Blowback (The Black Cipher Files Book 1) (4 page)

I deliberately slowed my breathing. The muscles in my neck were so tense a blind man could have seen them. And, even tired, Lucas Goodman was anything but blind.

After our word association game, I needed to check on Bella. Now.

“Ask if they have a library with internet access.”

He eased the Ford Focus up to the window and asked about a library. The cashier, obviously Latino, responded, “
No bibliotecka, esta una cibercafé.”

Internet café. Wow. Hadn’t seen one of those in a long time, but in this rural town with a significant amount of migrant workers, its existence made sense.

I leaned toward the open window, ignoring the rush of heat as my breast brushed against the hard plane of his chest. “
Donde esta las cibercafé?”

The cashier rattled off directions in Spanish.

“
Graçias.
” I shifted back to my own seat, careful not to let our bodies touch again.

“Did you get all that?” he asked.

“Yeah.” As Lucas pulled away, I repeated the directions in English.

“I take it you want to go there.”

Not want to. Had to.

I shrugged, trying to shake off this blossoming unease. “I’d like to check email.” And I wanted to see if my suspicions about the key fob were correct.

“Find out if security has been breached over in Crypto City?” I didn’t imagine his snide tone now.

Crypto City was the term for NSA headquarters. But Staci Grant was an adjunct lecturer for the Department of Arabic Language, Literature, and Linguistics at Georgetown.

If you dug deeper, she was a recruiter for Islamic Fundamentalist groups in the U.S.

And if you had top level, and I mean top level, security clearance, you knew Staci was an agent for the CIA. Nowhere was the NSA mentioned.

Suspicion blossomed
again
.

I delayed by taking a sip of hot coffee. The burning liquid did nothing to soothe my tight throat. After his little bomb, the adrenaline kick-started me far more quickly than caffeine would.

“What’s Crypto City?” Playing dumb didn’t suit me. I could do the part, but I didn’t particularly like it. Stupidity was more effective when I sported a slinky dress, high heels, and no bra. A guy’s IQ tended to go south along with his eyes.

In day-old designer jeans, a sweater, and post-drugging breath the effect was largely wasted.

He pulled up in front of the café. “I saw your NSA badge.”

My NSA badge with Staci Grant’s name? When?

“After.” His gaze poured over my body like warm oil. “When I planted the tracker.”

Suddenly, I was back in that hotel room, where he’d trailed his hands in the same path his eyes now traced. All the blood in my body pooled low, throbbed between my thighs. Even knowing I didn’t quite trust him, my body ached for that physical connection with him again.

His eyes were as hot as my body and helplessly, I glanced down to see the bulge in his jeans.

I couldn’t afford the distraction, the mistake.

I clenched the door handle, forcing myself away from the edge of insanity.

I never had more than one sexual encounter with a man. Never. No attachments, no emotional weapons for extortion. I needed to stay secure. For Bella.

I never broke my rules. But I was tempted.

And that pissed me off. “I’ll be right back.”

He slammed the car door shut as I yanked the glass-fronted door to the café open. Someone had spruced up a tired old diner with red and white toile curtains. The linoleum had seen better days, so had the chrome stools and Naugahyde booths in cherry red.

A silver-speckled curved counter held desktop setups with internet access. My fingers itched to get at a keyboard, but not until I unloaded Lucas.

He dogged me, invaded my personal space, then whispered, “What’s your real name?”

He couldn’t know I was undercover as Staci. I curled my body away from him. “Privacy.”

If we didn’t sit down soon we’d draw the attention of the other patrons. Five for Fighting crooned about not being superman and espresso and steamed milk scented the air as I waited for him to make himself scarce.

“On one condition.”

Tension hummed through me. I could disable him, but we needed to be forgettable.

“What?”

“You answer ten questions.”

“One.”

“Eight.”

“Three.”

“Six.”

“Five.”

“Deal.” He sauntered over to a booth far away from the counter.

I finessed the keys. Sometimes being a techno-nerd comes in handy. I hack into computers for the fun of it. Not much else to do when you live alone, work alone, survive alone.

