Hack, page 20
Nik was still nursing a sore ankle from the spill he had taken on Walker’s boat and knew it would be safer, especially with night approaching, to stick to the trails. He looked to Gyp for guidance. The dog responded by tugging at the leash, panting faster, and striding toward the woods, a look of sheer joy on his face.
“Okay, off-trail it is, but take it easy,” Nik said and lashed the dog’s lead around his waist, then commanded Gyp to heel. Nik activated the navigation app on his watch to make sure he didn’t get lost and set off at a moderate pace. He left his phone in his vehicle because he found it a pain to run with, and, besides, he didn’t want to be pestered by calls or text messages, especially from Teo or Maggie.
Nik didn’t see another soul the whole time and crested the hill above the stone bridge a couple of minutes before five. As he made his way down the slope, he could see a lone figure at the far end of the bridge, his back to him, peering down into the water. Every once in a while, the man would lift his head and survey the path leading to the bridge as if he were waiting for someone.
Getting down the hill quickly proved tricky. The slope was steep, and the recent snow and rain made the going slow. Nik picked his way around exposed roots and downed trees, and it took him and Gyp almost ten minutes to descend.
When he finally reached the bottom, Nik could make out the Washington Redskins sock hat, scarf, and peacoat Walker wore. The man had remained pretty much in the same spot on the bridge, staring down into the creek that rambled below.
“Cal,” Nik called out when he stepped onto the bridge.
The man swiveled his head in the direction of the voice and, after hesitating for a moment, took a tentative step toward Nik, who detected something awkward in Walker’s movement that he had not noticed before. He seemed to favor his right side and appeared to have a pronounced limp.
“You okay, Cal?” Nik asked as he approached, and then looked down at Gyp and commanded the dog to sit. When he looked back up, he was staring into a pair of yellow eyes and a thick tuft of mustard-colored bristles.
Chapter 49
January 18, Washington, DC
Jesus, Mother Mary, Joseph, the woman thought, this can’t be happening. Maggie was beside herself when I called to tell her I’d be late for book club. “Whole Justice Department in an uproar,” she said. “Heads will roll.” I pumped her for details, but she clammed up. Told me to listen to a podcast called The Front Page. Said it would explain everything. Well, what do I know about podcasts, so I made Hawk pull it up on his computer. For a moment there, he thought I was in his bedroom for some other mischief. I set him straight on that score pronto. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The whole world now thinks the Chinese have got their hands on top-secret US technology. Sure, they denied it, but who’s gonna believe the Chinese? No way to sugarcoat it. This is bad.
I mean, what are the odds that, of all the spies in China, we pick one with a conscience? That’s just terrible luck, plain and simple. After they’re done trying to cover their asses, government investigators are gonna start knocking on doors, looking for the person who stole the technology and sold it to the Chinese. There goes everything—ski condo, beach cottage, townhome. Talk about poof. Got some funds stashed offshore as insurance. I could get by, but, Jesus, who wants to live like that? Not me.
Hawk’s got a plan. Says it’ll work. It better, all I have to say. Need to shut up Walker, Liu, and that Newsdog reporter—sorry, Maggie—once and for all. Won’t solve all our problems, but it buys us time to think things through. Get our heads straight. Never seen Hawk so worried. That reporter’s got him rattled. And motivated. Just maybe I’ll give him a little more incentive. Put on those Louboutin stilettos with the red soles and that skirt that barely covers my ass. Give him a peek at the Brazilian wax job. Dangle it in front of him. Make him cross-eyed with lust. Couldn’t hurt.
And besides, a girl has needs, too.
Chapter 50
January 18, Washington, DC
Mo hit pay dirt on the next-to-last name on his call list. Dallas Armstrong worked for a defense contractor in San Diego and had been stationed in Afghanistan with the 75th Regiment for one tour of duty. He immediately recognized the face and the luxuriant mustache of the man Mo emailed him.
“Name’s not Calkins, though,” Armstrong told Mo over the phone. “It’s Hawkins, with an H. Everybody called him Hawk. I didn’t have a lot of interaction with him. To be honest, I tried to keep my distance.”
