The Trigger (14 page)

In case she encountered anyone, she had a story ready about stargazing away from the lights, but she decided to update her new contact anyway. From her laptop, she sent Gibson an email:
Leaving soon to search for the bunker. I should be in contact again by midnight or so.

She remembered McCullen’s request to keep him apprised of her actions, so she sent him the same message. He was still part of her team, and she really liked him. The memory of his mouth on hers distracted her for a moment and added to her heightened senses. She hoped they would have an opportunity to be alone together before she wrapped up this assignment and flew home. An after-the-fact hookup couldn’t do any harm. And it would be her trump card if Trevor came around later and wanted to get back together. A one-night-stand confession would likely send him scurrying.

To kill time, she played chess online with a man in Singapore named Ian. He wasn’t her regular favorite, and he beat her two games in a row, so she signed out. She had other things on her mind.

When the stars were finally bright against a dark sky, Dallas grabbed her pack, tucked her lucky cloth into her pocket, and headed out. Below her, Raff was coming up the path.
Oh crap.
She started to duck back inside, but he called out, “Hey, Sonja.”

Reluctantly, she turned to face him. “Hey.” She wanted to be friendly, in case he had information she needed. “Randall was looking for you earlier.”

He shrugged. “Where are you headed?”

“Doing a little stargazing.” She twisted sideways so he could see the small portable telescope attached to her pack. “What about you?”

“Just a dinner break. Probably frozen pizza. Care to join me?”

“Thanks, but I’ve eaten.” She wondered why dinner was only a
break
. “Are you going back to work? That makes for a long day.”

“Yeah, we’ve got a project we’re working on, but I’m a night owl anyway, so it’s cool.” He reached the top of the stairs. “Stop by and have a beer when you get back if I’m around.”

“Sounds good.” Dallas smiled and hurried down the steps. What project were they working on? She’d have to pump Raff for more information when she had a chance. Right now, she had to locate Emma.

She strode to the end of the cul-de-sac and found the road that cut between the Clayton brothers’ homes. Porch lights illuminated the front yards, but otherwise the houses were dark. It struck her as a little odd, but Randall and Spencer could have gone into town together. Once she was past the housing area, she clicked on the powerful flashlight that fit into the palm of her hand. A half-moon low in the sky cast a glimmer on the metal roofs of the storage buildings in the distance. Dallas kept up a good pace but didn’t want to look like she was in a hurry.

As she neared the path that led to the creek, she heard a soft repetitive sound. She stopped and listened. Rhythmic and whispery. Familiar, yet unidentifiable. Instinctively, she slipped off her pack and dug out her small handgun. But the sound was not from any animal she could identify.

Feeling more secure with the weapon in hand, she started forward. The hill was just up ahead, and she felt more determined than ever to find Emma and get the hell out of this strange place.

The soft hum of voices drifted by on a gentle night breeze.

Dallas froze. Who was out there?

She turned toward the sound. It came from the area by the creek where the generator stood. Was Grace still at work in the dark? If so, who was she talking to?

Dallas spun and headed toward the creek.
It could be totally innocent,
she told herself. But after dark? That seemed suspicious. Spencer’s push to have the generator ready by the next day, combined with Raff’s mention of an IT project, had convinced her that something was going on. Something big and immediate. Something other than the kidnapping of Randall’s wife.

Dallas moved quickly, sticking to the grass at the edge of the path so her footsteps wouldn’t be heard. The voices had stopped, but the rhythmic sound continued. As she neared the slope to the creek, she clicked off her flashlight and slipped her gun into the back of her jeans. If they saw her, she didn’t want to look like a federal agent coming at them with a weapon drawn.

As she came to the edge of the gentle descent, a soft light glowed below in the distance. About two hundred yards downstream from the generator, she guessed. The repetitive sound was louder now, and a second later, she identified it. Shovels digging a hole. Neurons fired all the way up her spine. Were they digging a grave to bury Emma? Why now, a week later? And what about the baby?

