Dark Threat - A DARC Ops Christmas Novel Read online

  Dark Threat

  DARC Ops Book 5

  Jamie Garrett

  Wild Owl Press

  Contents

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  1. Sam

  2. Clara

  3. Sam

  4. Clara

  5. Sam

  6. Clara

  7. Sam

  8. Clara

  9. Sam

  10. Clara

  11. Sam

  12. Sam

  13. Clara

  14. Clara

  15. Sam

  16. Sam

  17. Clara

  18. Sam

  19. Clara

  20. Sam

  21. Clara

  22. Sam

  23. Clara

  24. Sam

  25. Clara

  26. Sam

  27. Clara

  Also by Jamie Garrett

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Jamie Garrett

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. All requests should be forwarded to [email protected].

  Connect with me on Facebook: http://facebook.com/JamieGarrettBooks

  Click here to get an email when the next book is released, plus advance sales notice and freebies.

  Cover design by The Final Wrap.

  Editing by Jennifer Harshman, Harshman Services.

  1

  Sam

  Sam sat on an old double-sided bench, taking in the dusk scenery of New Orleans’ French Quarter. The old-world architecture, blocks of fern-lined balconies, the impromptu brass bands. Amazing food on every corner. Beignets . . . He didn’t want to leave any of it.

  He was further convinced while talking to his boss, Jackson, who was probably sitting in a stuffy office a thousand miles away. Sam could hear the stress of the Capitol and all its high-intensity vibrations in Jackson’s voice, even through the phone’s choppy digital signal. Washington D.C.—more radioactive than the phone call, was the epicenter of all of it. A convergence of incestuous politics and foreign intrigue. Crooks, lobbyists, hackers. Sam was getting sick of it.

  “So when are you coming back to D.C.?”

  He was especially sick of his other job, a psychology professorship at George Washington University. He’d had a short break from it, traveling through the south and ultimately ending up and working in New Orleans. But as the job was wrapping up, so were his excuses to stay. He’d have to return.

  How the hell could he get out of it? Even for just a little while longer. Maybe he could hire a teaching assistant to babysit his students? He could buy some time that way. But for how long? God, would he ever want to go back to D.C.?

  “I’m still wrapping things up here,” Sam said, rising from his bench and taking a few aimless steps toward a cluster of pigeons. He had to move and get the blood flowing for this one. He had to think.

  “Aren’t things pretty well wrapped up?” Jackson asked.

  “Yes and no. I’m trying to get access to the surviving bikers. I’ve talked to some contacts with the police here and they think I might be able to get an interview.”

  “An interview?”

  “An interrogation, really,” Sam said. “I want to talk to them face to face, read their expressions, their body language. I’m actually surprised no one asked me to do that already.”

  “Do they even know who you are?”

  Sam chuckled. “They do now.”

  “A local expert, huh?” There was a hint of snarkiness in Jackson’s voice.

  “Yeah,” Sam said, as the pigeons scrambled away from his feet and finally took off flying. “Well, not local for long.”

  “And I’ve got to ask, what the hell is the point in an interview?”

  “An interrogation. I want to see how far this goes up the chain.”

  “We know how far,” Jackson said. “It goes to the DA.”

  “I’m talking about the in-between,” Sam said. His mind was already off and running. How many different personalities and cogs must come between an outlaw bikers club and the District Attorney of Atlanta? There had to be many more involved that had yet to be officially implicated. He could work his way back to D.C. that way, slowly, moving up the chain in reverse order than Matthias and Laurel, tying up the loose ends from New Orleans to D.C. by way of Atlanta. It was necessary. It wasn’t just a stall tactic.

  “Hmm,” Jackson mumbled. He took a big, loud breath and Sam could almost imagine the wheels turning in his boss’ head. The suspicions. As an expert in body language and voice analysis, Sam could identity and interpret lies with almost one hundred percent accuracy. The head and eye movements, the minute affectations to voice. As a seasoned expert, he had a systematic way of breaking it down, of translating the subtlest of clues. But for all that knowledge, it didn’t mean that he could lie to save his life. Just because he knew all the tricks, didn’t mean he could pull them off, himself. In a way, that was a source of pride, not being a good liar himself. But then again, there were times when lying was absolutely necessary. And in those times he’d falter.

  In lieu of hiding his true intentions for staying in New Orleans, Sam could always just change the subject. “So how are Matthias and Laurel doing?”

  A momentary silence on the other end stirred up a little worry in Sam. But his jaw finally unclenched when Jackson decided to go along with the misdirection. “They’re good,” Jackson said with almost a dragging hesitation. “Matthias is recovering quiet well. He’s on crutches now.”

  “That’s good.”

  “He has no feeling in two middle toes.”

  “Oh,” Sam said. Was that serious? He tried to imagine two of his own toes having no feeling, if it would have any ill effect. He was undecided, and so he asked. “Is that, like, a big problem?”

