Blowback (The Black Cipher Files Book 1) (5 page)

Lucas stirred, much sooner than I’d anticipated. A muted groan rumbled from him, pleasantly scrambling my insides. His arms curved around me, snug against my ribs, and his sandpapery cheek rubbed my shoulder.

A feeling I couldn’t identify curled through me like a warm sip of whiskey.

Pleasure.

My body fairly hummed with it.

I pushed away the traitorous yearning and focused on a safer emotion. Relief. He could pull his weight now. “Excellent. You’re awake.”

I felt caution return to his body as his mind cleared. “I’m too old for this shit.”

How old are you? I wanted to ask but it was irrelevant and revealed a weakness I couldn’t afford. Especially now.

“Thirty-four.”

He’d done it again. Answered my unspoken question. He removed his arms from my waist, and without the comfort of his embrace, I felt bereft.

Lucas drew his finger lightly along the curve where my neck met my shoulder. “Holy...heck. That’s where the beacon was?”

I shrugged.

Lucas pressed a gentle kiss against my shoulder, reminding me of when my mother used to kiss my aches and pains away with nothing but love.

The fact that I softened at the brush of his lips was annoying and disconcerting. I couldn’t afford any weakness.

He stretched, arms over his head, chest hard against my back. His erection swelled against my thinly clad buttocks.

“Lift your hips up.” The slight rasp in his voice betrayed him.

I complied.

He leaned over and pulled himself into the passenger seat. Cloth rustled against skin in an erotic whisper.

No time for that.

I focused on the road while Lucas eased the shoulder strap across his body, the click of metal into the buckle loud in the silent car.

“Buckle up.”

I shot him an ‘Are you crazy?’ look.

He grinned, gleaming with amusement. Lucas leaned over, his forearm brushing my breasts as he pulled the belt across my body. I’d fended for myself since I was fifteen. Yet here he was, trying to take care of me. The notion was foreign.

“I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t just dump me while I was unconscious.”

Yes. He should.

I already wondered why I hadn’t.

He stretched again, muscles and joints popping. “You escaped and took out two people after being doped up like this?”

My blood iced.

He’d only seen the woman. My right hand eased toward the grip of the Glock.

“Two?”

He lifted a brow, an easy smile on his face. “So far they seem to be working in pairs, so I assumed you had a deuce on your tail in the warehouse. Am I wrong?”

“You were right.” His explanation made sense. Unobtrusively, I removed my hand from the weapon’s resting spot. “How far to your place?”

He peered at the road. “Where are we?”

I named the route and gave him our distance to the main highway.

“Hour and a half, maybe two.” He rubbed his hands over his eyes. “Question time.”

I’d promised to answer five questions. Didn’t mean I couldn’t pick and choose which five.

“The NSA doesn’t have field agents. It’s just a bunch of techno-nerds sitting in remote outpost towers eavesdropping on enemies or allied neighbors.”

If he wanted to believe that then let him. “That’s not a question.”

“Right.” He rubbed his hands against his eyes again. Probably feeling the effects of the drug. I ignored any sympathy and tamped down on my relief that he was fine.

“So you’re an NSA field agent?”

I yawned.

“I wouldn’t have answered that one either, but you can’t blame a guy for trying.”

He was silent for a moment which, I had figured out, meant his brain was ticking along. I forced myself to relax.

“You aren’t Staci Grant. Her cover is a CIA legend.”

A legend is a cover story crafted and developed over years.

Staci Grant was a real person with many layers. On the surface, she was a wealthy woman who occasionally taught college students. Just below the surface, she steered potential recruits toward terrorist organizations. Her position on campus giving her access to young students.

Another layer down, she worked for the CIA, tracking recruit information. And even further down, she recruited for the CIA. Very few people at the CIA knew she worked for them. Her entire life had been one big cover.

But he couldn’t know that. He couldn’t.

The agency had spent years crafting her cover story. As part of the Joint Special Collection Service, the CIA occasionally used clandestine personnel and techniques to assist the NSA. Both agencies had known Staci’s occupation and CIA cover might come in handy.

