The China Dogs (23 page)

“You're thinking it's noncorporate?”

“This is platinum grade intel that someone is protecting. Reminds me of when I cut across the VICAP feeds in Quantico and we had to move because the feds got nervy.”

Stevens folds his newspaper and places it on the table equally between him and his table companion. “Sounds like a big one, Danny boy. Do you need someone older and wiser to help you haul it in?”

“I might. I've got ident trackers on it now, so I'm capturing bursts whenever they come, but I'm having real problems decoding the data. I'm trying to write something special.”

“Special is why we pay you the big bucks.”

Danny drops the remains of the muffin and wipes crumbs and chocolate from his hands. “I'll crack it. Trust me on that.” He gets to his feet and picks his computer bag off the back of the chair. “But if I shake up a nest of gun-toting badge-wavers with wasps in their asses you better have somewhere I can run to.”

Thunder cracks as he heads outside and the bad feeling that ran through Danny's head in the coffee shop keeps on brewing all the way back to his place in Greenwich Village.

It rains all night.

Rains like it must have done when Noah decided it was time to start gathering wood and gathering companions.

In the damp, two-room rental above Kuzniaki's bakery, Danny Speed has hardly been asleep when he opens his baby blues and stares at red numbers blinking back from the bedside clock.

0305

That's no freakin' time to be awake.

He listens to the rainfall as it comes down hard and vertical, like gunfire from an angel sniper on a thick, black cloud.

Blasts of buckshot bounce off the metal tops of cars and the fat plastic garbage bags dumped at the kerb. Heaven is raising a racket loud enough to wake the dead.

His bed seems empty without Jenny.

She doesn't like staying at his place and he doesn't blame her. He doesn't like it much either. One day, they'll live somewhere like the loft down in the financial district, the place he works from. One day, soon he hopes, when he gets enough money together and stops taking risks like he does.

He lies on his left side and listens to feral dogs barking in the alley beneath the fire escape at the back of the bakery. He pictures them fighting for scraps from an overturned trash can.

The landlord's faded brown curtains don't quite fit and through the gap he watches moonlit droplets hit the pane, roll together and run in streams down the window. It reminds him of camping as a kid. Lying awake beneath Boy Scout canvas, watching storms flash and supernatural shadows climb the sides of the tent.

There's a bass roll of thunder that rattles the old casement window.

Or at least that's what he hopes it is.

But he's not taking chances.

He slips out of bed in just his CK's and slides a hand underneath a big stand-up wardrobe. Among the dust and dead flies his fingers find what he's looking for.

The moulded grip of a semi-automatic pistol.

If burglars, crackheads or any kind of liberty-takers are breaking in, then he's got a shock for them.

A forty-five-calibre shock.

Danny checks the magazine and silently unlocks the front door of the apartment.

He takes a long slow breath to calm himself and to concentrate. He puts his foot against the bottom of the wood to stop it creaking as he eases it open.

The light on the landing is out.

There's a creak on the stairs.

He presses himself to the wall and runs through his options.

He could shout a warning. Or just rush forward and fire at anything that looks like it might shoot back.

Danny hears a surge of wind and rain outside, a passing car. The downstairs door must be open.

There's a click.

Maybe the latch.

Maybe something more sinister.

He drops to the floor and spreads himself flat, arms outstretched; the Glock clasped rigid in both hands.

A figure in black is almost at the top of the stairs. The head of a second man is coming up a few steps behind him.

Danny waits a beat.

The first man reaches the top step.

Danny shoots him mid torso. It's lower than he would have liked but enough to drop the sonovabitch down the stairs.

Before the second figure can open fire, Danny puts a bullet in the middle of his head.

He scrambles to his knees and runs to the stairs.

The first guy isn't lying there. Despite the gut wound he's got his shit together and fled.

But his buddy is flat-out and dead.

Even in the blackness, Danny can tell that the prostrate shape with arms spread wide isn't ever going to give anyone any trouble again.