  Jackson paused for a moment and then, in an equally cautious voice, said, “To the best of my knowledge, he doesn’t surf, or walk tightropes, so . . .”

  “What about Laurel’s mother?”

  “The surgery was a success. She’s still undergoing treatment, but the prognosis looks good. Laurel’s quite happy.”

  Sam asked, “Have you had much time to talk with her?”

  “Laurel?”

  “She’s a hacker. Looking for work now her boss has gone to jail, I suspect.”

  “Alright, Sam.” Jackson’s tone had reverted back to the annoyed boss of a D.C. cybersecurity company. “You’re really going to stay in New Orleans?”

  Sam wasn’t too happy about the latest subject change. He’d been walking around in a little circle and now he stopped dead in his tracks, looking back at the front of a three-story, sky-blue-colored building. A restaurant, its warm glow seeping through the windows. He looked for inspiration, from anywhere at this point, on how he could explain things to Jackson.

  “And what about your class?” Jackson asked.

  “I’ve got some assistants that will cover for me.”

  Jackson sighed loudly, his breath blasting against the microphone. “You know I’ll need you back at here at s
ome point.”

  Looking at the entrance, Sam spotted a woman. Black cocktail dress above bare legs. She stopped right before the door and was putting something away in her purse, fishing around in there before her hand re-emerged and went up to her hair, fluffing it out just right. She began to work on her clothes, flattening a wrinkle, all of this in front of the window. The light reflected on her hair, making it shine as she tussled it out and back over her shoulders. Even from the distance, she looked beautiful. And she was a good reason to end his call with Jackson.

  “Yeah,” Sam said, finishing up. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

  Sam ended his call, still watching as the woman reached back into her purse to draw out her phone. She checked something on it, and then finally straightened her shoulders and made her way through the front door. In her absence Sam wondered what it would be like, to date such a woman, to be with her. Sam put away his own phone, and then proceeded to adjust his own clothes, and his hair, feeling to make sure that the wind hadn’t kicked up something unruly, all before proceeding to the restaurant.

  He’d been feeling it all day, but now the nervousness had ramped up considerably. It would be good to finally get in there and sit down and have a drink. Settle in. It was almost comical, feeling this way. Like a kid. Like one of his damned students.

  “Reservation,” he answered to one of the wafer-thin blonde girls behind a small podium. “Hyde.”

  “Sam Hyde?”

  He nodded, and then followed her into the warm glow of the Maison Rouge. Walking past tables and plate-handed servers, he’d had the chance for a sneak peek at the menu. The aromas, the smiles of the recently served, the sounds of fierce cutlery. But food was the last thing on Sam’s mind.

  And when he finally saw what he truly wanted, he felt almost no appetite at all. It was a stark contrast. He had been famished for hours, but suddenly, instead of hunger, an odd fluttering sensation grew in his stomach. But even this sensation vanished as soon as her eyes met his. Then, there was nothing. No other people. No restaurant. Not even time itself, but just a blankness, a warm, cozy blanket surrounding them—and only them.

  “Hi, Clara,” he said, sounding a lot more nervous than he’d hoped.

  She greeted him with her own silly smile, and a contagious silly energy spread between them as Sam took his seat opposite. And for a moment, they just sat there smiling, waiting for the next introductory bit of small talk to get out of the way. He was instantly glad that she seemed as bad at this as he.

  “Nice place,” Sam said, before two menus and water glasses were dropped before them. He ordered a bottle of red and then sat back, admiring her. Still more silence until, “Okay, why is this so awkward?”

  She laughed with him. “I don’t know. But, seeing as how it’s already awkward, I might as well just get this over with now.”

  “Get what over with?”

  She had the napkin in her hands, twirling it, squeezing it. “I’m just curious about something.”

  “How can I help?” He studied her carefully, watching how she pursed her lips and looked down at her water glass, a hint of red on her cheeks. He chuckled softly. “Clara, what is it?”

  “I’m just, uh . . .” She laughed again nervously, still playing with the napkin. “Fuck, I always say the stupidest things.”

  It was a big part of why he liked her so much. He’d finally met his match for social awkwardness. She was certainly unique. A professional. A poet. Speed reader and typist. Clara worked at the courthouse as a stenographer. She was also a single mother, a good one, who worked her ass off yet still had a little time to enjoy life. More than ever, he was hoping to be a part of that time, even in some small way like this diner at Maison Rogue. And perhaps more.

  “I was just thinking,” she said, her voice trailing off.

  “Uh-oh,” Sam said with a smile.

  “Yeah, I know. Not smart, huh?” Her gaze finally moved up to meet his, her hazel eyes burning so beautifully. The muscles around her mouth seemed to loosen, her lips almost quivering open as she seemed ready to finally say it, whatever it was.

  God, he hoped she would say it.

  But then her head shot down and she was looking next to her chair. “Ah, damn, hold on.” She was reached down and brought a phone back up to the table.

