The Dark Hour (2 page)

Imagining any number of emergencies, everything from her eleven-year-old sister, Angie, being deathly ill, to her stepfather having a heart attack, she gripped the steering wheel in anticipation. “Mom? What’s wrong?”

“It’s not Mom, it’s me!” came her sister’s overly dramatic reply. “And
everything’s
wrong.”

Syd glanced over at Scotty, who mouthed,
Forty-niners lost.

Great. “Angie, we’re really busy right now.”

“Are you chasing bad guys?”

“Two in fact.”

“That is
so
cool!”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

“Mom’s taking me to the dentist. She wants to know if you’re coming home for Christmas.”

“Of course I’m coming home. Can we—”

“And
she says you better book a flight if you want a good price.” Her voice was singsong, implying that their mother was probably in the background, telling Angie what to say.

An SUV pulled onto the freeway in front of her car, blocking her view. “Tell Mom that—well, I’m sort of in the middle of something. Okay?” As much as Angie loved Sydney’s occupation, their mother did not, and Syd found it best to keep her from hearing about the more dangerous aspects of her job, like hurtling down the freeway after possible bank robbers. “Call you later?”

“Okay.”

“Love you.” Syd turned her attention back to the road, did some quick maneuvering around the SUV, clearing her line of sight. “Is the info on this Hyundai legit?” she asked Scotty. They’d been following it for ten minutes, with nothing suspicious to back up the claims.

“Called in this morning anonymously, so hard to say.” He turned on the FM radio. “You got any news channels programmed in? Senator Grogan’s talk is coming on pretty soon.”

“Wouldn’t want to miss
that
exciting entry in the annals of political speeches.”

“Trust me. This one you’ll want to hear,” he said, adjusting the volume of the talk show he’d found, keeping it low enough to still hear the police radio. “I think he’s prepping to drop a bombshell at the upcoming global summit meet.”

“What bombshell?”

“He wanted to reopen the LockeStarr investigation.”

A political nightmare was the first thing she thought. Two years ago, LockeStarr Management was being considered by the Senate to manage and secure the control of U.S. ports of entry. The bid was backed by several key politicians who were in favor of turning over the running of the ports to a private entity to free up much needed tax dollars. And it would have slid by the Senate hearing without a hitch had one of them not inquired about who actually
owned
LockeStarr.

Apparently there were more foreign investors than U.S.

And still, even with that knowledge, the Senate was prepared to award the contract to LockeStarr—until
60 Minutes
ran their piece about foreign entities running U.S. ports. The public outcry was instant. LockeStarr pulled its bid, and it was seemingly forgotten, except for the investigation that was quietly opened, then closed when nothing turned up.

“So why now?” she asked, glancing over at him, then back to the road.

“Those college kids who were killed by the pirates.”

“What does that have to do with LockeStarr?”

“Just that it backs up Senator Grogan’s reasoning to tighten security, not just in the ports but in our shipping lanes. The bombshell, though, is he wants to see if someone in the U.S. helped facilitate the attempted takeover of the U.S. ports by LockeStarr. He thinks that whoever owns LockeStarr is behind it.”

The Hyundai suddenly swerved from the fast lane to the slow. She pulled her foot off the gas pedal.

Scotty grabbed the mike. “They’re exiting!”

“Stay on ’em,” Special Agent White radioed back. “The intel is the job’s going down today. We’re about a minute behind you.”

Sydney eyed her mirrors, saw nothing but big rigs behind her, the exit coming up fast.

“Go!” Scotty said. “Go! Go!”

She braked until her vehicle was directly parallel to the space between two of the semis. Foot over the accelerator, she stabbed it, yanked the wheel over, wedged her car between the two trucks, then veered to the off ramp. The Hyundai driver, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice her maneuver and she kept a good distance between her car and theirs, as she weaved in and out of the thick traffic on the surface streets.

Scotty keyed the mike. “We’re still on them,” he said, calling in their new location as Sydney followed the Hyundai into the parking lot of a shopping center.

White radioed, “What the hell are they doing there?”

Scotty looked up at the sign posted over the grocery store entrance. “There’s a bank branch inside the grocery.”