The young hacker walks quickly back to his apartment to pick up his phone. He needs help and needs it quick.

80

Coral Way, Miami

G
host rises and dresses first. He makes coffee in Jude's small kitchen and watches the morning news on her TV. Middle Eastern tensions have taken over the lead spot. The tinderbox tensions of Syria, Lebanon, Israel, and Egypt all stacked like one big bonfire that constantly gets lit and doused. Straight after the international news comes an update on the dog attacks. There's a clip of him and the reporter in the Everglades where the four holiday makers died, followed by brief shots of him and Annie Swanson arriving at the scene in Coconut Grove where the two women died. The bulletin names them as twenty-four-years-old Astrid Gerber and her mother, Heidi.

Zoe appears in the doorway, wearing his shirt. “'Morning, what time is it?” She rubs a hand through mussed hair.

“Just after eight.” He gets up and heads to the worktop. “You want coffee?”

“Intravenously.” She gets up on her tiptoes to kiss him as he passes.

Ghost notices his shirt ride up and can't resist cupping the curve of exposed buttock as her lips find his.

Zoe's eyes slip to the TV as he finds a clean mug and pours her coffee. “What time do you have to go in?”

“I want to be there by nine.” He passes the drink over.

She takes it. “Thanks. Can I come with? I can be like your own personal photographer.”

“No, you can't. Last night was a one-off. I just wanted you to see how horrible it was.”

She puts her drink down. “Why?”

“I don't know. I guess I wanted someone to understand.”

“Doesn't that cop Anna understand?”

“
Annie.
You mean Detective Annie Swanson.”

“Yeah, Detective Swansong. Doesn't she understand?”

He laughs at her deliberate mispronunciation. “I meant someone close to me. Someone I can talk to without having my guard up.”

“Is that what I am—someone close?”

“I guess you can't get much closer than we got last night.”

“I wasn't talking about sex. I've had sex with people and been in a completely different world at the time.”

“Neither was I. I was talking about a closeness to the heart and soul, not just the genitals.”

“Genitals?” She laughs out loud. “What a crazy word. Who the hell decided that was a good name for such a great part of the body?”

They're standing face-to-face. Inches apart. It's killing Ghost not to kiss her, sweep her into his arms and carry her back to bed. This time it would be fast and frantic. Last night's need for tenderness has been supplanted by raw animal attraction.

Zoe reads his eyes and smiles. “I have the time if you do.”

He hesitates.

She doesn't. She tilts her head and presses her lips against his. Lets her breath moan inside him, lets her body take control of his.

“I've got time,” he says, breathlessly. “Nothing is more important than this. Than you.”

81

The White House, Washington DC

P
at Cornwell and Jay Ashton flank Clint Molton as they sit in front of the flat screen and watch a recording of the early news.

Ashton hits pause as the item finishes. The press secretary is eager to exonerate himself from what looks like an early break in strategy. “I'd like to stress that this particularly wild and noisy horse bolted from the stable
before
Don Jackson and I held the multiagency briefing.” He points at the freeze frame of the pale-skinned, sunglass-wearing detective. “David Caruso there has really set the cat among the pigeons.”

Molton can't help but smile. “Horses, cats,
and
pigeons—that's a lot of mixed metaphors even for you, Jay.”

“Perhaps it is, Mr. President. My apologies. But believe me, the print media are already pumping police stations all over the country for comments about the dangers of dogs. This Walton guy is fanning the flames of speculation, he's potentially our worst nightmare.”

Cornwell is staring at the head-and-shoulders shot of Ghost on the TV. “I sure hope his boss tears his smart-ass balls off.”

Molton looks surprised. “For what? For being right?” He points at the screen. “The guy
is
right; we should all be damned scared. And given how little this lieutenant knows about what really is going on, his comments are disturbingly smart. Instead of ripping his balls off for trying to save lives we should bring him into the fold and have him help us.”

