Dark Control (DARC Ops Book 4) Page 15

Maybe one thing. He’d discovered evidence that might clear Laurel’s name. But Laurel, and whatever was going on with Sentry Systems, was now just a whole other headache he’d have to deal with. Another impediment to even just the bare minimum of sleep. He couldn’t think about that, not when Ernesto was out there. Alone and in trouble.

  Matthias’ mind raced as the bike raced down the freeway. It would be so easy to just ignore the evidence and go with the flow, passing along the perception that Laurel could be the leak. He could forget about that night, forget about her, and move on, recover.

  No. There’d be no recovery if he did that. Forget a relationship with Laurel. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself.

  Pulling up sharply at Ernesto’s last known, an old runway with a single car parked on it, Laurel, AIDA and all the computer files between them blew out of his mind. He was focused on one thing: Ernesto’s white Impala, full of bullet holes, sitting, still running on the cracked pavement of the airstrip.

  Bullet holes . . .

  Not hail.

  He pulled the beam of his flashlight away from the holes along Ernesto’s door. He’d seen enough. It was enough to remind Matthias of the panic, that shakiness he knew would start coming on. So far he’d only felt the subtle tinges of it, a foreshadowing that began minutes ago when he was crawling through the hundred yards of the tall, wild grass that had taken over the airport. He moved slowly on his belly like he’d done so many times, slithering past long blades of grass, some of them feeling like razors. He peeked his head up now and then, periscoping out of the vegetation to scan the surroundings. By the time Matthias arrived at the runway, and at Ernesto’s car, he could tell at a glance the entire location was empty, devoid of his friend or any attackers. Whatever had happened was over. Whoever put the holes in the Impala was gone. Matthias only cared about his friend. He hoped the car was the only thing that was full of bullet holes.

  Shell casings. They made a tinny sound as they rolled under his boot. He followed them like a trail of breadcrumbs, stepping away from the car, imagining the scenario. Perhaps they were Ernesto’s shell casings. Ernesto firing back at his attackers, after they’d just shot up his car ambush-style, leaping out of the car with whatever injuries he’d sustained, and firing at a fleeing car perhaps, and then him winding up in the tall grass, maybe collapsing a few yards away. Maybe hiding. Maybe still alive.

  Matthias looked for his path, for more shell casings. He saw bits of blood now, and a narrow swath of bent and flattened grass.

  “Ernie?” he called. “Ernie, I’m here, Buddy. You’re okay.”

  It was a lie. He didn’t know if he was okay, or if he was even around to hear the words—whether he was missing, or worse.

  “Ernie?”

  He stopped walking and listened for a response. But all he could hear was the sound of sirens in the distance.

  Matthias looked around again, his flashlight sparking off beads of moisture on the grass. The sirens were getting louder. Police. Paramedics. But all the help in the world seemed a little too late right now.

  He called for his friend again. Just how late was he?

  The beam of the flashlight swept over a dark patch of blood. It looked almost black, like tar. Matthias followed the widening trail of it, until the toe of his boot clunked into something hard. The flashlight lit up the grass, and then a dark shape underneath. He could hear a babbling, gasping sound. A struggle for life. Matthias used his rifle against the vegetation, holding it to one side and revealing, to his horror, Ernesto. The big bloody mess of him, or what was left.

  “Ernie!”

  Matthias crouched next to him, closer to his friend’s face, closer to the wet and rattling breathing sound. He moved the flashlight across his friend’s body, sweeping it up down, checking for wounds, his hand shaking now more than ever, the light sweeping across dark patches of blood-soaked clothing.

  “Ernie, I’m here.” Matthias grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “Who was it? Who did it?”

  Ernesto groaned and tried to raise his head. The breathing sound got louder, that horrific struggle for air. And then his head dropped back down in the grass.

  “Just hang in there.” Matthias felt at his neck for a pulse, desperately trying to stem the flow of blood. My God, there were too many holes. “There’s help coming real soon. They’re almost here.”

