Dark Control (DARC Ops Book 4) Page 11

  Like her latent horniness, panic wouldn’t help the cause, either.

  She finally, begrudgingly, lifted her eyes back to her computer screen, where they were met with an ache. Already this week she’d racked up record amounts of time staring at her screen. And it was beginning to take its toll on her already-abused retinas. For the last several nights, she would go to bed late and close her eyes, still seeing the blinking cursor paused after an unfinished string of code. She could see it burned into her mind: the imminent failure of her project.

  Sitting uncomfortably at her desk, Laurel suddenly felt the anger, the slow boiling beginnings of it. That was her usual cycle, going from panic, to frustration, and then anger. And once she’d reached that stage, it was too late to turn it back around again. Like the slow build of lactic acid in a marathoner’s legs, she’d felt it. Heavy. Thick.

  Too much poison had built inside, too much vile emotion. Too many thoughts about Mr. Andre’s not-so-carefully veiled threats, about Caitlyn letting her down, about Mr. Geffen’s suspicions that she’d been some type of spy. For Laurel, anger was the ultimate distraction. A dark place that she couldn’t work out of. The only way for it to end was to face it directly, to move through it, to let it blossom fully into a most poisonous fruit. Only after reaching the apex could she reset, like an overturned hourglass.

  She needed a break.

  Needed to reset.

  She left her chair with an angry grunt, stomped over to the door and then closed it—this time, without caring how loud it slammed into the door frame. Back at her desk, standing, she looked at her screen one last time before turning around facing a blank wall. Laurel picked her phone from her pocket and dialed her mother.

  “Hey, Mama.” She ran a hand hard through her hair, her chin tucked down to her sternum, the computer screen well out of sight.

  “What’s wrong, Baby?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Nothin’ at 3 p.m. on a workday?”

  “It’s been a slow one.” It was partially true. Work-wise, it had been one of her slowest and most unproductive days that she could remember.

  “Well, I just thought you said something earlier about a presentation.” In the background, there was the rusty creaking sound of an opened screen door, and then the mewing of cats.

  “Is that Rascal?” Laurel asked.

  “And Oliver.” Her mother made little kissing sounds for them, talking to her precious babies, asking them to come. “And Betsy. You know how she can get to carryin’ on.”

  “She mad again?”

  “Madder than a wet hen.”

  “What happened?”

  “Come on, Betsy . . . Here Betsy . . .Oh sweetie . . .”

  “Mama?”

  Her mother sighed. “What’s goin’ on, Babe?”

  Laurel thought for a moment. It was hard to get the words right.

  In a low tone, Mama said, “I take it you heard about Mr. Hudson?”

  Laurel found it strange that her mother, of all people, would know about their clandestine meeting.

  “Like, you mean the retirement?” she said.

  Perhaps he’d stopped by for those crab cakes, after all.

  “No, Child.”

  “What Mama?”

  “He got sick.”

  Laurel felt her grip loosening on the phone. Mr. Hudson was far too old to get sick.

  “Sick, how? How do you mean Mama?”

  “Child, he passed on. He passed.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “I’m so sorry, Babe.”

  “What?!”

  Mama was making little sweet noises again. Maybe for the cats.

  “Mama, how did he die?!”

  “He’s an old man, child, he—”

  “But how? What happened?

  “He had himself a heart attack.”

  Laurel covered her mouth.

  “This morning. Grandkids found him in bed.”

  The tears had already been coursing down her cheeks and off her chin, dotting her sweater in little wet spots of misery. Somehow, she found herself sitting on the ground, next to her chair, one arm on the seat, the chair swiveling slightly with each heavy sob.

  “They said he went in his sleep, Laurel. That’s about as good as anyone can hope for.”

  “Yeah” she said, her voice filled with tears.

  “I know,” said Mama. “But he was an old man. And he lived a good life.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “And now he’s drinkin’ beers with your pa.”

  She sobbed harder. “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry, Babe.”

  She tried sniffing hard, trying to clear up.

  “You wanna call me back?”

  Laurel sniffed again. “Yeah.”

  17

  Matthias

  So far, Jackson had been right. It had been a pretty painless ride down to Atlanta. The bike was the nicest he’d ever ridden. The Sentry people had been easygoing. And now, he could just surf the web and check out sports statistics until he felt like working on the AIDA hack. He could pretty much do whatever he’d wanted, only he had to maintain contact with Laurel’s work activity. For this purpose, he had a small box opened on his screen, which showed a remote view of her screen. Whatever was on her screen, he saw it. Which might have been his least favorite aspect so far.

  He was used to surveillance, tailing a target around the city, tapping into clandestine conversations. But this felt different. Watching another security analyst at work, it felt almost treasonous.

  When he got tired of his cubicle, and tired of watching her screen, which, for the last ten minutes had appeared mysteriously frozen, he decided to stretch his legs. Maybe head down to the break room for a nice cool glass of sweet tea. He could use the caffeine.