Intelligence confirmed that the real Staci Grant had died in a prison uprising in Afghanistan around two months ago, as a prisoner, her cover intact.

I had to ask. Had to. Why would he even think Staci Grant was a cover? It had taken
years
to construct.

I kept my tone casual. “What makes you say that?”

“I can spot a manufactured background file.”

It was more imperative than ever that I keep in character. This entire mission was already a goat fuck, but if something in the file gave me away, I needed to know.

I wouldn’t let him see my insides were churning. I leaned back against the driver’s seat. I’d known he wasn’t just a private investigator, but how could he figure out a manufactured cover? “Huh. How?”

“I was in the business.”

“Was?” Anything to keep him talking while I assessed this information. I realized I hadn’t taken him seriously. I was still underestimating him. And that was dangerous. Who was this guy?

“I got out.” His voice was tight and low.

I couldn’t imagine getting out. The NSA, my job, my calling, my obsession almost, was my life.

“Question number one.” Lucas reclined in the seat as if the answer wasn’t of importance. “What is your real name?”

My real name? The name of the moment. Staci Grant. Whose street profession was terrorist recruitment.

Through her we’d arrested, detained, or followed hundreds of potential individual threats to the country.

Suddenly I put it together. Lucas had been looking into Staci Grant because of his...missing person.

I smiled. “Staci Grant.”

Lucas sighed. “Fine. I’m going to keep my five questions in reserve.”

“Four.”

“Five. You didn’t answer the first one.”

SIX

As we cruised across the San Francisco Bay, the nighttime lights on the bridge dipped and curved upward, sparkling in the early evening sky, competing with the stars in the clear fall night.

We seemed to have lost our tail from the diner. However I wasn’t counting on them staying lost. We’d switched off driving and Lucas was at the wheel again. I’d learned what I could from him. As soon as we crossed the bridge, I was gone.

I cleared my throat.

“We’re almost there,” Lucas answered my unspoken question.

Great.

The itchy twitchy feeling in my gut intensified. I couldn’t wait to get to a phone and call Carson. Then I needed an internet connection to dig into the coded information I’d uploaded to my online filebox. And a lab to analyze the contents of the syringe.

Lucas exited to the left and sped around the curve. “My place isn’t too far.”

I flexed my hands, then wiggled my fingers. The syringe rested against my spine, loosely trapped between the elastic waistband of his boxers and my back.

I glanced at the street. The buildings were mostly industrial interspersed with apartment buildings and several small takeout restaurants in a row. Storefront lights bathed the street with soft white glow. Small lighted signs in basic black and white advertised in English and Spanish, Cantonese or Vietnamese depending on the food.

Almost time.

I inhaled slowly, centering, waiting for the perfect moment. We were in the right lane next to cars parked along the curb. He looked at me again and I directed him back to the traffic. “The light’s about to turn green.”

As the light changed, I shoved open the car door. Lucas grabbed at the boxers but I escaped and slammed the door shut then sprinted for the alley around the corner. I thought for sure I would hear cursing or shouting, but only a few irritated honks followed me.

No Lucas.

I eased along the dumpsters, ignoring the cool sensation of concrete against my bare feet. The back doors to three restaurants were propped open. Resisting the urge to hurry, I deliberately slowed my breathing and ignored the prickly pins and needles piercing the balls of my feet.

At the second restaurant, I found what I needed. Lockers. I waited until the bell over the front door jangled, listening to the two employees chatter as they moved toward the front, and then I slipped inside. I lifted the latch on the locker and pulled out a black sweatshirt and an extra pair of black and white checked chef pants. No luck on shoes.

After closing the locker quietly, I slipped out the back. I tugged on the pants, found a spare twenty in the pocket, and zipped the black sweatshirt all the way up then flipped the hood over my hair. The elastic of the waistband dug into my belly button, hugged my back, and I registered the syringe was gone.

Shit.

I reviewed the last few minutes and realized it had fallen when Lucas grabbed the boxers. I’d have to worry about the syringe later. My immediate goal was shoes.