  More groaning. No words. No movement. His hand felt loose and cold in Matthias’ grip.

  With the flashlight in his other hand, Matthias waved it around above his head, slinging it madly through the air like a flare to guide the first responders. His gaze was still fixed on the ghost-white face of Ernesto. He had pink froth collecting at his mouth, a bubbly mix of saliva and blood. It would gurgle with each breath. But now even that had gone quiet and still. It was hard to tell if he was even breathing at all.

  There was a screech of tires as the responding vehicles slid to a stop on the tarmac, and then the sound of boots hitting the ground and thudding over to where Matthias and Ernesto lay. Someone was pushing a stretcher through the grass, its wheels, bars, and straps bouncing and squeaking under the hushed voices of the responders.

  “How many are left?”

  “Where are they?”

  “Where is he?”

  “Matthias Wade?”

  His friend was fading away, his face going white and still. His chest still.

  “Stand up and identify yourself.”

  Matthias stood from his crouch, turned, and looked down the barrel of a gun.

  “Drop your weapon,” said one of the officers.

  Matthias dropped his weapon, raised his arms, and then identified himself.

  “DARC Ops?” asked the officer. “What the fuck is that?”

  “Can I drop my arms?”

  “Do you have ID?”

  “In my pocket.” Matthias felt only a little better when he saw the paramedics surrounding Ernesto, crouching, working, and talking. He turned back to the officer who had a gun and flashlight still pointed at him. An FBI agent, perhaps, him approaching Matthias and patting him down while another fished out an ID card from his wallet.

  “Nice to have you on board, Matthias.”

  “I was a little late.”

  “Us, too.”

  Matthias felt a hand grab his arm, pulling him back. “Just give them room,” the officer said. “Let them work.”

  He wanted to be with him, especially if that would be his last chance. But they grabbed him again, two big officers dragging him away from Ernesto.

  “Hold on, sir. Take a breath.”

  “I just want to see him!”

  He fought against their grip.

  “Easy does it, sir.” Someone restrained him, gently.

  “Ernie!”

  Matthias slipped out of their hold and raced through the tall grass, cutting through the blackness without a flashlight, and heading straight for another little patch of light where his friend fought for his life. A little light in the darkness, as frail and dim as Ernesto. He hadn’t moved an inch and now there was blood coming out of his nose. The paramedics had cut his clothing off, but there was so much red Matthias could barely see any skin.

  “Is he breathing?” Matthias cried, his voice high and wild.

  “Sir, come with me.”

  “Is he breathing? Is he alive!?”

  “Sir . . .”

  More arms wrapped around him. More pulling.

  “Ernie!”

  “Sir . . .”

  He felt their grip on him loosen. A hand was patting his shoulder.

  “Sir, he’s gone.”

  23

  Laurel

  The next morning she followed Caitlyn’s advice and took advantage of her family connection to the distinct attorney. Though it came at a price, Laurel calling in sick to work for the first time ever. And probably at the worst time ever. She tried to stop thinking about that, and about Sentry’s increasing workload and approaching deadlines, the suspicions swirling aroun
d there, and instead focus on the task at hand—a phone call to her uncle for which she had to sound calm and coherent. Much different than the weak cough-filled voicemail she’d just left to Sentry Systems. She would have to put that out of her mind, too.

  “Dang, it’s early,” he said, his voice full and groggy with sleep.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s still dark out.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her uncle started coughing for what felt like a minute, then said, “What’s up?”

  “I have an early meeting today, and then I’ll be too busy to talk.”

  “Well what about me? I was too busy to talk. I was finally trying this sleeping-in thing I hear so much about.” There were noises on the other end, like he’d been shuffling out of bed and into a pair of clothes. Drawers, doors, and then a running faucet. And him sighing, saying, “Good God, it’s already five?”

  “Were you at that thing for Abe Hudson yesterday?”

  She had missed a midday press conference about Abe’s passing, followed by an informal happy hour at Whitby’s Olde Tavern. It was probably why Pat had been so drunk when Laurel finally showed up six hours later.

