Dark Control (DARC Ops Book 4) Read online

  There was an audible gasp at the table of bikers. And if Matthias was confused, they were even more bewildered. He was friends with a cop? Who the hell was he?

  “Guys, chill, this is my friend, Jackson.”

  “Are you a cop or something?” asked one of his buddies.

  “Sort of,” said Jackson, chuckling. “I’m his boss.”

  Some of his buddies laughed nervously while the others shrugged and then went back to eating.

  “Then you should leave him alone,” said Willy. “He’s on vacation.”

  He was actually on a leave of absence, “sick leave,” to be exact. Mental sickness to be even more exact. The time off, and this bike tour especially, were meant to give Matthias time and space to clear his head and to work through his demons. Jackson’s presence would only bring the opposite. Surely, he knew that.

  So what the fuck was he doing there?

  They talked about it outside, alone, but surrounded by a legion of parked bikes that sat glistening in the full afternoon sun. They were waiting, begging to be driven away from the possibility of work.

  “That’s a nice rig,” said Jackson, admiring the sleek aerodynamics and racy red paint scheme of Matthias’ Ducati 848. “Real nice. But I’ll have to get you a new one.”

  “What?”

  “Well, a new old one.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “If you want to ride around without being followed, you’ll have to get something a lot lower tech. How do you think I found you?”

  Matthias frowned. “You put a fucking tracking device on it?”

  “No.”

  “Jackson, this is supposed to be my vacation.”

  “I didn’t need a tracking device,” said Jackson, tapping the bike’s speedometer. “I turned your bike into one.”

  “How nice . . .”

  Jackson was pointing to the new, fancy, technically superior bike. “That thing’s chock full of hackable, trackable computers.”

  “You really couldn’t just leave me alone for a week, huh?”

  “I’ve got something nice for you. She’s a beauty. Vintage. No electronics, just chrome pipes and guts. The way a bike should be.”

  “The way a bike should be is fast. And that’s what this is.” Matthias ran his hand down the smooth, curvaceous side of his bike, caressing it like a lover, and protecting it from Jackson’s hurtful words.

  “Sure, it’s fast,” said Jackson. “But the internet’s faster. I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Yeah. And I’d love to know why.”

  “Because I think I found the perfect assignment for you.”

  “I’m already on it.” Matthias was inspecting some piece of gunk at the rear wheel well.

  “Yeah, I know, I know. But you’ll still get to ride.”

  “With my crew?”

  “No,” said Jackson.

  “Because we’re headed to Louisiana. The bike convention.”

  “They are. You’ll be off to somewhere else.”

  Matthias sighed.

  “Atlanta,” said Jackson.

  “I’m not going to Atlanta.”

  “It’s super cushy. A real sleeper, trust me.”

  Matthias stared at his face. “That hospital gig started out the same way.”

  “I spoke to your doc.”

  “Jesus Christ . . .”

  “No, don’t worry, he didn’t say anything. I mean, uh, he says you’re doing great.”

  Matthias looked at Jackson’s face again, imagining the spot where his fist would land. Maybe the mouth would be best place to start.

  “He thinks it’ll be a great way to get back into action. Get back in the saddle.”

  Matthias pointed to his bike. “I already am in the fucking saddle.”

  “And you can stay on it. You can ride it to Atlanta. On your new bike.”

  “And then can I drive it back to my new job?”

  Jackson laughed.

  “I’m serious. I want a new position. A promotion.”

  “Yeah, I can give you a raise.”

  “No, not just that.”

  “You want a new title.”

  Matthias shook his head. “It’s not that, either.”

  “Well, can you tell me what the hell it is, so I can do it for you?”

  Matthias stopped to think for a moment. It sounded too good, like Jackson had handed him a blank check. What was so terrible about this assignment that made him so generous?

  “You sure it’s an easy one?” said Matthias.

  “Yeah, it’s perfect for you.”

  “Why do you want me in Atlanta so bad that you’re willing to give me a promotion?”

  “Well, I’m stretched really thin.”