Cornwell can't believe what he's heard. “You're joking, right? Tell me you're joking, Clint.”

“No, I'm not. Think about it for a minute.”

Ashton is already ahead of the VP. “There might be kudos in appointing a cop who's been on the front line of these attacks to be part of a presidential task force. If this issue captures more of the public attention and our opponents start throwing criticism around, then having him inside the tent is better than having him outside.”

Cornwell's not convinced. “I prefer we just have his captain rip his balls off and tell him to shut the fuck up.”

Molton turns to his old friend. “Pat, I never go to war with the good guys—you should know that by now. I like the task force idea, talk to Don and make it happen.” He eases himself out of his seat and stretches. All the traveling and sitting are screwing up his spine. His doctor says he should take more exercise, start doing yoga, but given his timetable the best he can manage is a few stretches and a walk around the desk. “And get this cop on board. He's smart and very recognizable, we don't want someone like that becoming the face of the opposition, the sound bite the media turn to every time they want to whip us.”

Cornwell throws up his hands in defeat. “Done. Now can we talk about the real reason we're here?”

“Sure.” Molton settles behind his desk. The
Resolute
desk, named that because it was made from the planks of HMS
Resolute
and gifted to the U.S. by Queen Victoria. “You think we should call a Joint Chiefs of Staff and tell them of Xian's threats.”

“I do. They're being battered blind by the Middle East machinations, what with NATO, the UN, and public opinion swinging back and forth, we've got to keep them fully in the picture.”

Ashton looks horrified. “It will leak, Mr. President. Call a meeting like that and it's like mailing copy to the news desks and saying, ‘Hey guys! Look, here's something fresh for you to throw your shit at.' ”

Molton looks toward the VP for an answer.

“You have a duty to inform them, Clint,” Cornwell says. “The Joint Chiefs and the National Security Council too—though I'm sure Don has already unofficially done that. You can't hold back on a threat to the nation. If we really take this weaponized dog threat seriously—and we're starting to behave like we do—then we
have
to tell our military commanders and our closest colleagues in government. We can't just keep this between ourselves and the CIA.”

The President touches the rich old grain of the desk.
Resolute.
A word meaning “firm in purpose or belief; characterized by firmness and determination.”

He looks up. “Call it, Pat. Get them and the NSC together for a meeting in the Situation Room as soon as agendas allow. Have Don put together a briefing package to illustrate proof of threat. Jay, have a communications strategy in place before we sit down with them, I don't want their heads of media in the loop, and let's all pray that this is an enormous waste of everyone's time.”

82

New York

D
anny knows the score.

When serious shit happens you phone a friend. You grab what you can and you run.

Run fast.

He throws basic clothes in a gym bag plus the backup drives from his computers and puts the load in the panniers on his motorbike. He sends quick text messages to Jenny and his crew with excuses for quitting town, then ditches all his phones, even the one he uses for legitimate calls and family.

Danny thrashes the Kawasaki all the way downtown to the loft.

Moving quicker than a burglar, he disconnects the cables to the backup computers he and the other hackers had been using and stuffs them in a rucksack, along with a couple of bottles of water and some cereal bars on his desk.

Within half an hour he's crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, watching harbor lights disappear in his wing mirrors as he nervously checks to see if he's being followed.

Danny parks up on wasteland off Furman Street, the bridge to the right of him and lower Manhattan gleaming straight ahead.

Ten minutes later a black Lincoln rolls to a stop and the trunk pops open. Danny puts his rucksack and gym bag in the cavernous space, closes the trunk and gets in the passenger seat.

Brad Stevens shakes his head with exaggerated disapproval. “I'm not your housekeeper, Danny boy. God did not put me on this earth to run around cleaning up your almighty messes.”

“Who would you have had me call?”

“You did right to call, it's just the middle of the night is my time for sleeping. Funny that, eh?”