“Why’s that?” Mo asked.
“He’s bad news. Lots of stories, rumors, gossip, really, about him killing civilians, torturing prisoners, running black sites. Our guys were there because we took an oath to defend our country and the Constitution and had a duty to fulfill. Not Hawk or guys like him. He was there because he enjoyed it. It was never clear to me who he was working with, or for. Could have been the CIA, could have been a private security firm.”
“You believe those stories about him?” Mo asked.
“I believe about half of ’em, and even then, that’s bad enough. Worse thing I heard is that he sliced off the tongues of young Afghani boys, no more than twelve or thirteen years old, who were reportedly spying for the Taliban. I know the story is partially true, because I met some of those poor bastards. All they could do was make gurgling noises. It’s none of my business, mister, but if I were you, I’d steer clear of him.”
“Cut off their tongues, Jesus. That’s barbaric,” Mo said. “Anybody you know who was close to him that I might talk to?”
“There was one guy, an explosives expert named Cooley. They were thick as thieves, always talking about blowing shit up and throwing in together when they got back to the States. You might want to try to track him down. He was from the Midwest somewhere, Minnesota or Michigan, one of those northern states, I think.”
“Lawrence Cooley?” Mo said.
“Well, ah, yeah, Larry Cooley, what we called him.”
“Thanks, we know about Cooley,” Mo said. “It was a YouTube video he posted that put us on Hawkins’s trail in the first place. We didn’t know how close they were. That’s helpful.”
“You already talk to Cooley, then?” Armstrong said.
“Nope. Too late. He’s not talking to anyone.”
“Why, he flee the country?” Armstrong asked.
“He’s dead. Murder-suicide. Allegedly.”
“You don’t say? You think Hawkins might have had something to do with it?” Armstrong said.
“Possibly,” Mo said. “I certainly wouldn’t rule it out. Cooley was wanted by authorities in the bombing of Trident Office Park here. Calkins—I mean, Hawkins—was seen at the office park shortly after the explosion.”
“Well, good luck getting to the bottom of it, but keep my name out of it,” Armstrong said. “I don’t want that psychopath coming for me.”
“Promise,” Mo said, then texted a quick message to Nik, telling him about the link between Cooley and Colonel Mustard. But his name’s not Calkins. It’s Hawkins. That’s why we couldn’t track him down. They call him Hawk, and apparently he’s one murderous son of a bitch. You need to be careful.
Nik’s phone, safely tucked away in his vehicle’s console, buzzed forlornly with the incoming message.
Chapter 51
January 18, Washington, DC
“Colonel Mustard,” Nik stammered.
“What?” the man said and stepped toward Nik like a peg-legged pirate, one hand in the pocket of the peacoat; in the other, a bayonet, its blade glistening in the bridge lights. Before Nik could register what was happening, the man pulled a Taser from his coat pocket and fired it into Gyp’s shoulder. The dog let out a yip, his legs caving in as his body slammed into the bridge deck.
Nik lunged for the man’s knife hand, but the soles of his shoes were muddy from the hillside, and he slipped to one knee. The man clubbed Nik hard on the side of his head with the handle of the bayonet. Blood streamed from Nik’s ear, and he went down on all fours.
The man drove a knee into Nik’s right kidney, grabbed a fistful of hair, and violently slammed his head on the bridge’s cobblestone deck. Nik’s kidney felt like it was on fire, and a lightning bolt of pain shot through his head and neck, his eyes welling with tears.
“Now you fuckin’ listen to me, shit for brains,” the man hissed into Nik’s good ear. “You pick up that fuckin’ mongrel of yours and climb down under the bridge. You fuck with me again, and I’ll run this blade right through your gizzard and cut the nuts off your dog. We clear on that?”
Nik nodded and slowly hoisted himself to his feet.
“Now get fuckin’ moving,” the man ordered and shoved Nik in the back.