  “I couldn’t go,” her uncle said. “Couldn’t get out of my meetings. It’s a damn shame, though. You know that Abe and I just went out to lunch a few days ago?”

  “What did you guys talk about?”

  “Oh, I dunno, just the usual. Shootin’ the shit. Why?”

  “Did he mention anything about, um, being nervous or anything?”

  “Nervous?”

  “Did he mention the scandal?”

  There was a pause on the other end.

  “Hello?”

  “Laurel? Go on and tell me why you woke me up.”

  “Well, he knows about my job, obviously, and so he thinks . . . he thought I was a computer expert. He had some questions about files and stuff.” Laurel checked her mirror again. The same style and shade of headlights had been following her through a half dozen turns. She looked back to the road just in time to catch a light turning red.

  “What files and stuff?” her uncle asked.

  “He was worried about some illegal activities at AIDA, something that might point back to him.” In the background of the call, a door creaked open, and then the clucking of chickens came down the line. “Are you in the chicken coop?”

  “I’m feeding them,” he said. “So my question to you is, what’s all this matter now? He’s gone.”

  “So he didn’t say anything to you?”

  “No. And I’ve got nothing to do with it . . . and neither do you.”

  “He asked me to look into it for him.” She checked her mirror again. The car was still there.

  “But Laurel, he’s gone. And now you don’t have any obligation. Except to yourself, and keeping your nose out of that kind of business.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re not still snooping, are ya?”

  “No.”

  “Too busy for that, right?” The clucking in the background grew louder and there was the distinct clanking sound of a metal scoop sliding into a bucket of chicken feed. “Right, Laurel? How’s work going?”

  “When was the last time you talked to Pat?”

  He sighed. “Good ol’ Pat?”

  “Yeah, from Georgia Power.”

  “Why?”

  “I saw him last night, when I was at Whitby’s. I missed the memorial for Abe, but Pat was still there.”

  “I’m sure he was. And probably long after you left, too.”

  “No,” Laurel said. “He was kicked out.”

  “I’m sure he was. Good ol’ wet brain Pat.”

  “Well, drunk or not, he knew about the stuff Abe was talkin’ about. And he was scared.”

  “Let me guess . . . He thinks Abe was assassinated at the spritely young age of seventy-three?”

  An image of Abe Hudson flashed through Laurel’s eyes. Abe in bed. Abe struggling. “Well, what about the defensive wounds and everything? Are they even running an investigation?”

  “The police? No. And the family hasn’t requested anything, either.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “What’s crazy is Pat thinking he’s important enough to be offed by anyone.” Her uncle started laughing. “You’re not getting worried, too, now, are you?”

  Laurel tried avoiding the rearview mirror, but her eyes kept flashing back to it. Only this time, the car was gone. Her shoulders felt ten pounds lighter.

  “Laurel?”

  “Yeah. No.”

  “You’re not goin’ crazy, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Got enough stress from work, that new position.”

  “Abe helped me get that.”

  “I know. So don’t mess it up worryin’ about stuff you shouldn’t be worryin’ about.”

  24

  Matthias

  Sleep was going to be impossible, despite what little of it he’d obtained the night before. That night it was all fun and recreational activities. It was Laurel. It was life. Tonight’s reason was the opposite.

  He stayed at the crime scene for two hours, most of which he spent avoiding questions from the local police. Their vibe, from the very beginning, sent up red flags. Their aggression toward the FBI agents, the way they encircled the crime scene after being told countless times to back the fuck off. They hovered like wolves, staring at Matthias similarly. Hungry. Even just their body language, the way they seemed like crooked, backwoods cops at best, and colluding criminals at worst.