“Ten-four,” White said. “I do
not
want them going in. Intel says they’re armed. The driver’s on searchable parole. I say we take them down and do a search.”

“Ten-four.” Scotty looked over at Sydney as the Hyundai cruised slowly up the parking lot. She sped around the perimeter, pulling in behind the car, then hit the lights and siren as he called in the felony stop of two possible armed suspects.

Within moments Special Agent White’s Ford Interceptor skidded into the parking lot behind her car, siren screaming. Sydney slammed on her brakes, angling her vehicle for the stop, and she and Scotty jumped out, drew their weapons.

“FBI!” Sydney yelled, her gun pointed at the two men.

The passenger bolted from the car, then slipped on a patch of rock salt, and fell facedown on the ground.

“I’ve got him,” Scotty said, then moved in that direction as Special Agent White ran up from behind to take Scotty’s place, his gun aimed at the driver.

“Get your hands up where I can see them!” Sydney shouted.

The driver exited his car as ordered, but then reached for something. Sydney pressed her finger on the trigger, felt that first initial click. A hairbreadth away from firing. Then she focused on his eyes. Saw something. Not anger. Not desperation.

Terror. As though he knew in that moment his life wasn’t his own.

And for an infinitesimal moment they were connected. The same. Pawns in a game. “Hands up!” she said.

He raised his hands. Empty.

Sydney released the trigger.

“Jesus,” White said. “We almost killed him.”

She held the man at gunpoint, ordered him onto the ground beside the passenger as the air pulsated with the sirens of a half-dozen patrol cars that flooded the parking lot. Scotty cuffed both men, patted them down, then searched the car.

Not a gun to be found.

Anywhere.

And with half the Metro Police force staring at the four agents, probably wondering what all the fuss was about for two unarmed men. The radios blared to life: “Shots fired! Shots fired!”

Sydney heard chaos and screaming in the background, and then a panic-filled voice transmitting from the radio. “It’s the senator . . . Senator Grogan’s been shot!”

Then a faint voice, her sister’s, coming from the speakerphone in her car, saying, “Mom! You’ll
never
guess what happened!”

Great. She could hardly wait to get her mother’s phone call.

Chapter 3

December 3

Big River Discount Electronics

Washington, D.C.

T
he moment Alvin “Izzy” Isenhart heard the breaking news about Senator Grogan’s murder on every television in the store, he knew he was in big trouble—bigger trouble than any nineteen-year-old should be in. And though he tried to look away from the TV screen mounted beside the others, he couldn’t move. He stood there transfixed, telling himself over and over,
This can’t be happening
.

“Where are the video games?” The sound of someone clearing her voice, then, “Hel-lo-o?”

Izzy turned toward the woman, and it took a moment for him to realize she was speaking to him. “The senator was shot.” He nodded toward the screen.

She glanced up at the TV, watched for a few seconds as the camera panned over the community college where the speech took place, then said, “The video games?”

“I’m sorry. I—what did you want?”

“Vid-e-o
games
.”

He pointed her in that direction, then, ignoring another customer who wanted to know if they still had the Sony fifty-two-inch TV on sale, he walked toward the front of the store, where the manager stood at a computer, looking up an item from some list on his clipboard. “I need to go home,” Izzy said.

The manager never took his eyes off the monitor. “You can’t. We’re shorthanded.”

“I don’t feel good. Like, I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Can’t you at least wait for the next shift?” his boss said, finally turning toward him. “Jesus. You look like hell. Get out of here. And for God’s sake,
don’t
throw up in the store.”

Izzy walked straight out the door, not even bothering to clock out. He pulled off his vest as he crossed the parking lot to his car, unlocked the door, started the engine, then sat there for a full minute, his hands sweaty, his underarms sticky even though it was in the mid-thirties outside and his heater had not yet kicked in.

Think
.

Could any of this be traced back to him?

Oh God . . . What the hell was on Hollis’s computer? The very thought sent his heart racing, and he started to back out just as a white florist van drove behind him. He slammed on the brakes, shaken that he was too upset to even drive.