  “That’s nothing new.”

  “And it’s in Atlanta,” said Jackson.

  “So? What’s so bad about Atlanta? The heat?”

  “Hotlanna? No, I’ve got a good friend there. Kind of owe him a favor. You know him, too. Ernesto Tejada. FBI.”

  Ernie . . . An old friend from Iraq. He came back home and got himself a proper job, not this nutty DARC Ops bullshit.

  “Yeah,” Matthias said. “I know Ernie. Smart guy.”

  “It would kill me if couldn’t help him out.”

  “With what?” asked Matthias.

  “With you going there.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Helping him out,” Jackson said. “He’s investigating a computer company. I can tell you more about it on the way there. But it’s real simple. Micky Mouse.”

  “What am I doing there?”

  “Just talking to people,” said Jackson. “You won’t even need a gun.”

  Matthias had to laugh at that one.

  “I’d send my own mother,” Jackson said. “But she can’t deal with the humidity. Bad arthritis.”

  “At least she doesn’t have PTSD.”

  “Hey.” Jackson’s face tightened, the smiles and the good times disappearing. He looked almost hurt.

  What was he so hurt about?

  “You know,” Matthias said. “I can joke about it. It’s okay.”

  Jackson was looking over the bike again.

  “It even helps to joke about it.”

  Jackson was nodding as he inspected the Ducati’s bug-covered windshield. And then he looked back up to Matthias and said, “So what do you think of Atlanta?”

  Matthias laughed. “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “I still want that promotion, though.”

  “You deserve it.” Jackson said. “You’ve been through a lot.”

  “I don’t want a promotion just because I got shot up.”

  Jackson shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. I mean you’ve done a lot. For me. For DARC Ops. You’ve been, like, the backbone here. You know?”

  He knew. Though it was something he tried not to think about. It wasn’t good for the ego to dwell on how vital he was to Jackson’s organization. But it was true. He might not have been the flashiest of Jackson’s crew, or a savant like his Mira, or even the most intelligent. But he’d always prided himself on his hard-nosed, blue-collar work ethics. He’d always be the one to gut it out. And he’d have to keep that up if he wanted to help himself.

  Jackson put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re, like, my guy. You know? I trust you.”

  It would be the hardest thing he’d have to do in the last two months, walking back into the roadhouse and looking into the blank faces of his riders, and saying goodbye. Taking on Jackson’s assignment—or challenge—was no easy task, either. It meant that his vacation, and in some sense, his recovery, was over. Whether or not he was truly ready, he’d still have to see about.

  But a challenge was what he needed, even if it would not be so challenging at all, according to Jackson’s well-worn promise. He remembered how things back at the hospital got quite challenging—and in a hurry. In an empty hallway that suddenly filled with up with gun smoke, that wet feel
ing all around him as he writhed on his back. The old tightness crept back in, clamping down on his chest.

  “But it’s totally up to you,” Jackson said. “You feel ready for this, right?”

  He was ready to have something good to remember, to not go out on a bad note. He looked around at all the empty bikes. Riding around with these guys was fun and all, and he loved them. But they were all retired from the action.

  He wasn’t. Not yet.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m ready.”

  4

  Laurel

  It was one of the most historic bars in downtown Atlanta, full of old wood and humidity, where tradition trumped air-conditioning. Where glasses sweated profusely onto paper napkins in low light. Where Laurel’s drink, a mint julep, came with way too much mint. Having pruned the foliage and leaving the leafy scraps on the bar top, she made her way to a corner table in the darkest corner of Whitby’s Olde Tavern.

  Even through the darkness she could see his old age, the outline of his seersucker suit, the white manicured tufts of facial hair. She could see him, Abe Hudson, rising slowly to greet her, his weathered face catching a shard of light. It revealed a gentle smile. And then a hand reaching out for the softest of handshakes.

  “Evenin’ Miss Laurel.” He pulled back her chair. “You’ll have to excuse the location. I know it’s . . . improperly dark and all.”

