Code Conspiracy. Carol Ericson
that bubbled beneath the surface of every encounter she had—even the most personal ones.
Amit disappeared from the security cam and Jerrica jumped from her chair and hunched over Amit’s, folding her arms across the back and studying the data marching across the display. The attack on the embassy outpost in Nigeria had been on her radar, too. And not only because it involved someone she knew, peripherally, anyway.
Delta Force Major Rex Denver had played a significant role in the Nigeria debacle, as he’d visited the outpost days before the attack. He’d also, allegedly, played a role in the bombing at the Syrian refugee center, although the witnesses in Syria had been walking back that narrative for a few months now.
She drummed her fingers against her chin. And Denver’s name had come up again as she scurried down the rabbit hole of her current hunch—or maybe she’d been scurrying down a mole hole, if moles even burrowed into holes. Because she’d bet all the settlement money sitting in her bank account that the intel she’d been tracking was going to lead to a mole—possibly in the CIA itself.
Rubbing her hands together, she returned to her own chair and continued inputting data to dig deeper into the CIA system she’d already compromised.
After a few hours of work, she rubbed her eyes and took a swig of water. As she watched her screen, a blurry message popped up in the lower-left corner of her display.
She blinked and the words came into focus. She read them aloud to the room where all sounds of human intercourse had been replaced by the whirs and clicks of computer interaction. “Who are you?”
She huffed out a breath and growled. “You show me yours first, buddy.”
So, someone at the other end had detected an intruder. She entered her reply, whispering the words as she typed them.
Who are you?
Not terribly clever, but she had no intention of showing her hand. She fastened her gaze on the blinking cursor, waiting for the response.
Her eyeballs dried up watching that cursor, so she set the program’s command to keep running in her absence, just as Amit had done on his computer. If Amit came back to the Dreadworm offices, he would know to leave the program running, but just in case, she plastered a sticky note to her screen before packing up for the night.
Jerrica scanned the video feed showing the alley while she scooped up her backpack and hitched it over one shoulder. She swept up her black fedora, which she’d left here the other night, and clapped it on her head.
Flipping up the collar of her black leather jacket, she jogged down the steps from the work area. She tipped her head back to check the video from outside and then, pausing at the door, she pressed her ear against the cold metal, not that she could hear anything through it.
She took a final glance at the monitor above the door before easing the door open. She looked both ways up and down the alley. She shimmied through the space, the zipper and metal studs on her jacket scraping against the doorjamb, and pulled the heavy slab of metal shut behind her.
This alley had just a few doorways and a couple of fire escapes, so it didn’t attract much traffic. Olaf, Dreadworm’s founder, had searched high and low in Manhattan to find just the right locations, and then had secured those locations—but he hadn’t been able to secure himself.
Someone outed him and his residence and he’d had to go on the run or face federal prosecution. She didn’t want to be criminally charged, but she couldn’t give up this job…mission…especially now that she’d hacked into the CIA databases.
She emerged from the alley onto the crowded sidewalk and joined the surge of people. Darkness hadn’t descended yet on this cool spring evening. Summer with its heat and humidity waited right around the corner, and Jerrica wanted to soak up the last bits of May with its hint of freshness still on the cusp of the air. She closed her eyes and inhaled, getting a lungful of exhaust fumes and some guy’s over-ambitious aftershave.
She headed underground to catch the subway to her neighborhood. Just as she plopped down in her seat, an old man with a cane scraping beside him shuffled onto the train.
Jerrica’s gaze swept the other passengers in the car, their heads buried in their phones, earbuds shoved in their ears, noses dipped into tablets, reading devices and portable game consoles. Nobody budged, nobody stirred from the online, electronic worlds sucking up their attention and their humanity.
Jerrica hoisted her backpack from her lap and pushed up from her seat. She tapped the old man’s arm and pointed to the empty spot.
He nodded and smiled, the light reaching his faded blue eyes.
The train lurched around a bend, and Jerrica grabbed the bar above her head, swaying with the motion of the car. Maybe she should’ve accepted Amit’s invitation to the party. She didn’t even have her cat to greet her at home. Puck had disappeared last month without a trace just as seamlessly as he’d entered her realm. Even cats had a way of passing through her life, perhaps recognizing her rootless existence and most likely identifying with it.
With both of her hands holding on for dear life, she shook her hair from her face. Yeah, she definitely needed to get out and socialize. She’d call Amit once she got home and had some dinner and put on her best party face.
The train rumbled into her station and she jumped off. She emerged into the fresh air but hung back at the top of the steps.
If someone had been following her this afternoon, they must’ve picked up her trail around here—her neighborhood, her subway stop. No way someone just started tracking her in the middle of Manhattan. She took a different route to Dreadworm every time she went there. This place, this neighborhood, comprised her only constants.
She zeroed in on a few faces, attuned to sudden stops, starts and reversals. She moved forward by putting one foot in front of the other because she had to start somewhere. Sometimes the fear and uncertainty paralyzed her.
She ducked into her favorite noodle shop and ordered a spicy vegetarian pho with tofu, inhaling the aroma of the rich broth while she waited for her order.
Kevin, the shop’s owner, placed the bag in her hands. “Special for Jerrica. You find your cat yet?”
“No, I’m afraid he’s gone for good, Kevin.”
“I look out for him.” He tapped his cheekbone beneath his eye with the tip of his finger. “Cats come and go.”
So did people.
“If you do see Puck, give him some chicken and call me.” She waved as she shoved through the door, sending the little bell into a frenzy.
She loped to her apartment, her pack bouncing against her back and the plastic bag containing the soup swinging from her fingertips. She could’ve afforded fancier digs, but this neighborhood on the Lower East Side suited her—and she’d found a secure building without a nosy doorman watching her comings and goings.
She made it up to her apartment, got through the triple locks and shut the door behind her. Her gaze flicked about the room, and a shot of adrenaline lanced her system.
She dropped her dinner, plunged her hand into the front pocket of her backpack and pulled out her .22.
“Get out here with your hands up or I swear to God I’ll shoot you through the bathroom wall.”
The door to the bathroom inched open and a pair of hands poked through the opening, fingers wiggling. “Don’t shoot. I even brought a bottle of wine.”
Jerrica lowered her weapon with unsteady hands and closed her eyes as she braced one hand against the wall.
Just like that, Gray Prescott had slipped past her best defenses…like he always did.
Heavy breathing came