Internal Threat (2 page)

Colin provided the same answer, as he did for the next three fingers.

Satisfied, the man reached beneath his shirt where he had tucked the gun. “Thank you,” he said, raising the gun to meet Colin’s forehead.

“Wait!” Colin shouted.

The bullet whispered from the silencer screwed to the end of the barrel. There was a small pop and Colin slumped forward in the chair, blood pooling on the wood floors beneath him.

The man returned the gun beneath his shirt, stepped gingerly over the growing lake of crimson and crossed to the front door. He exited, making sure to lock it shut behind him.

Things had gone fairly smoothly, he mused as he waited for the elevator in the hall. A bit of a mess to be cleaned up, but that was expected in things like this. Besides, he had gotten what he had come for.

There had still been lingering doubts as to whether he had selected the right person for this. However, Colin Nemec had confirmed that he had been correct about who would make his plans into a reality.

Matt Weatherly.

M
att Weatherly gazed out at the nondescript stucco building baking in the Los Angeles sun and tried to ignore the gnawing feeling that something was wrong. His pocket buzzed, providing a welcome distraction. He pulled out his Blackberry and thumbed the ignore button.

“Man, that thing just keeps ringing, doesn’t it?” a young voice to his left said.

Matt smiled and looked over at Agent Cody Dockett, whose face was more suited for an age of eighteen than the twenty-four years Dockett had sworn he was. “Hazard of the job,” Matt replied.

Dockett nodded, turning his attention back out the front windshield of their car.

“He’s been in there for a while,” Matt said.

Dockett nodded again, adding, “He said to give him fifteen minutes. It’s only been nine.”

“You’re right.” Matt did not want to push the issue any further. He was, after all, the guest in this scenario. Even so, the instincts that the army had drilled into him for so many years of service could not help but bubble up to the surface of his psyche.

He tried to remember how long it had been since he had last led a mission. Eight years? Nine? Another buzz from his phone distracted him from the memory. The name above the number said ‘Ashley Kane’ and he hit the ignore button with an extra ounce of pleasure.

“Girlfriend?” Dockett inquired, nosily glancing at the screen.

Matt chuckled softly. “Hardly. My competition. Probably wants to yell at me for taking another two deals from her last week.”

“My partner didn’t exactly share details with me, Mr. Weatherly. Why are you here again?” Cody finally asked.

Matt thought back to this morning, when he was silently asking himself the same question as he got dressed. It had been a week and a half ago that Dockett’s partner, a gray-haired FBI field agent named Robert Helms, had walked into the sleek offices of Server Solutions and requested a meeting with the owner of the company. As Matt and Helms sat down in the plush glass-walled conference room overlooking the glittering sprawl of Los Angeles, Matt sized the man up.

“You’re not here about finding space,” Matt said to him, earning a slightly surprised look.

“That’s right,” Helms answered. “How did you know?”

“You don’t look the type. There are only a few kinds of people that come to see me directly: arrogant twentysomethings that just got their venture capital funding and foreign businessmen, usually from China these days.”

“You said a few types. What about the third?”

“Porn barons,” Matt said bluntly. “You didn’t strike

me as being in that business either.”

“No, but it’s that last type of client that I’m here about,” Helms told him, pulling a manila folder from a briefcase at his feet and sliding it across Matt’s desk. “Everything we discuss here is confidential, understand?”

“Of course,” Matt answered, opening the folder. Inside, there was a pixilated image on a piece of paper that made Matt’s stomach tighten in disgust. A young boy, no more than nine years old. Doing things that no person so young should ever be exposed to. He flipped the folder closed, shutting his eyes tight to dislodge the picture from his mind, then raised them to meet those of Helms.

“We’re going to need your assistance catching the son of a bitch that took those pictures,” Helms explained.

“Whatever you need, I’ll help you,” Matt instantly replied.

“I appreciate that. I assume you have kids yourself, then?”

“A son.”

Matt related the conversation to Agent Dockett as he also glanced up at the digital clock in the car’s dashboard. “Eleven minutes,” he said casually.