  On his way down the hall he could hear the distinct sound of someone’s anguished sobs. He followed the sound to Laurel’s closed door, where he stood for a moment, unsure of what to do. He’d feel guilty just walking away. Yet, he wasn’t prepared to intrude just yet. The sobbing suddenly stopped, and the door opened to reveal the woman’s puffy, reddened face.

  “Oh,” he said, expecting to see her flinch away. But she just stared at him with dead, glossy eyes. She was frozen. “Are you okay?”

  She shrugged and almost said something. But then her legs seemed to give way, and she was suddenly retreating into her office and collapsing at her chair. Her breathing seemed quite shallow.

  Matthias was still in the doorway. “Can I come in?”

  She nodded as she leaned forward to her desk, tugging a few times at a box of tissues until she had a great big wad of them in her hand, the white wisps of it floating around her fingers like a sad little cloud.

  “I’m alright,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “Just got some bad news. But I’m alright.”

  “Can I get you anything? I was just on my way to the break room.”

  “I’m fine.” She cleared her throat. Wiped her cheeks. “I should probably just get back to work. Sittin’ here like a bump on a log all afternoon.” She blew her nose hard and the room filled with a wet, rattling sound. “Have you tried looking at the hack?”

  Matthias just looked at her, the anguish she was in. It felt ridiculous to be talking about the hack. He wanted to reach over and hug the poor girl.

  “Have you?” she asked, her breathing still shallow.

  “You know what helps me? Breathing real slow, in deep breaths. Whenever I get nervous, or anxious. It helps.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  He walked in, approaching her slowly. “Let’s do it together. Ready?” Matthias took in a deep breath and held it, waiting for her to do the same.

  She didn’t.

  “I’m okay,” she said.

  “No, really, let’s do it. Take a big breath with me.” He inhaled again, this time with her.

  He could see her shoulders elevate, finally, fully, her chest puffed out. He waited three seconds, and then exhaled slowly. She did
the same.

  They continued that way until her crying had ended, until her eyes stopped shifting around the room.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Like shit. My friend just died.”

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.” And then he removed it.

  Laurel breathed in and out, slowly.

  “How does your breathing feel?”

  “Better,” she said.

  “You were hyperventilating.”

  “I know.”

  “That happens to me, too.” Matthias backed off and inspected the rest of her office. “When I get nervous or whatever. I’ve got, uh . . . anxiety.”

  “Me too. Generalized anxiety. Means I’m scared of everything.” She laughed very slightly and it was short lived. “What are you scared of?”

  He could have said any sudden loud noises, unexpected knocks on the door, certain smells. But he really wasn’t scared of them. He was scared of the flashbacks they’d trigger.

  It was too confusing to talk about, so he just kept looking dumbly at her filing cabinets. They were covered in little musical notation magnets. A quarter note here, half note there.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “I’m like you,” he said. “Generalized.”

  “Everything?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, everything.”

  “Well, look at us. Two little scaredy-cats.”

  He slid over two of the magnets, creating a rising quartet of sixteenth notes.

  “But you ride a bike,” she said. “You’re not scared of that.”

  Matthias turned away from his composition, facing her. “How’d you know I ride?”

  “You just have that look,” she said. “You know . . . The boots, pants, your bag. I’ve got a friend here that does. She rides in to work.”

  “Have you ever ridden?”

  No. I’m too scared to even sit on the back.”

  “I’m scared of that too, actually.”

  “What?” She smiled. “Well how is that possible?”

  “I think it’s more of a control thing.”

  “So you’re a control freak?”

  “When it comes to something that goes 150 miles an hour? Yeah.”

  “What about passenger jets? They go a lot faster and you sit in back of them.” Laurel’s chair had spun to face him, and she was leaning back now, her shoulders relaxed. “Didn’t you fly in from D.C.?”

  “No, I rode.”

  Her eyes brightened up. “All the way from Washington?”

  “Yeah, I was actually taking part in a cross-country group ride for Vets.”

  “Oh, cool.”

  He smiled, then shrugged. “And then I made a little detour.”

  “You served?” Laurel threw her ball of tissues in a wastebasket.

  “Correct. Iraq, Afghanistan.”

  She wiped her hands on her pants. “Sorry, I’m totally prying aren’t I?”

  “No, its fine. I thought I was prying, you know, coming in here.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “You sure? Tell me to go at any time. I just hate the sound of a woman crying.”

  “How about a man? You don’t mind it then?”

  “Hm . . . Well, the guys I hang out with aren’t usually the crying types. Tough military guys, you know. Too tough to cry.” That was a lie. He’d heard the worst crying in his life, far too many times, back in the—

  “How about you?” she asked.

  “What about me?”

  “Are you too tough to cry?”

  He thought for a moment. “No.”

  Laurel grabbed a single tissue and wiped her nose with it.

  Matthias said, “I cry when someone I love dies. I think that’s pretty natural.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The anxiety thing, though . . . That’s not as natural. I think it’s something we can work on and get better with.”

  “You mean, like, therapy or something? I’ve never done that.”

  “Or just taking some active steps. I meditate. It’s basically like what we just did. Breathing exercises.”