  Matthias was a little more inclined to talk to the FBI agents. But he still kept pretty quiet. All anyone knew was that he was a friend of Ernesto’s, in town to work with a cybersecurity company. Someone, probably Ernesto, had tipped them off about his affiliation with DARC Ops, which, for better or worse, had a growing reputation with law enforcement agencies—which also made Matthias wonder if he should have a talk with Jackson when this whole thing was done with. Maybe it was time for a name change. A re-branding. A re-burying of a secret cybersecurity firm that had recently become not-so-secret through a few too many high-profile cases. Maybe it could be the promotion Matthias was asking for, to lead a new offshoot of DARC Ops. He felt strong enough for it. At least for now.

  If not for the new DARC division, Matthias would still be coming back to Atlanta. He’d come on his own time, maybe rent a house, share it with a few trusted veteran friends, and then use it for the center of operations against an enemy that had been slowly materializing and revealing itself with each passing day. Whether or not it was sanctioned by DARC Ops, and with or without Jackson’s approval, he’d vowed to take care of business down here one way or another.

  Taking care of business was on his mind as he drove through the early blue light of dawn, barreling down county roads through the farmland surrounding Atlanta. It was too early to show up at the office, and too late to sleep. But the time was just right for paying a visit to a certain coworker.

  He’d found her info from his unfettered access to Sentry’s employees. And now he found her house, a double-wide mobile home set amidst the dogwood and the thick southern pines.

  Even though his ride took half an hour, he hadn’t really thought out a plan. Normally that would be more than enough time. Normally, he wouldn’t set out on a mission without even knowing what the hell he was doing.

  So what was he doing? Reconnaissance?

  Throwing mud against the wall and waiting for it to stick?

  Just being a loose cannon idiot?

  It had to be one of those. Probably the last one.

  The evidence from the crime scene was slim to nil. Dashcam video had captured nothing of the assailants. Only the horrific audio of gunshots and screaming. Ernesto had been sitting in the car, waiting, just like Matthias had done with him the night before. Only this time, he was alone. And when the loud thuds came, the weather was perfectly calm and clear. A cloudless night. The pale light from a full moon showing up on t
he video and stretching across the field, but nothing else. Just grass. Just nothing at all. And then smoke and chaos.

  Aside from the bullet casings of both parties, the only other evidence left behind were several sets of tire tracks through the grass at the far end of the airstrip, cutting across and joining onto a dirt road where the tracks blended into the crushed-stone ghost trails of hundreds of other vehicles. But back in the weeds, the signature was obvious. Single tire tracks, like that of a motorcycle.

  Caitlyn rode a bike.

  It was a whim, traveling out to her house. A guess. A giant one. It was also incredibly desperate.

  He doubted that she or her bike had direct involvement in what happened to Ernesto. But it was possible that she was part of a “community.” Maybe she went as far as being affiliated with the Southern Dragons, who were and always had been Ernesto’s prime target.

  She was also way too connected to Laurel and Sentry Systems, not to mention the most likely suspect behind not only the file leak, but the subsequent frame job on Laurel.

  If he was going to do anything, it might as well begin with her. And possibly, her friends who had just gunned down Ernesto and needed a place to crash for the night.

  Matthias pulled his bike off the road a quarter mile from her shrub-hidden home. He walked it into the woods and left it behind a row of old pines, and then set out on foot, moving faster than usual, hurrying to finish the deed before the sun crested any higher.

  It was a wild risk, especially taken alone and without anyone’s knowledge, but he was fueled by an anger that blocked out logic—even fear. He almost wanted something to go awry. A confrontation. A chance, or an excuse, to fire his gun.

  But then there was that small part of his brain that still held onto logic, a small little voice that sounded vaguely like Dr. Smyth. A calm and persistent pleading that he stay patient. If he made all the right moves now, there would be plenty of time later to take his revenge. And more importantly, he would know exactly who it needed to be dealt upon.

  For now he had to remind himself, or at least convince himself, that Caitlyn was still technically innocent. She just some country girl trying to get by. She just so happened to be a cybersecurity analyst who lived in a mobile home, who rode a Harley. And who most likely did some seriously shady shit against Laurel. It didn’t necessarily warrant him shooting up her house before 6 a.m.