Slowly, Dallas made her way down the path, through the shrubs, until she came to the thicket of trees along the creek. The generator was there in the clearing, its metal casing catching the moonlight, but she saw no movement. The sound came from the right, and from here, she had to leave the path and make her way through the underbrush, which would be noisier. She took a gentle step to her left, and her foot landed on a twig. The noise seemed to crack open the night. Dallas froze.

The digging continued without pause, and she let out the breath she’d been holding. Painstakingly, she made her way to a large tree and sat down behind it to watch and wait. From her distance, she could tell one of the diggers was tall like Spencer, but the other one could have been Randall or Grace. Even with the glow of the lantern on the ground nearby, she couldn’t see their faces. A long dark shape lay near their feet. A body? Her gut squeezed down tight. What the hell was going on?

Dallas pulled out the camera she’d packed. The telephoto lens would serve well, but without light, the pictures might be worthless. She’d have to prop it against something to stabilize it. But what if they heard the click? She put the camera in her lap, waiting for them to start talking again. She was close enough now to likely hear what they were saying.

After a long wait, Spencer’s voice cut into the night. “I think it’s deep enough.”

The shoveling sound stopped.

“I don’t know.” The second voice was Randall’s. “We don’t want a coyote digging her up.”

Her!
Was it Emma? Why bury her here?

“They won’t.”

Dallas peered around the tree. The two men squatted at each end of the body and grunted as they lifted.

“Damn, she’s heavy.”

“Don’t say that,” Spencer chastised his brother. “I loved Grace.”

The engineer!
Had they killed her? But why?

The men shuffled toward the grave. Randall asked, “How do we do this without falling in?”

“I don’t know. Maybe toss her a little, as disrespectful as that seems.” Spencer choked with distress.

With an awkward heave, they let go of the body, and it fell with a thud into the hole.

Spencer made a funny noise that sounded like a sob.

Randall stepped over and patted his shoulder. “It was an accident. You weren’t even there. Don’t blame yourself.”

“She might not be dead if I hadn’t pushed her to fix the generator.”

“But we have to be ready,” Randall said. “It’s not your fault she got careless.”

Adrenaline already pumping, Dallas’ shoulders tensed. Ready for what? She shifted to her knees, and a twig under her snapped.

The brothers both spun in her direction.

“What was that?” Randall’s alarm was evident.

“I don’t know.”

Heart pounding, Dallas climbed to her feet. She couldn’t be caught spying on them. No excuse would be believable. She took a few tentative steps, listening for their voices as she moved away.

“It must have been an animal,” Spencer said.

“I don’t think so.”

Dallas kept moving, trying to follow the route she’d taken coming in. But the half-moon didn’t provide much light, and she knew she was making too much noise.

“You start burying her, and I’ll check it out.” Randall’s voice seemed fainter.

Dallas picked up speed as she gained distance, and once she hit the dirt path, she started to run. Her backpack bounced as she raced for the main road. She couldn’t hear Randall behind her, but her heart pounded too loudly to hear anything else. When she reached the junction, she turned toward the community, abandoning her bunker-finding mission for now.

As she ran, she glanced over her shoulder. In the dark, she couldn’t tell if Randall was back there. She thought she heard footsteps coming up the path from the creek. Dallas sprinted into a cornfield and lay on the ground between rows of young stalks. She faced toward the dirt road and peeked up after a few minutes, seeing a dark figure in the distance. The man was still, except for his head, which scanned in every direction, looking for her.

Dallas lay flat again.

“Is anyone out there? There’s no reason to hide,” Randall called out, obviously trying to sound friendly.

Dallas kept motionless. After five minutes, she heard his footsteps moving away. She cautiously lifted her head and saw him jogging toward the creek. She lay down again and waited another five minutes. She figured it would take them at least twenty minutes to fill the grave, and she wanted to be home before they ventured back up to the road.

Dallas climbed to her feet and jogged toward the house lights in the distance. She had to report what she’d seen and heard. After that, she would find Raff and have a beer with him as a cover story. It was too risky to go out looking for the bunker again tonight.

Back in her apartment, she took her phone into her bathroom—in case the walls were thin—turned on the water, and called Agent Gibson, willing the call to go through. After eight rings, he finally picked up. “Gibson here. Everything all right, Dallas?”