Idiot!
If he hit someone, that would bring the police and then where would he be? He didn’t want anyone to see him, and waited until the van turned into the next row before he pulled out of the parking lot, wondering if he should drive to Hollis’s, wipe the computer clean in person before the cops got there. But then what if they were watching Hollis’s place? Not willing to chance it, he drove to his own apartment instead. Because he was thoroughly spooked, he parked behind the complex, then walked to his own building. Trying to shove his key in the lock, he dropped it twice before he managed to get it in the door, then bolted it behind him.

His desktop computer, the one that linked to Hollis’s, was in the living room. It was where he spent the majority of his time, and he sat in his chair, booted up his computer, then swiveled around to turn on the TV, wondering if there had been any more information.

Every local channel was covering the shooting as Izzy sat there in the safety of his apartment, remotely viewing Hollis’s computer, meticulously going over every file, making sure there was nothing left to identify him with. No records of chats, no programs or viruses. Nothing but the desktop background photograph of a girl Hollis had been friends with, Maddie. Izzy had a crush on her, but it never seemed right, asking her out. Not when it was clear that Hollis liked her—why else leave her photo on his machine? he thought, as the TV reporter began discussing the arrest of the man responsible. Izzy glanced over in time to see them leading someone in handcuffs to a patrol car.

Hollis. They’d arrested
Hollis
.

No time. Concentrate . . .
Izzy turned back to the computer, poised his hands over the keyboard, getting ready to access Hollis’s e-mail folder, when suddenly it disappeared from the screen.

Izzy looked down at his fingers, then at the mouse. Still untouched.

Someone
was in Hollis’s computer.

He ripped the Internet router from the wall, worried that they would see him poking around in Hollis’s files. And then he realized that they’d already seen him. If they were in Hollis’s computer, they
knew
who he was. That meant they could find him. Looking around the room, he wondered what he could salvage, what he should take, his gut twisting the whole time.

Izzy threw some clothes in a duffel bag, packed his laptop into a backpack, then ran a program to wipe the desktop computer clean. He had no idea how long they’d been in his computer. Even with all his firewalls, they’d gotten to him.

Probably with the program that Hollis had on his own damned machine.

He should never have listened to the guy. And now Hollis was in jail for murder . . .

Forget Hollis. What else did he need? He made a quick walk through of the apartment, figuring he had what he needed, and more importantly, wasn’t leaving anything vital behind. He grabbed the duffel and backpack, then his keys. It was by chance he glanced out his front window through the two-inch parting in the curtains, and saw the white florist van with two men in it, cruising through the parking lot.

He froze.

It was the same van he’d seen at his work.

Izzy pulled the curtains tight. Maybe it was nothing. This was a big complex. Someone else could be getting flowers. But somehow he doubted that and he walked over, turned the TV back on, hoping they would think he was inside, listen in first to see if they could hear what he was doing. If he was lucky, that might buy him a few seconds.

How to get out? The patio door, then jump over the fence? Bad idea. Someone watching from the front could see the patio. And on every cop show he ever saw, they always covered the doors. Not that he thought these guys were cops. But he figured they watched the same shows, so he decided to go out his bedroom window instead. They’d have to walk all the way around the building to see back there.

The cold air hit him as he opened the window, then popped off the screen and lowered his duffel to the snow-covered ground. He checked to make sure he had his car keys. The moment he started out himself, he heard someone knocking on his front door. As quickly and quietly as he could, he closed the window, replaced the screen, then walked through the complex to his car.

Chapter 4

December 3

ATLAS (Alliance for Threat Level Assessment and Security)

U.S. Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

T
he moment Special Agent Zachary Griffin saw Marlene, the division secretary, walk past his door with a sheaf of papers toward the copy machine, he slipped into her office, leaving an envelope with a Visa gift card on her desk. She was leaving at the end of her shift for two weeks. Vacation, she’d said. Truth was that she was driving cross-country to pick up her daughter and new grandson, who were moving back home. And though Marlene tried to downplay the situation, Griffin knew financially it would be a strain, because she’d already helped her daughter pay for a much needed divorce attorney.