trawl through a myriad of searches in the dark web. It was his playground, and there was little he didn’t know how to find, but he needed a starting point. He was tempted to call Andi and ask for her help—as a bounty hunter, she specialised in finding people. But right now she was otherwise occupied, holding Griff’s hand as he lay unconscious and on life support.

  Would she relish the opportunity to do something as a distraction? Caleb didn’t feel comfortable asking. Not yet. Griff’s injury was too recent. Andi was reeling with shock and fear and probably a truck-load of guilt.

  Caleb’s latest search finished, but the result was the same. Nothing.

  Damn. Caleb closed the lid of the laptop and stared into space. It was time for his pain meds, and he was hungry too. The prospect of getting up and walking to the kitchen didn’t appeal, but it wasn’t like he could snap his fingers and lunch would appear. Eh, food could wait.

  He pushed two pills out of the blister pack and gulped them down with a swig of water. When they kicked in, he’d move.

  *

  When Caleb awoke a few hours later, he felt marginally more human. He fixed some coffee and a sandwich, and lay with care on the sofa again, laptop at hand. He’d check his email, and then carry on with his searches. He was curious how the tunnel explosion would be reported in the media, so he flicked to the local online-news page.

  It was the headline story. And completely bogus.

  Massive gas explosion in Courtenay Place

  Pictures showed the crater in the road and the Greek restaurant where Emma had been dining with her friends. The entire front of that had dropped into the sinkhole. Jesus Christ. Caleb would never forget the fear of knowing she was down there and not knowing if she was okay. He read on. The details were sketchy—a build-up of natural gas underground—and thankfully, they had no clue about the illegal brothel that had been destroyed. Seventeen people suffered minor injuries in the restaurant, and a couple of passers-by were treated at the scene.

  It was amazing that there were no fatalities apart from the girls trapped in the dungeon. There was no mention of Caleb, and that was a relief.

  He almost missed the next story. The headline was smaller, about a drug bust, and that was a regular news item these days. The dealer’s name stood out. Andi’s friend.

  University lecturer, Dane Castor, is under suspicion of selling the newest synthetic to hit the Wellington streets. N-BOMBe acts as a hallucinogenic, but strength varies from one batch to another, and users are at risk of overdosing. Apparently, this is part of the thrill.

  The drug name was familiar. Who talked about that recently?

  Castor is recovering in hospital from a deal gone wrong. The Vice Chancellor of the university has refused to comment, but it’s widely thought that Castor will be removed from his position at the earliest opportunity.

  Poor bastard. Not only was Dane shot while trying to protect Kaali, but now he might lose his job as well.

  The by-line at the bottom of the story was Delilah Berry. Of course. Caleb remembered their conversation about one of the jurors at his trial dying soon after from an overdose of N-BOMBe. That’s where he’d heard of it before.

  He called her, and she answered on the second ring.

  “Caleb.” She sounded surprised but pleased. “What can I do for you?”

  Now he had her, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. “I saw your piece about the lecturer dealing drugs.”

  “It’s the bare bones of a story. Do you know the guy?”

  “No, but I know someone who does. It doesn’t feel right to me.”

  “I know, right?” Rapid, light footsteps sounded down the line. “I was going to call you later anyway, to see how you are after that explosion. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Thanks. How did you know I was there?”

  She huffed a laugh. “I saw you with DS Miller. I was first on the scene and taking witness statements, but I couldn’t get to you. Can you tell me what really happened?”

  “Gas, I think.” It was a good enough cover story.

  “Come on. After all the information I’ve given you, please don’t bullshit me. I’ve been stonewalled by the police, which makes all my spidey senses tingle, and now you’re trying it too.”

  “I don’t know anything. My friend was in the restaurant, which is why I was there.”

  “Your girlfriend?”

  “No.” He wanted a change of subject. “Where are you?”

  “Up at the Vic campus, trying to find out more about Dane Castor. Nobody here thinks he’s a dealer.”

