Beneath the Surface. Meredith Fletcher
said. “And they’re buried deep within an infrastructure I couldn’t even begin to get through. And I’ll tell you right now that they don’t build firewalls I can’t get through. Not until this one.”
Excitement escalated within Shannon. Over the last few years her mysterious benefactor had supplied tips regarding political cover-ups, insider trading, blackmail and other problems involving political and economic leaders. Truthfully Shannon owed a big part of her career to whoever that person had been.
Had.
Shannon didn’t know why she kept thinking of the person in the past tense. There was nothing to indicate anything had happened to that person except for a months-long silence.
Until June, the contacts had been sporadic, but they’d been there. After weeks of wondering about it, and starved for a juicy story, Shannon had left New York City and taken a meeting with Vincent Drago. She’d hired him to investigate the traffic going on over her ISP. Shannon had covered stories about Internet tracking and the information that could be out there if someone knew how to look.
Vincent Drago was supposedly the best. The downside was his paranoia and violence. Scuttlebutt had it that he’d killed people.
He wasn’t the kind of man Shannon would have ordinarily wanted to deal with, but he’d seemed the best for what she’d needed done. Now she found out he hadn’t been able to track the messages either.
However, it was interesting that someone from the United States government—if Drago was correct—was involved. Her investigation was getting more fascinating all the time. She could almost see the consumer viewing points piling up. The story was going to be a good one.
If you live long enough to finish it, she told herself.
Drago’s eyes raked hers. “You didn’t know anything about any of this, did you?”
Shannon decided to go with the truth. “No. What branch of the federal government did you bump into?”
Drago laughed. “You don’t know that either? Damn, you’re not as intelligent as I thought you were, blondie. And I wasn’t thinking you were overly gifted in the intelligence department to begin with.”
Thanks for that. Shannon’s anger nudged at her fear. She hated being taken for granted, ignored and downplayed because of her hair color. She was smart.
“Look,” Shannon said calmly, “you don’t have anything to worry about where I’m concerned. I’m not here trying to trap you. I wanted to know where those e-mail messages came from. That’s all.”
“Why did you come to me?”
“They told me you were the best.”
Drago grinned, but again there was no mirth. “I’m flattered to hear that.”
“It’s not flattery.” Shannon knew her throat was going to be bruised for days to come. “I needed the best. I was willing to pay. I did pay.”
“You don’t have any idea who wrote you those e-mails?”
“No.”
Drago shook his head. “There’s a lot of juicy information contained in them.”
“I know.”
“Most of them tie to stories you cracked on the news channel.”
Shannon knew that, too. “I wasn’t able to prove everything.”
“Did any of the people you took down know about these e-mails?”
“No.”
“Did you ever stop to wonder where they came from?”
“Yes. All the time. I couldn’t get any information.”
“But you just kept using the leads.”
Shannon shrugged. “They were good. Why shouldn’t I? Those people I went after? They needed to be exposed.”
“But why?”
“Because the public deserves to know.”
Drago snorted derisively. “Save it for the sound byte on the autobiography, blondie. It doesn’t wash with me. Those people you took down, they could have paid blackmail for the information you were given. As a matter of fact, I’d be willing to bet my eyeteeth they were.”
Shannon had guessed that, too. She really wasn’t stupid.
Drago traced a forefinger along Shannon’s chin. “Do you know why a blackmailer would give up a cash cow? And most of these people were cash cows.”
“Because they stopped paying?”
“Very good, blondie. And to make an example for other people that are being blackmailed.” Drago smiled. “But there’s one other reason.”
Like a good captive audience, Shannon waited. Maybe you can ooh and aah and gush over how smart he is and he’ll let you go. She was prepared to do that if she had to. As to the other reason, she’d already thought of that, too.
“A blackmailer would burn a victim if it somehow netted him more,” Drago said. “Did you ever think about looking into what these people had in common?”
Shannon had. She’d looked. There were so many and they were so disparate that she hadn’t been able to get a handle on a theory.
“I thought you could just find whoever was giving me the information,” she said. “That seemed to be the easiest way.” That way had also seemed the most dangerous. That was why she’d exhausted every avenue open to her before she’d gone to a major creep like Drago.
“If the Feds hadn’t wanted in on the play, it probably would have been,” Drago agreed. “Whoever you’re after is good at computers, but I’m better. I would have beaten that firewall.”
“I can pay you more,” Shannon offered. Greed was always good leverage.
Drago shook his head. “Sorry, blondie. But this looks like the end of a beautiful relationship.” His eyes dropped to her cleavage. “Having you around to tie me to this thing isn’t my idea of fun.”
Shannon’s fear crystallized inside her in that moment.
“I’ve got to tell you,” Drago said, “I think it’s a damn waste.”
A million questions popped into Shannon’s head. She’d always experienced that when new situations and people had come her way. That tendency was one of the qualities that had propelled her television career. She wasn’t one of those reporters that simply regurgitated scripted questions and punch lines.
How can you just kill me? What makes you think you’re going to get away with it? Is it that easy for you to kill someone? How many people have you killed? How did you kill them? Why hasn’t someone caught you? How are you planning on killing me? What are you going to do with my body?
When she got to the last two questions, Shannon knew she was thinking way too much. She needed to be moving.
“Bye-bye, blondie.” Drago smiled and his finger tightened on the trigger.
When Rafe entered the bar, he got the immediate sense that he’d invaded a private party. Every eye in the place turned toward him.
The bartender stood behind the scarred bar on the other side of the room. He had one bar towel slung over a shoulder and used another to dry beer mugs. He was a big, wide guy, an athlete that had gone to seed. The football pictures above the liquor bottles on the wall behind him offered a clue as to which sport he’d played.
“We’re closed, mac,” the bartender said.
Rafe looked at the other occupants of the room. There were three of them. They were all in their late twenties and early thirties. Their attire wasn’t far removed from his. One of them wore a Hispanic kerchief wrapped around his head.
All