  “I’m glad.” Laurel sat in the creaky wood chair. “I prefer my bars to be almost as dark as possible.”

  “Especially when we’re meeting clandestinely.” He chuckled softly. “I used to be more discreet about the locale, in the old days, but now . . . Well, I guess I just don’t mind being seen with a pretty young lady.”

  There was, of course, some element of fun, or at least novelty, in sharing a late-night cocktail with one of Atlanta’s more illustrious of politicians. A lifetime public servant who’d even, for a single year, attained office as mayor, but was now just happy to fade away into the bureaucratic background. Cushy stuff only, the man was practically retired.

  Abe smiled at her again from across the table. A weak smile, but genuine.

  Strange, too. The whole thing was certainly out of character for Laurel. And the way Abe’s smile kept fading after every attempt hinted that beyond the novelty of their meeting, something was deeply troubling the gentleman politician.

  “So how is your mother?” said Abe. “I haven’t talked to her in a long time.”

  “She’s good. She’s keepin’ busy.”

  “Me, too.” He sighed, rotating his beer glass on the table. “Though I reckon I’ll have a lot more time for her crab cakes soon. Golf, too. Tell your uncle that.”

  “You could tell him yourself.”

  “I could?”

  “He’s coming to your retirement party.”

  “Oh,” he said, nodding. “Oh, okay. Yes. Wonderful.” He was looking straight down at the table while rubbing his chin, as if something had been specifically not very wonderful. “Jeepers . . . So many people are coming to that damn thing.” He laughed, perking up a little.

  “Well, cheers.” Laurel clinked her glass with his and then took a sip of the perfectly sweetened julep. Since the mint jungle had been cut back, it was a wonderful drink. A real neat bar, too, despite the uncomfortable heat. And it was neat to see Abe Hudson, in another slightly uncomfortable way. They’d never met for drinks before. But she knew better than to think the worst, that there was anything “‘improper” about their meeting. So why the need for clandestine darkness?

  “The state contract,” he said. “I set that up.”

  She laughed. “I kinda figured as much.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “Tell that to my boss. He’s jumping for joy.”

  “Yep, I reckon he is,” Abe said. “It’s a nice chunk of change. State money . . . Don’t get much better than that.”

  It was a big, fat, no-bid contract. And it was awarded to Laurel’s employer, Sentry Systems, a boutique cybersecurity firm. The client: AIDA, the Atlanta Investment and Development Agency, a virtual State-run slush fund. Abe Hudson didn’t exactly work for them, but the man had connections. This connection, in particular, meant a huge contract and huge dose of “State money” for Sentry Systems. It also meant big things for Laurel. It was Abe’s kindness, an unexpected favor translating into an opportunity. And a test, her first go as Assistant Project Manager.

  “I wanted to put you in charge of it,” said Abe.

  “Yeah, that’s one way to do it.” She reached over and tapped the top of his hand, her face moving from humor to dead seriousness. “Thank you, really. It’s been so huge for me.”

  “You can thank me by doing a good job,” he said. “And then gettin’ yourself a promotion. Use this to really, uh, y’know, uh . . .”

  Laurel sipped on her straw, waiting for him to finish.

  “Ah, hell,” he said. “Enough of that. You know what you’re doing. Your old man taught you well.”

  She smiled. “He never taught me how to hack.”

  “Well, he taught you business. It’s all business, ain’t it?”

  She stared at him for a moment, and said, “Mr. Hudson?”

  “Come on, Kiddo. You know it’s just Abe.”

  “Abe . . .”

  “Yes . . .”

  “You don’t have to worry about it, about them knowing.”

  “Hmm?

  “I just wanted to say that.”

  His shoulders lowered. So did his voice. “No one knows what, Kiddo?”

  “About you and Daddy being friends and all.” She waited for his reaction, but there was none. “I mean, I didn’t tell anyone that you’re doing this, um, this thing . . . like as a favor? I didn’t say nothin’. And I won’t.”

  “Well, that’s good. Because you don’t have to.”

  “Okay.”