  “That helps your anxiety?”

  “Yeah,” said Matthias. “It does.”

  “Did you always have that anxiety?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like, you had it even before the Army?”

  “Uh, well . . . No.” It was tough. He’d never actually told anyone outside of his closest friends. But here was this nice young lady, who’d just opened herself up to him, exposed her rawest emotion.

  She was shaking her head. “I couldn’t even imagine what it’s like over there.”

  Matthias gathered up the courage, and just said it. “I have PTSD.”

  And she hardly reacted in any perceptible way, as if he’d just said his name or described his favorite band. There was no sudden recoil or look of horror. Instead, she said, “I have friends who came back. It’s terrible.”

  “I’m doing alright,” he said. “With the uh . . .”

  “The breathing exercises?”

  “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “So . . .”

  She smiled. “We really should start talking about the project.”

  “You sure?”

  Laurel stood from her chair. “Yeah, I’m good.”

  She lifted her arms and began stretching while Matthias tried not to ogle her body. She was curvaceous in all of his favorite places. Everything he’d needed to be sufficiently distracted from a mission.

  “Maybe we should go for a walk,” she said. “It’s not too hot out.”

  It was all the same to Matthias. Her office was suddenly incredibly warm.

  18

  Matthias

  “You don’t mind staying tonight, do you?”

  “Staying tonight?” Matthias looked over a row of Sentry computers.

  Mr. Geffen arched his eyebrows, waiting for his response.

  “You want me to . . . go through everyone tonight?”

  “Sorry, but we’re on a really tight schedule. Would that be okay, or . . .?”

  Matthias knew he’d have to do it at some point, snoop through all their employees’ activity records. But on his first night? There was already so much on his mind, so much new information to digest. And then there was Ernesto’s mission tonight. He’d wanted to tag along. But, apparently, Matthias had his own, less glamorous mission to complete.

  “Might as well just get it over with,” Matthias said, clicking off the screen he’d been on and then opening up a new one.

  “Yes,” Geffen said. “Thanks. Anything you need, just come ask. I’ll be staying late for a bit, too.”

  What Matthias needed was something a little more challenging, and rewarding, and not so contemptible as spying through everyone’s work. Especially Laurel’s. He didn’t even want to think about that aspect of it. But she was, somehow, and so unfortunately for him, suspect number one. Maybe he’d save hers for last.

  As he began opening up the file on the first suspect, er, employee, he thought again of Laurel and how difficult it would be to pry into her work. Maybe he’d feel the same about any of the other employees if he had known them. But it went beyond that. And he’d definitely gone beyond getting to know her. Through their wild night of lust and fantasy, and even today when they’d had to face the gritty reality of their situation in the full light of day, a connection had been made. A bond that he wasn’t sure he could break, mission or not. It was Jackson’s worst nightmare, his operative getting in bed with the potential enemy, Sentry’s potential leak, and potential accomplice to the murder of an FBI agent. Then again, it wasn’t as if he could really argue the point. Not after Mira. Carly too, and Fiona. Matthias grinned. Jackson was going to lose his mind if he hooked up with a mission target, too.

  He hunkered down at the workstation. Through his special access he could see virtually every major action an employee took. They were broken down into subject catego
ries and segments of time. By the minute, hour, day, week. He could see every workspace they had logged on to, every website visited, every piece of entered code. He could even see their individual keystrokes if he’d want to get that specific. The company had implemented a keylogger that had, with the accuracy of a security camera, saved everyone’s activity to the key. Whether or not the Sentry employees knew it, the keylogger was like a security camera pointed at every desk, recording every action no matter how useful or absolutely benign.

  The only problem was that these were hackers he was dealing with. Not just some regular old employees at a real-estate insurance company. If someone really wanted to do anything away from the camera’s all-seeing-eye, there were any number of black hat options. Mr. Geffen knew this too, hence their need for DARC Ops specialty. Someone like Laurel—or at least, whoever the talented leak was—needed a fellow expert to catch her, or him, in the act.

  Several times, Matthias was tempted to skip right to her activity log. The anticipation had been building with each name he’d checked off the list, with each increase in the odds that the leak, if there was one, was her. But she was still in the building. Could he risk rummaging into her file while she was still there? Maybe. But perhaps the more important question: could he get over the ethics of it?

  He had gone through three whole logs, scratching off three names from the list, when he decided he couldn’t wait any longer. Matthias hastily exited the current employee page and went back to the list to find Laurel. He was acting on impulse, on a nagging drive that urged him to click on her name, type in a code, and then open up a huge spreadsheet of her data. As he began to read the words, Matthias could almost hear her voice in his head. And then in his ear.

  “Hey, Matt?”

  He startled and frantically closed the work window, and his body’s sudden jerkiness seemed to take her by surprise. But of course . . . Matthias knew that she was used to the graceful dancer. Not the frenetic fidgeting of a lying sneak.

  “What’s up?” he said, opening up a web browser.

  “What were you just doing?”

  “Uh, nothing, just looking through someone’s work.”

  “Mine?”