  “Where did that story come from? About the N-BOMBe?”

  “Hmm. I’ll tell you if you give me something about last night.”

  He started to interrupt, to say a definitive no, but she spoke over him. “You were there, right in the thick of it. Did you smell gas? Some witnesses said the ground shook like an earthquake. Were you in the restaurant too?”

  He had to admire her tenacity. “I can’t tell you anything. Sorry.”

  “Pffft. I can’t either.” She sounded amused, rather than annoyed. Was she playing with him? “Your friend in the restaurant? That wouldn’t have been Emma Blackthorne, would it? I have her listed as one of the people rescued.”

  “No comment.”

  “I think it was Emma who said it felt like an earthquake. She didn’t smell any gas, and neither did her friends—or any of the fifteen or so other witnesses I’ve spoken to.”

  “When did you talk to Emma?”

  “No comment.” The sound of her footsteps stopped. “I have to go. I’ve got an appointment with one of the students in Dane Castor’s building. If you remember anything, you know how to get hold of me.”

  “Wait.” He didn’t want her hassling Emma.

  “Yes?”

  “Promise me you’ll leave Emma alone.”

  “C’mon, Caleb. This is the biggest news item to hit all year, and it stinks like a giant turd. I know it wasn’t gas or a quake. Give me something, please?”

  “Not over the phone. I’ll meet you later. And give me your word you’ll stay away from Emma.”

  “Sure she’s not your girlfriend?”

  “None of your business, Delilah. Text me when you’ve finished and we’ll meet in town.”

  “Magic. I’ll be done in an hour. Meet you in the Old Bailey again?”

  The last thing he wanted to do was to leave his sofa, but it was a better option than inviting her to his home. “Yep. See you there.”

  *

  The pub was surprisingly quiet, and Caleb found a table near the window, from where he could watch the street. He was early, but so was Delilah, who hurried in ten minutes ahead of schedule.

  She stood in the entryway and shook herself, before shrugging out of her denim jacket. Raindrops sparkled in her hair, and as before, i
t was pulled back into a tight, short ponytail. She looked around, met Caleb’s gaze, and smiled.

  Walking to his side, she gave a self-conscious little wave. “Hi. I wasn’t sure you’d show.”

  He’d taken a gamble on her wanting red wine again, and nudged the glass towards her. “Shiraz, right?”

  Her face lit up. “Thank you. Bloody legend, that’s what you are.” She sat, sipped the wine, and let out a satisfied ahhh. “The weather’s shit, but wine makes everything better.” She wore another brightly coloured, close-fitting sweater—not that Caleb was looking.

  “You’re too trusting,” he said.

  Her brows tugged together, and she cocked her head on one side. “How so?”

  He nodded at the glass. “Didn’t your mum ever warn you about accepting drinks from strangers? I could’ve slipped anything in there.”

  Amusement lit her eyes. “Cute. I don’t believe you would. I think you’re more honest than most people know.”

  “And you’ve gleaned that from what? Two conversations?”

  She took another drink. “You’re grumpy today. How bad were you hurt last night? I saw you being checked over by a paramedic, and you looked a bit of a mess.”

  Caleb sighed. “Broken ribs, and mild concussion.”

  “Broken ribs are horrid,” she said agreeably. “I busted two falling from my boyfriend’s motorbike, and I couldn’t believe how long it hurt for. It was weeks. First thing in the morning was the worst, when I’d forget until I tried to get up, and then yowzah. I had to creep around like a ninety-year old.”

  “Your boyfriend’s bike?” Why did he hone in on that part of the conversation?

  “Yeah. He had a Honda Fireblade.”

  “Nice.” He dragged his mind away from the pleasant image of her riding pillion, and forced himself to think about why they were meeting. “What can you tell me about the lecturer with the N-BOMBe?”

  “Dane Castor was found with a baggie of tabs clutched in his hand. Despite his being vegan and teetotal and clean-living in every way, the police now think he was dealing in the latest synthetic. Unrealistic or what?”