  “Because I already did.”

  “Oh.” She felt herself blush.

  He smiled. “It’s okay.”

  She was suddenly happy to be in the darkest corner of Whitby’s Olde Tavern.

  He started laughing. “You thought I could get away with hiding that? In this town?” His laughter grew and Laurel tried joining in. “But anyway, he was a good ol’ boy and everyone always liked him. So it don’t matter, and you should just stop thinking about it.”

  She took a drink.

  “I keep forgetting how young you are.”

  “I don’t,” she said. “I’m nervous as shit there.”

  “No, you’re doing fine.”

  Laurel supposed she was doing reasonably well with their big new contract. Reasonably. She gave herself that. She hadn’t left open a backdoor and left them vulnerable to a catastrophic hack. She hadn’t wiped their system clean with an errant keystroke. And her team was surprisingly on schedule with the project, bolstering the security and encryption of AIDA’s email server. They wanted it airtight.

  She took another drink, trying to push away a sudden creeping thought. A worry about all the little tasks that she didn’t have time for today. And the ones yesterday, and last week. She began to think of all the homework she’d have to tackle tonight—just as long as she kept herself to two drinks. There was some code that needed finishing, the final touches on their new and improved TLS—but still, it was such a finicky bitch of a system. And not the type of work she should do while buzzing on topshelf mint juleps. Cybersecurity, and her new opportunity, demanded a clear and fresh and useful state of mind.

  She had anything but.

  And the conversation had gotten away from them. Far away. In the time it took for Laurel to beat herself up over missed work assignments, Abe had somehow begun talking about trips to Savannah. The beach, of all things.

  Abe kept laughing between sips of beer. “So you really do that?” he asked. “Really?”

  They were talking about fucking wakeboarding, while she really just wanted to ask what it was all about—the favor, the project, why he’d called her ou
t for drinks. Was he ever going to bring it up?

  Her drink was almost empty.

  Which meant she had just one and a quarter drinks left—if she still intended to be a good girl tonight and do her homework. But in the end it was the topic of their discussion, whatever little secret he’d been holding, whatever brought them into the darkest corner of the bar, that would probably dictate how drunk she’d have to get.

  Fuck it.

  “So what’s with all the secrecy, Abe?”

  The laughter abruptly stopped. His hand, after having just pulled away from his beer glass, quickly reached back for it like an infant on its rattle. “You mean, right now?”

  “No, I mean . . .” Abe was looking away, over her shoulder, his eyes tracking something. When she turned around, it was some guy in a brown corduroy blazer, walking by with his finger waved in the air at good ol’ Abe Hudson.

  Abe said, “Hey, Pat.” And then his eyes returned to Laurel’s, but he didn’t bring the smile with it. That smile, fake or not, was for his friend Pat. For Laurel, it was an almost mournful expression, a pair of eyes glistening softly against the light of the bar. “Pardon me,” he said quietly. “You asked me about . . . secrecy?”

  She felt bad. She rushed him.

  And who the hell was she to put Mr. Hudson on the spot? Who the hell was she to do anything but enjoy the nepotism that saw to her fattened paycheck?

  “No, it’s okay,” she said. “We can get back to that later.” Her hand reached for her drink, a glass of melted ice and leaves. “Hey, you know what? You actually asked me about wakeboarding . . .”

  “Fuck wakeboarding . . . No, pardon me.” He cleared his throat, sat up straight in his chair, and started fidgeting with his collar. “Okay, why don’t I just get on with it, then? Lord knows I kept you long enough.”

  “No, no, it’s been nice. Honestly.” Already she felt like a cheap, neurotic drunk.

  “Miss Laurel, I’ve kept you. I have.” He leaned over the table, and very quietly said, “Okay, you wanna know what’s what?”

  “Mr. Hudson, I so want to know what’s what.”

  “Abe,” he said.

  “What’s up, Abe?”

  “Okay, Kiddo.” He moved his empty glass aside and leaned forward. “I don’t trust some people. Some of my people. You know what I’m saying to you?”