“Mr. Weatherly, I’ve only been partnered with Agent Helms a few times but he’s made one thing abundantly clear - I should always follow his rules to the letter.” Dockett shifted in discomfort from the heat, loosening his tie slightly as the sun speared through the front window. “So that gives you about four minutes to explain a little more about how you’re here.”

Matt leaned back, enjoying the warm-up to the business patter he had presented at numerous client meetings and professional seminars. “My business is selling real estate, or rather, a really small piece of valuable real estate. Server space.” Dockett gave him a blank look. “Websites aren’t just things that magically appear on your computer,” Matt explained. “They’re streams of data, huge chunks of it actually, that need to be stored somewhere. The ‘somewhere’ is what’s called a server, kind of like a massive hard drive. Those hard drives are required by law to be placed in very specific environments away from the main servers in case of power failures or cyber attacks.”

“Okay, I think I get it,” Dockett said slowly. “So this kiddie porn company bought one of your servers and you told us where they were.”
“I wish it were that easy. A lot of the actual purchasers of the space sublet the servers when they don’t need it, just like subletting an apartment. That can happen ten, twenty times. By the time it’s held by someone that far down the line, the original owners don’t care who they sublet to. That’s how companies like this one can do their shady business.”

It had taken Matt nearly a week to wade through the sheaves of paperwork his assistant had printed out for him. This particular server had been sublet over thirty times. At last, after enough digging to make his eyes blur, Matt found the IP address of the account he was searching for. The physical address associated with it was a mere six miles from his Beverly Hills office, in an industrial strip of Culver City.

“Helms asked me to come along,” Matt continued. “Monitor activity on the account in case they get scared and start transferring their data to someone overseas.” He held up his Blackberry. “Which I’ve been doing remotely this whole time.” Helms had made contact with the owner of this site and distribution ring, posing as a potential investor into the business. He was currently inside trying to suss out the size of the operation before making any arrests.

His cell phone buzzed again and Matt looked down to see a familiar number – that of his own house. He instantly clicked on. “Something wrong?” he asked.

“Not at all,” replied the female voice on the other end. It was Luke’s nanny, a pleasant woman in her thirties named Ana. “Just wanted to let you know we got back from the doctor’s office and everything went fine.” Luke had been scheduled to receive inoculation against a particularly virulent flu that was circulating California. The shot had been just a precaution, but a necessary one as far as Matt was concerned.

“He’d like to talk to you,” Ana said.

“I’m a little busy right now. Maybe later I could-”

The voice of his son came over the line. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, tough guy. You sore at all?”
“Just a little. No big deal.”

“Good man. Help Ana with dinner tonight, alright?”

“Okay,” Luke replied sullenly. “What time are you going to be home?”

“I’ll be home when I’m home, Luke,” Matt said with more irritation than he would have liked to. “I told you, when it’s business-”

Consecutive pings from the phone cut off his words. He told Luke he would call him back and quickly studied the screen. “There’s something wrong,” he said to Dockett. “The site’s starting to shut down.”

“What do you mean?”
“Call Helms!” Matt shouted.

Dockett suddenly cursed loudly beside him. Outside the windshield, Matt saw Helms stumbling toward the car. The agent clutched at his stomach, blood streaming between his fingers.

Dockett was out before Matt could stop him, fumbling with the sidearm holstered beneath his shoulder. Behind Helms, a scruffy-bearded man in a hooded green sweatshirt ran out the front door of the building, gun clutched in his right hand. He paused in his rush, hearing Dockett scream at him to halt and let loose a quick succession of shots. Matt dove down into the front seat as the windshield shattered. He heard a scream and saw Dockett fall to the ground, a bloody hole scarring his shoulder. Matt stayed down, pulling with his elbows to get to the young agent.

Bullets pinged against the open driver door, then stopped as Matt heard footsteps beating a hasty retreat. He looked down at Dockett whose mouth was working like a fish, nothing but gasps coming out.

“You got hit in the shoulder,” Matt quickly assessed the wound. “You need to keep pressure on it.” He moved Dockett’s other hand to the point of entry and pushed down, staunching the blood slightly. He yanked the radio from the car’s dashboard and toggled the switch. “Agent down. Send backup.”