At the third restaurant, I picked up a pair of clogs. Someone had taken them off right inside the back door, probably a leftover habit from home.

I made tracks out of the alley, back the way I came, just in case Lucas waited at the opposite end. When I exited the alley, I was in the clear. No Lucas, no car.

I hustled down the sidewalk wanting to get to the bus station to pick up the identification and money I had stashed there.

The sidewalks were nearly deserted as I approached the bus terminal. Rather than head right in, I walked around the block once taking note of the people and cars along the way.

I hadn’t had any followers for awhile, but I didn’t want to assume anything. Hidden in the shadows of the underpass, a scruffy homeless man glared at me the second time around, spreading out his blanket in a territorial move.

“No worries. I’ve got a place,” I said softly, wanting to reassure him and not draw any undue attention.

I hurried inside, secure no one watched the exits. Keeping my head down, I quartered the room surreptitiously, feeling as if something was off.

First, I found the payphone, made the collect call, and waited for Carson to pick up. But he didn’t answer, which was very, very strange.

I left a brief, “We need to talk,” and hung up.

I’d get my bag and try Carson again.

I went to the bathroom where I’d stashed the locker key and found it attached to the underneath of a baby changing station, right where I’d left it.

As I headed toward the lockers, tension rose within me. Something wasn’t right. I slowed, needing a moment to assess.

The station was crowded. There must be several buses getting ready to leave. I couldn’t have timed it better if I’d tried. I stood at the information board pretending to look at arrival and departure times while checking out the reflection of people in the plexiglass booth on my right.

That was when I saw them.

Two guys in suits were positioned at either end of the locker section, their gazes constantly roving. In a restaurant, bar, office building they’d have blended right in. But in the Greyhound station, they stood out.

Shit.

With the certainty of years in the field, I knew. They were waiting for
me
. I had several options.

One. Go for the locker, hope I was wrong, and get my stuff.

Two. Get the heck out, and come back later to retrieve my stuff.

Three. Forget my stuff and get out.

I had just hung up the phone, so there was no way they’d traced the call and gotten here that fast. If those men were waiting for me, someone had access to a hell of a lot more than my beacon. NSA field training stressed having bolt holes in bus stations. Prior to 9/11 we’d used airports, but because of security issues, we’d switched to bus terminals.

The fact that there was a team here was even more disturbing. So far, I’d been tagged in three cities. That took manpower and, more importantly, money.

What in the hell was going on?

I didn’t even glance at the lockers as I turned away and headed for the closest exit. I made sure to slow my steps rather than hurry, not wanting to draw any attention to myself.

But as I pushed open the glass door to Second Street, I could feel eyes upon me. Listening to the pounding of feet, rustling of clothing and the swell and fall of voices behind me, I knew I’d been made.

I shoved the door closed and took off running for the steps. The clogs were too big and not the best shoes for sprinting. My feet clomped along the broken sidewalk.

White light from the street lamps spread down over the sidewalk, keeping it well lit and safe for passengers. As a means of trying to evade pursuers, it sucked.

If I could make it to the underpass where I’d seen the homeless guy, I’d have a chance in the shadows. Assuming my followers didn’t have any hearing.

A deaf man could hear the racket I was making with the shoes.

The rubber-soled shoes of my pursuer squeaked on the cement. He was gaining. On the upside, it was too risky to shoot at me on the street.

I swerved under the pass. The shoes had to go.

“Here you go.” I kicked them toward my buddy and whispered a quick sorry when he grunted.

I tore around the corner, running parallel to the underpass bridge. At the intersection ahead, a line of cabs waited for fares. I curved to the right, away from the terminal and sprinted toward the last cab at the back of the line.

Illegal but hopefully the cabbie would agree to take me.

Behind me, I heard a solid thud and then inventive cursing. My homeless friend must have slowed the guy down.

I ripped open the door to the cab. “I need a ride.”

“It will cost you extra,” the cabbie barked. “I can get fined for this.”

“Okay.”