  Although it was an etiquette faux pas, Sam really didn’t mind. She was a busy professional, a juggler of many important odds and ends. At least one of those odds or ends was well worth an interruption.

  “What’s wrong?” she said into the phone, her voice half concerned and half annoyed. “You sure? Molly isn’t being a terror, is she?” Clara looked at Sam with an apologetic wince before mouthing the word sorry.

  Sam shook his head with a furrowed brow. Nonsense. Don’t be sorry at all. And when Clara got back to her conversation, he made sure to avoid eye contact. He tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, a non-entity looking away, at anything but Clara’s conversation. He took a sip of wine. He picked up the menu. He perused the entrees: the smoked steak tartare, the crab and green papaya remoulade. Should he get the chicory coffee lacquered quail, or a fig-braised duckling on a sweet potato mascarpone pancake? Or maybe play it safe with shrimp and grits . . . He’d been eating that almost daily with no let up.

  Sam then suddenly felt Clara’s eyes on him, and then heard her quiet, hesitant wording of, “It’s . . . going well.”

  It . . . He wondered what that ‘it’ could be, how it was phrased in the original question. Had Clara just been asked about her night? Was she asked about her . . . date?

  He took a peek at Clara. She was growing a little antsy, her body shifting around more often and uncomfortably. She kept talking, saying, “Yeah . . . yeah . . . okay . . . yeah . . .”

  He’d known about Clara’s eight-year-old daughter from the beginning. Molly, in fact, was their first point of contact, the first excuse to talk to each other, after the little girl had bowled into his knees after turning a blind corner in a courthouse hallway. Molly must have grown tired of waiting for her mom to finish up a conversation, and decided that a brisk run—eventually into the belly of a grownup—would be a good enough distraction from the boredom of adulthood. Even for Sam, the outcome was well worth the buckling of knees. He and the court stenographer could finally talk—rather, exchange an apology and its acceptance. A simple little nothing that, as he’d hoped, could blossom into several weeks of having somewhat of a reason to talk again. And there they were, at Maison Rouge, blushing over wine.

  Hell, he owed that little girl a lot. She broke the ice for him. What’s a simple little dinner interruption in contrast?

  “Sorry,” Clara said to him when the call was over.

  “For what?”

  “The phone. I know that it’s bad form.”

  He shrugged. “Special circumstance.”

  “Yeah,” Clara laughed. “She’s special, alright.”

  Sam could well imagine. Molly was certainly cute, if not occasionally demonically spunky. Like her mother, she had quick and intelligent eyes and an uncanny adult’s wit. Sam knew enough about adolescent psychology not to scare Clara with the forecast of a troublesome, yet supremely worthwhile little girl. “Is everything okay, though?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Clara said, reaching for her wine. “That was just the sitter, asking about some rules.”

  “Rules?”

  “You know, Molly thinks she can con her way into some further allowances when I’m not around.”

  Sam smiled and said, “She’s clever.”

  “Yeah, exactly.” Clara was not smiling. She grabbed a menu, cleared her throat, and said, “So, anyways.”

  “Yeah, you were just saying something about . . . about saying something uncomfortable?”

  Her look of confusion quickly morphed into a little scowl. “Oh . . . Oh, for God’s sake.”

  “What?” He chuckled a little, amused with how much fluster she’d kicked up in only the first five minutes of their dinner.
What was it? What the hell did she have to say?

  Clara said, “She even brought it up again.”

  “The babysitter?”

  “Yeah, she, uh . . .” Clare winced slightly. “She used the word date.”

  Sam rolled his eyes. “Oh, my God.”

  “What?”

  “Nah, I’m just kidding. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Like, it’s not a date?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Well, I was kinda hoping it was, to be honest with you.”

  She let out a deep breath, her shoulders lowering like a weight had been lifted off them.

  Sam felt relieved, too. “That’s what this is, right? Or . . .?”

  “No,” she nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Which one?”

  Scrunching up her mouth, Clara seemed to be deliberating on the spot. She finally asked, “But what about Washington?”

  She was skipping ahead. Way ahead. And Sam liked it. However, his job in D.C. and the necessity to be there for it and for Jackson would become a problem sooner rather than later—if this was, after all, a date.

  “When are you going back?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to put it off.”

  “The semester, though.”

  “I’ve got it covered.”

  “And what about when it’s back in session?”

  Sam bowed his head in a sad little nod, a most unfortunate acquiescence. That damn school . . .

  “Not that I’m trying to jump too far ahead,” she said.

  “It’s a perfectly reasonable concern. And maybe not too far ahead. I will have to return, sooner or later.”

  She forced a smile. “Am I worrying too much?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Typical me. Here we’ve just confirmed date status, and already I’m . . .” She rolled her eyes.

  And he shook it off. “Nah . . .”

  “. . .already sabotaging it.”

  “Well, let’s celebrate it.” He reached for his glass and held it up across the table. “To our first, official, awkward date.”