Confusion and static came back through the speaker. “What? Who is this?”

Dockett moaned. “Helms,” he croaked.

Matt moved towards the elder agent, who had slumped down against the grill of the car. His eyes were half shut, his breathing labored. At Matt’s touch, the man’s eyelids shot up. “I’m fine. My vest took most of it.”

Matt stood up, spotting the small form of the shooter round the corner at the end of the block. He looked back to Helms who gave him the slightest of nods.

Instinct kicked into gear as Matt’s legs sprinted down the street.

He reached the same corner in less than ten seconds and scanned for the shooter. A sea of bicycle riders and rollerbladers eddied and flowed in front of him. He was on the ocean boardwalk that stretched for miles down the coastline of the Pacific. Moving forward, he craned his neck, trying to spot his quarry. Having no luck, he pulled himself up on to the base of a nearby streetlamp. The green sweatshirt presented itself as the man turned in profile fifty yards away. Matt hopped down and ran towards the area.

The shooter whirled, no doubt hearing Matt’s pounding feet, and withdrew his gun. Screams echoed out across the beach as several people next to him saw it. He hesitated and planted himself in front of a young woman on a bicycle coming from the opposite direction. She braked hard and he stepped forward, shoving her roughly off the bike’s seat. Tucking the gun in the front of his pants, his feet hit the pedals and churned.

Matt gave chase but quickly saw that there was no way he would catch up on foot. He spotted a teenage boy on a silver BMX bicycle lounging nearby. Stepping up to him, he pulled out his wallet and counted out crisp hundred dollar bills. “I’ll give you five hundred dollars for that bike,” he said, holding out the money.

“Seven hundred,” the kid countered.

“I’ve only got the five on me.”

“Your loss,” the boy shrugged.

Matt angrily threw the cash at him and grabbed the bike, ignoring the protests and hitting the pedals furiously. He weaved through the oncoming foot traffic as best he could, accidentally clipping a pedestrian’s elbow in his pursuit. At last, the hooded shooter swung back into view, turning into a shadowed alley. Matt followed and plunged into the mouth of the small street.

Bullets smacked the wall next to his head.

He slammed the brakes and flung his body down, cursing himself for falling into a trap. Hearing the shooter’s bike wheels start again, he glanced up. The man had disappeared from the alley. Matt rode forward, more cautious this time, and exited the narrow pass-through. Up ahead, he saw the green sweatshirt hunched over the handlebars, pedaling down an arc of sidewalk that would dump him back out on to the boardwalk.

Matt pumped furiously, gaining distance. His lungs burned with the effort but suddenly, he was mere feet away from the man. The shooter looked back, stunned to see Matt so close and reached for his gun again.

Matt knew this was his best chance.

With one final burst of energy, he pushed the bike forward, released his hands and launched at his attacker. Slamming into him, he heard a satisfying skitter as the gun clattered to the pavement. The man yelped as the pair toppled hard on to the cement. He scrambled frantically as Matt pinned him down, trying futilely to land a solid punch to Matt’s head.

Sirens whirred somewhere behind Matt, followed by two policemen appearing at his side. They yanked the bearded shooter out from under him, quickly clipping handcuffs on him.

“How are the agents?” Matt asked.

“They’ll make it,” one of the cops answered. Matt nodded his thanks. He turned around to see the teenage owner of the bike standing behind him.

“Guess I owe you another two hundred dollars,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it,” the stunned boy replied.

“No way.” He withdrew his business card, handed it to him. “Call that number and tell them to cut you a check.”

“You sure?”

“You knew I was desperate, smelled a bigger sale and held out for more money.” He flashed a smile at the shocked kid. “That’s exactly what I would have done.”

D
usk was spreading its way across the canyons of the Hollywood Hills when Matt pulled on to Sunset Boulevard. Night meant the arrival of the revelers and it looked like the festivities were starting early from what he could see. He shook his head at a tall boy with multiple silver piercings and black fingernail polish traversing the crosswalk, leading an iguana on a trailing leather leash. Sometimes, it took visions such as these to shock Matt back into the reality of his world. Miles were not the only thing that separated him from Fort Bragg, North Carolina.