“More or less. Sorry for the late call, but I had an interesting evening.” She recounted the events, keeping the telling factual and low key.

“That is bizarre. We need to move in. I’ll work on a search warrant tomorrow, but you’ll probably have to come in and speak to the judge.”

“I disagree, sir.” Dallas plunged ahead. “I think I know where Emma is, and I hope to get proof soon. But something else is going on, and I need more time to figure it out.”

“We can sort it out when we confiscate their computers and cell phones.”

“I don’t think you’ll get a warrant for anything but the gravesite. Not reporting an accidental death is a minor crime.”

“I want to try.” Gibson took on a tone. “This is my decision, and these men could be killers.”

Dallas hadn’t met Gibson, so she refused to be intimidated. “I know that, sir, but if I come into town to speak to a judge, it could blow my cover. And if we don’t get a wide-ranging search warrant, we may never find Emma.”

A long silence. “Okay. I’ll give you another forty-eight hours. Send me a full report in the meantime.”

“I’ll get it all done.”

Dallas grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat down at her laptop to write her report. She emailed it to Gibson, and at the last minute, sent a blind copy to McCullen. This had been his case, and if he was a good agent, he’d want to be kept informed.

Thursday, May 9, 11:45 p.m.

Raff trudged up the steps, glanced over at Dallas’ door, and wondered if she was still awake. Probably not. This community of anal, paranoid tree huggers followed the “early to bed, early to rise” bullshit. Yet Sonja was different. She had an edgy energy that didn’t match the laid-back commune. Still, he was so tired from getting up at the crack of dawn he didn’t think he had enough juice left to charm a hottie like Sonja.

But once inside, a restlessness kept him from settling down. The unit was nicer and newer than any place he’d ever lived in, but being out here in the middle of nowhere was depressing. He was used to being alone in his own space, but at least in Vegas he could go out and people-watch or chat up the neighborhood deli owner. As soon as he finished this job and collected the second half of his pay, he would scoot. The Destinites might want to spend their post-collapse life here in the sticks, but he would take his chances in the new chaotic world. Spencer’s financial machinations would wreak havoc for sure, but they probably weren’t destructive enough to cause the collapse of global society.

Randall’s plans to blow up tech companies and internet hubs were far more serious, but harder to actually execute. Since Randall had paid him half the money upfront, Raff still planned to hack into the security at the Hudson Street building. But it wasn’t his priority. Ideologically, he didn’t want to help take the internet down, even for a short period, but he would get the codes if he could and earn his pay. He didn’t really believe Randall and his followers could pull it off.

Raff grabbed a beer from the fridge, took off his shoes, and sat down at his laptop. It felt good to be back at his own machine—the only difference between work and play. He opened his private email account and scanned through the new edition of
Hacker New
s
.
Silly stuff compared to what he had in mind.

He tapped into the proxy computer he’d taken over from an accounting firm in Israel, a bot Spencer didn’t know about. From that IPS, he accessed the financial management company again, using David Cohen’s login info and upgraded security status. The telecommuter’s Hebrew name had caught his attention. Especially since Bentley & Eastman managed huge cash investments for Middle Eastern governments. Earlier, as he’d made millions disappear from the oil company’s account—the first step in Spencer’s cyber attack—Raff had started thinking about the deposits held by the governments of Lebanon and Syria. All that money and so little of it going to help people. Dirt-poor refugees like his grandmother, who lived in Gaza, and all those Syrian refugees who were starving in border camps.

Raff picked up his cell phone, wanting to speak to Noni, but knowing she had limited access to phone service. She’d been on his mind since he’d spoken to his mother, and late that afternoon, an idea had percolated. The cyber assault was so potentially devastating he’d dismissed it at first. Yet he’d kept coming back to it until he accepted that it was a righteous thing to do. The Middle East was a powder keg. Violent, misogynistic, backward, religious, and disruptive to global harmony. They were his people, all of them, Jews and Arabs alike, but he felt no connection to the region, except for his grandmother, and he was sick of the conflict and terrorism.