I accessed Bella’s email, watching her instant message her friends about where to party tonight. For just a moment, I imagined her primping in front of a mirror, playing with eye shadow and lip gloss. Her life was fun, carefree. All the things I’d given up.

Something within me eased. Bella was safe.

I touched a finger to the screen.
Keep safe, baby girl.

I erased the footprints from my illegal foray. I’d made sure Bella was safe.

I glanced quickly at Lucas but he was reading a paper. With a furtive movement, I examined the key fob, eyeing the seam. Pressing on the symbol in the center, the end popped off. I’d been right. The fob hid a computer flash key. I shoved the key into the USB port, accessed my secure and encrypted site and with a few clicks uploaded the scientist’s information on the fob to my untraceable storage account.

I wanted to take a look at the information I’d found, but the tingling at the back of my neck hadn’t gone away. It was growing stronger. Something was definitely wrong.

I wiped away the connection info on the hard drive.

Lucas stood, cased the café. He felt it too. We’d been in one place far too long.

He strode over to me. “Time to go.”

“Yeah.” I was already moving.

We jumped in the car in a synchronized maneuver. Lucas gunned into the back alley, just as a big black Suburban plowed into the parking lot at the diner.

“Duck.”

I was one step ahead of him.

Tracking device, most likely on me. Pretty sure it wasn’t him. We’d switched cars twice, different rental companies, different makes and models. We’d alternated between local roads and freeways.

At the last place, he’d paid cash and used an ID that identified him as Mark Wesson.

I dove into the backseat and started stripping.

Everything came off. Jacket, jeans, sweater, bra, underwear, earrings, knife, even the transmitter ring got rolled into a bundle.

I saved the syringe. I really wanted to hold onto the key fob/flash key but since I’d already uploaded the information to my storage account, it would have to go. I memorized the design; a silver inlay of a caduceus, a typical symbol representing doctors, set in black onyx.

As Lucas cruised down the main street toward the highway, he rolled down the window. “My fantasies of you naked again weren’t quite so public,” he said conversationally as he tossed everything into the flowering bushes that divided the road.

“Can’t go South.” Just in case he didn’t get it.

“Going North.”

Excellent.

We shot up the ramp onto the highway.

“The engine in this tin can can’t beat their souped up truck.”

So much for forgettable. We were in deep sh–.

“Shit. You sure know how to show a guy a good time. Are they going to catch us?”

Ah-ha. Maybe this is the point where he ‘lets’ them catch me. And again they try to get me to ‘save’ him.

I lifted my head above the seat, peering out the back window but the highway, full of pick up trucks and compact cars, was blessedly empty of dark blue Suburbans.

“Have you got a weapon?”

“Duffel bag,” he said. “Who are they and why do they want you so badly?”

I ignored him. Besides, I had no idea.

I rifled through the duffel and pulled out a 9mm Glock. It would come in handy. I placed it gently on the back seat.

“I hate to ask...but do you have anything else to take off?” His gaze was glued to the rearview mirror.

I snuck a glance out the back. I could see the SUV. Three quarters of a mile back. The gridlock would keep them there momentarily, but we didn’t have much time.

“Nope.” I was stark naked.

“Have you got an implant?”

“Honey. These puppies are real.” But, shit marie, what if they had access to my implanted, government-issued tracking beacon? I set the Glock on the seat and rummaged through his bag again. “Nail scissors?”

“Doc kit.”

I pulled the small scissors out. “Get off at the next exit and turn around.”

I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs while I probed the base of my hairline. Breathing through my nose, I felt for the tiny scar on the back of my neck.

Gotcha.
I split the tiny scissors open.

This was going to hurt like hell.

FIVE

With a clean slice, I opened up my skin.

Warm blood trickled down my back as I dug with the tip of the scissors and fought not to pass out. Finally, I got the tiny chip in my slick fingers.

I was right. It hurt like hell.

“Roll down the window and toss this out at the bottom of the next exit.”

I handed him the bloody lump of tissue and silicon.

“Jesus, that’s disgusting.”

Yes. It was.

He sped down the ramp, launched the beacon out the window, and did a fast u-turn to get back on the highway going south again.