Nik wobbled over to Gyp, bent down, and scooped up the dog, his eyes half open, vacant, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. He scrambled down the bank, and when he reached the bottom, he found Cal Walker lying under the bridge in a heap, face swollen and bruised, hands zip-tied in front of him, mouth covered with duct tape.
“He ain’t dead,” the man said and kicked Walker in the ribs, causing him to emit a low moan. “Tough nut, though, I’ll give ’im that. Had to beat him nearly half to death before he told me where he stashed Liu. Need to keep him around just in case he’s lying.”
The man sheathed the knife and unholstered a 9 mm semiautomatic Glock from a rig under his coat. He placed the barrel of the gun against Nik’s forehead, released the safety, and pulled back the slide to chamber a round.
“Now it’s your turn, paperboy. I want to know who knows about me and when your next story is going to air and what’s it going to say. You tell me the truth, and maybe you and that mutt of yours might live to see tomorrow, but if I think you’re lyin’ for one second, I’ll cut both of your throats, no questions asked. We understand each other?”
Nik nodded again and glanced over the man’s shoulder at Walker, whose eyes were filled with fear and who was shaking his head vigorously, side to side.
“Good,” the man said, and fingered the safety back on. “Now, get on with it.”
“There isn’t a next story,” Nik said. “Not yet. That was hype. We don’t know your identity. All we know is that you were at Trident the night of the explosion, obviously, since I saw you there, but that’s it. How, or if, you’re tied into the bombing, the Chinese, and OmniSoft, that’s all a complete mystery to us.”
Nik stopped and spit out a mouthful of blood along with what felt like a part of a tooth.
“Nukowski and Cooley, we know about them, but they’re dead. We assume the three of you crossed paths at some point in the past, but, there again, we don’t know where, when, or how.”
That last part was a lie, and Nik looked up at the man to gauge his reaction. There wasn’t any, so he continued. “I’m the only reporter assigned to the story. No one else, quite frankly, gives a rat’s ass, and my boss fired me for pursuing it. The podcast was a desperate attempt to keep the story alive, and I doubt more than ten people listened to it. Honestly, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
Nik stole a look at Walker again, whose chin was now pinned to his chest. He couldn’t tell if he was resting, passed out, or dead.
“He tell you where Liu is?” the man asked and gestured toward Walker.
“No. I know he was on Cal’s boat over on the Eastern Shore, but I think you probably already know that, since you tailed me over there.”
“Spotted me, did you? Must be slipping,” he said.
“I didn’t. Cal did. How did you know we were meeting here tonight in the park? I left my car five miles back and ran cross-country. You didn’t follow me, and you were here before I arrived.”
“Easy,” he said and produced an electronic device from his pocket. “Ever see one of these?” he said, holding it up.
Nik shook his head no.
“It’s a StingRay, and it mimics a cell tower to trick mobile devices into giving location and identity information. Placed one by your apartment, and it captured both your mobile and burner phone info. I then used Walker’s software to compile a database of all your digital activity and devices. Once I had that, it was easy to hack into the encrypted app the two of you used to communicate. Walker’s technology works as advertised.”
“In normal circumstances, I’d think that ironic,” Nik said. “You don’t plan to let me go, do you?”
“Nope. Figured that out, did ya?”
“Didn’t think so. At least spare the dog,” Nik pleaded. “He can’t possibly do you any harm.”
“Sorry, but no can do. Can’t have any loose ends. Way too many in this op already, but guess that’s what I get for relying on a couple losers like Cooley and Nukowski. Learnt my lesson.”
“So,” Nik said, “Cooley and Nukowski, that was your handiwork, up there in northern Michigan in that burnt-out trailer?”
“Yup, but shoulda never went down that way. They were supposed to get killed in the Trident explosion along with Walker. Best-laid plans and all that. Had them convinced we were on an anti-government jihad. Dopes.”
“Well, there are a few other things you should probably know, then,” Nik said, frantically trying to think of some way to stall the inevitable and drag out the conversation.