I ran my fingers along the seams of his duffel looking for any kind of unusual bump or irregularity in the stitching. I didn’t think they were tracking him but it didn’t pay to overlook details.

Satisfied, I rummaged through his duffel and found a sock. First, I rubbed at my blood-stained fingertips then jammed the cloth against the gouge in my neck.

I grabbed a white t-shirt, soft from use and scented with bleach, and tugged it over my head. He didn’t have any extra pants. Only some boxers.

There was something very intimate about wearing his underwear. “No tighty whiteys, huh?”

“You already knew that.”

I ignored the rush of heat, as the memory of peeling his boxers down muscled thighs, his erection hot and smooth in the palm of my hand, burned in my brain. I vaulted into the front seat and cranked down my window. The late afternoon breeze cooled the sweat from my face.

Traffic on the two lane highway was heavy but cruising at sixty-five miles an hour. Factory workers, leaving the bars after tossing back a few cold ones, and business people with suit jackets off and rolled up sleeves, competed to see who would get home first.

I assessed the traffic, the open median, and the waning sun. A potential nightmare to shoot through but I could, if needed. The weight of the Glock settled in my cut-up hands. I adjusted my grip for maximum efficiency.

We would pass them in a second.

I saw the two men in the Suburban just as Lucas jerked the car into the right lane. He’d spotted the sniper rifle too. Clear shot into our car.

I lunged for the window crank, but it was too late. A dart punctured Lucas’s neck.

“Same kind--” He slumped over.

I grabbed the wheel, then crawled on top of him, wrestling to keep the car straight. The driver’s seat of a Ford Focus is not made for one large person. Forget about two regular-sized people. Lucas’s head lolled on my shoulder, while the dead weight of his body pressed against my back. Between his bulk and my height, we were jammed in.

“Too bad they couldn’t have caught up with us while we were still in the SUV.”

No answer. I hadn’t really expected one.

He wasn’t dead. I could feel the slow, somnolent rhythm of his breath along my neck.

My heart pounded against my rib cage, thudding in double time, booming as if it would leap clear out of my chest. My hands tingled with adrenaline as I gripped the steering wheel in my left and his Glock in my right.

I needed three hands. Still holding the weapon, I steered with the heel of my right hand and contorted to reach around and yank the dart out of his neck. My gaze shot to the rear view mirror, waiting for our company to find us again. As soon as I could, I pitched the dart out the window in case it housed a homing beacon.

So far, the Suburban, the only vehicle I’d spotted, wasn’t behind me. Hopefully, I wasn’t up against team surveillance.

Time to exit.

Fortunately, I’d planned to get off the freeway again and had already mapped out a route along country roads. I took the second exit and coasted down the ramp. At the bottom, I turned away from the town proper and the smattering of fast food restaurants and gas stations.

The road quickly turned rural. Grids of fruit trees lined the state route, with the occasional oasis of farm house and out buildings set back a few hundred yards.

I should dump Lucas.

It would be easy. And expedient.

My gaze roved the open landscape, searching for a good place to leave him. After the last eleven hours I’d determined he really did just want information on the kid, Johnny Wishbone.

He’d wake up eventually. If the dart had the same drug I’d been given, he’d be a little woozy and have a slight sensitivity to light, but basically fine.

Unless he had some adverse reaction.

Unless it wasn’t the same drug. I couldn’t be sure. And somehow a sense of responsibility I didn’t want to have, smothered me.

After about thirty miles, I drove through a small town. A feed store, general store, restaurant and bar all rolled into a single establishment sat on one corner and a gas station on the other. I checked my speed appropriately and knew this was the perfect spot to unload him. But as I crossed through the minuscule town, I left Lucas where he rested, his weight pressing uncomfortably against my back. I estimated I had another hour or so before he woke up, less assuming the dart had been meant for me.

I forced myself to think logically.

Something was seriously out of whack. I had people shooting at me with tranquilizer darts instead of bullets. People tracking me when it shouldn’t be possible, followers with high profile tracking capabilities. Two abductors who acted like scientists not like spies.