“I don’t think so,” the man cut him off, “and, besides, I need to get going. I got two dates to keep tonight—one with Liu and the other with a red-hot female friend just itching to get her hands on my junk.”
“Just curious,” Nik asked casually, “who stole POOF from the government and gave you a copy?”
“Guess it won’t hurt to tell you, seeing how you ain’t going anywheres,” he said. “My female friend. She’s the one who first came across the mad scientist here,” he said and nodded toward Walker, “and got the idea to have the feds invest in his little company. Later, she convinced her overlords that Walker was a security risk and couldn’t be trusted with guarding the software. Pretty ingenious, no? Now, no more questions.”
The man walked over and slapped the unconscious Walker across the face. “We need to go, Professor,” he said when Walker stirred. “On your feet.” And he yanked him up with a jerk.
The streetlights from above bathed the ground in a gauzy haze, and Nik watched as the man reached into his coat pocket and extracted a metal tube that he screwed into the end of the gun barrel. He pointed the Glock at Gyp’s head and thumbed off the safety.
“No,” Nik pleaded. “Please, shoot me first. I can’t bear to watch you kill my dog.”
“Fine. Have it your way.” He shrugged and swung the barrel of the gun toward Nik.
Nik dipped his head, and images of Sam flooded his thoughts. How he wished he had lingered longer in bed with her that morning, inhaling her essence and absorbing her spirit. They had made arrangements for him to begin moving into her bungalow over the weekend. Now, she’d be faced with the death of yet another lover. What a nightmare.
Nik squeezed his eyes shut and waited, with labored breath, for the gunshot that would end his life, but instead of a bang, he heard the faintest whoosh of air, followed by a primordial scream.
“Fuuuuccck!” the man cried. “My fucking hand!”
Nik’s eyes snapped open. He was staring into a bloody, dripping stump, all that remained of Colonel Mustard’s gun hand.
Nik recoiled, horrified, and then heard a second shot whistle past his ear that clipped the man’s cheek and severed the tip of his nose, spinning him around and loosing a gusher of blood.
The third shot caught the man in the lower back, lancing his spine, dropping him to his knees in a prayerful position.
The final, and fatal, shot hit him in the back of the neck and exited his Adam’s apple, the arrow’s shaft impaled half in, half out, the fixed broadhead with four razor-sharp blades covered in a gelatinous hash of blood, skin, sinew, and windpipe, his yellow eyes, like two butterscotch candies, frozen open, manic.
Nik dropped his head between his legs, retched, and passed out.
Chapter 52
January 18, Washington, DC
Grant Dilworth’s mood had steadily darkened after Nukowski’s unannounced night visit and went into free fall when he heard the early-morning gunshot outside his home and discovered Pontiac, his German shepherd, sliced open, beaten, and unconscious in the snow.
He brooded, waiting for an assault, never knowing when or where it might come. He blamed Nukowski for his troubles, though he couldn’t also help faulting Sara, who had led that reporter right to their doorstep.
For a man who bent stainless steel for a living and stalked grizzly bears in remote parts of Alaska, Dilworth felt powerless and fearful. Tired of the waiting, he told Sara he would not sit idly by any longer.
Dilworth stuffed his camouflage outfit, night-vision scope, Scorpyd Aculeus crossbow, MTech hunting knife, a small GPS tracking device, and a change of clothes into a duffle and piled everything into Sara’s Subaru for the nine-hour trip to Washington, DC, figuring his massive Ford F350 pickup, which he used to haul his stainless-steel sculptures, would draw too much attention in the nation’s capital.
He thought about packing a gun but decided against it. It was too risky, and he had no way of silencing gunfire, and the Scorpyd, while not the most powerful bow in his collection, was deadly accurate and could hurtle an arrow through the air at the blinding speed of 460 feet per second. And for close-in work, there was always the knife, and, admittedly, he wasn’t a very good shot with a handgun anyhow.
Dilworth reached DC just before nightfall and made his way to the address the reporter had attached in an email. He spent a cold, mostly sleepless night outside Nik’s dark apartment but had not seen any sign of the reporter.
