A Father's Sacrifice (3 page)

Ben turned his head so that one dark blue eye was visible. “No.” He hid his face again. “I want my daddy.”

“This is Natasha. Can you say Natasha?”

Ben shook his head, but curiosity got the better of him and he peeked sideways at her. “Tasha?”

His little voice saying the nickname she hadn’t heard since childhood caused her to smile, even as it cut into her heart.

“Hi, Ben.” She’d never been around kids, so the ache in her chest and the tightness in her throat surprised h
er. He was so sweet and so vulnerable and brave. And he’d transformed Stryker’s gruff, rigid security chief into a doting grandfather.

“Come on, Ben. Let’s get you tucked in.”

Ben still peered at her sidelong, from the folds of Mintz’s shirt. “Tasha come, too?”

“Oh, no. I don’t—”

“Sure Natasha can come, too,” Mintz said. “And later, your daddy’ll come in to say good-night.”

Ben shifted and sat up straight, confident in Mintz’s protective embrace.

“Go this way, Tasha.” He pointed as Mintz headed for the west hall. He watched her over Mintz’s shoulder.

What should she say? She had no clue how to talk to a kid. “How old are you, Ben?”

He held up three pudgy fingers. “Three and a half.”

Of course. A pang of sadness hit her square in the chest. The car crash had occurred this time of year—September—three years ago. Ben had been six months old, too young to remember the crash or the pain or the sound of his mother dying.
Thank God.

They entered Ben’s room to find a young woman with shiny brown hair folding back the covers on his bed.

“This is Charlene Dufrayne,” Mintz said. “Charlene, Special Agent Natasha Rudolph.”

“Oh, the computer expert.” Charlene gave Natasha a wary nod as she took Ben from Mintz. “We’ve all heard about you.”

Natasha rapidly cataloged the other woman’s appearance. Medium height, late twenties, pretty. In good shape. She’d be good for Ben.

She glanced around the child’s room.
It was painted a bright blue, and filled with every toy a little boy could want. But something about it sent an eerie shiver through her.

“Okay, cowboy, let’s get you ready for bed,” Charlene said, setting him on his bed.

“I stay awake ’til Daddy comes.”

“Daddy may not come tonight. He’s very busy.”

As Ben’s eager face fell, Natasha’s heart ached. Charlene began to unlock the braces.

Mintz opened a connecting door and gestured for Natasha to precede him into the next room.

She stepped through the door, her gaze still lingering on Ben’s room. As Mintz turned on the lights and she looked around the starkly decorated room, it hit her what was bothering her.

“These rooms don’t have any windows,” she croaked. Her throat constricted.

“This is the only level of the house aboveground. That makes it vulnerable. Windows would greatly increase that vulnerability.”

Her pulse jumped as she pushed away the panic and forced herself to nod. “Vulnerability. Of course. That…makes sense.”

As an FBI agent, she understood, but no amount of rational thinking stilled her knee-jerk response to the vaultlike rooms. This was why she’d scrimped and saved until she could afford a top-floor condo in Washington, D.C., where all her walls were glass, and the sun streamed in every day.

She couldn’t get Ben’s sweet little face out of her mind. It horrified her to think he’d lived his whole life locked inside these walls.

“Is there a problem, Agent Rudolph?” Mintz’s voice was edged with ice.

She quoted her mantra for dealing with panic.
Quiet and safe. Plenty of fresh air. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

“No, sir. I realize safety is your primary concern. It’s just that Ben is—” She swallowed. “He’s a growing boy. He needs sunshine and—” she faltered when Mintz glowered at her “—fresh air.”

“Ben’s needs are not your purview.”

She lifted her chin. “So far, apparently nothing is my purview. You’ve vetoed every suggestion I’ve made. I must say, your trust in me is underwhelming.”

“Not just you,” he muttered, his face grim. “Anyone.” He faced her. “Understand this, Agent Rudolph. As far as the public knows, Ben died in the car crash that killed his mother. Dylan has gone to superhuman lengths to keep the boy here with him.”

She searched his face. “You don’t approve.”

The lines in his face deepened. “I built this place to withstand an explosion the magnitude of Oklahoma City. But nobody can guard against human ingenuity. All it’ll take is one person breaching the walls, or hacking into the computers. NSA wants Dylan and his interface safe. They’ve offered to place him and Ben in a secure government location.”

“And you want that, too.” No matter how protected the estate was, the child could still be in danger. Still, now that she’d met Ben, she understood why his father refused to let him out of his sight. After only a few minutes, his innocent, angelic face had already made a dent in her heart.

“What I want is not relevant. Ben is Dylan’s son. He would give up everything for him, even his own life.”

“I get the feeling you’d do the same for either of them.”

Mintz averted his gaze as he dug in his pocket and handed her a small digital device. He cleared his throat. “Your fingerprints are already in the security system. This is your pass code generator. You’ll want to keep it on your person at all times. The code changes every forty-five seconds. Your print on the keypad plus the entry of this code will unlock any door on the estate. There will
not
be any security issues, understood?”

Natasha stiffened. “Understood, sir.” She took the device.

“I’ll be back in an hour to take you down to the lab.”

“I can find my way—” she started, but he’d turned on his heel and left. The door closed silently behind him.

She sat down on the bed and closed her eyes, thankful to be alone for a few moments. Her neck and shoulders ached from maintaining her composure. Now, as she flexed them, her entire body began to tremble.

Underground laboratory. Windowless rooms.
No wonder Decker had worried about her ability to handle this assignment. She felt the weight of the house and the closeness of the impenetrable walls. Her lungs sucked in air greedily.

After twenty-two years, she’d thought she’d conquered her worst personal demon, until Bobby Lee Hutchins had buried her alive.

Horror slithered along her nerve endings as she recalled the endless dark. She’d been certain her life was over.

But her partner Storm hadn’t given u
p. He’d stayed there while the workers cleared away boards and drywall and dirt. He’d kept calling out to her even though she didn’t have enough breath to answer him.

When they got her to the hospital she had four cracked ribs, a collapsed lung and a broken leg, none of which bothered her as much as the hours of terror she’d spent buried under the debris.

She’d experienced the worst. This job should be a piece of cake. All she had to do was keep her cool for a few days until they caught the hacker.

She took a deep breath of artificially cooled air and reminded herself that she wasn’t buried. She was on the top level—aboveground. The air smelled fresh and the room was large and clean. There was no reason to feel claustrophobic.

She closed her eyes, but it didn’t help. Her demon was back. The walls were closing in.

T
HE HACKER
grinned as his fingers flew over the keyboard. Just a few more keystrokes and he’d have his first look at Dr. Dylan Stryker’s neural interface operating software.

He’d been working toward this moment for three years, since the botched kidnapping of Stryker’s wife and son. He’d learned a lot from the extremists who had run the neurosurgeon’s wife and baby son off the road.

Idiots.
Their blind devotion to their cause came in handy, but only if they had a leader to guide them.
He
was in control this time. There would be no mistakes.

There was nothing more satisfying than to beat the government at their own game. He’d waited a long time for another chance to prove his superiority.

Eight years ago, he’d not only cracked the FBI’s domestic terrorist database, he’d framed a young hacker for the breach. He’d needed to get rid of her—she’d been too good.

By planting subtle but identifiable clues inside the FBI’s computer program, he’d led lead investigators to the computer lab at the college she attended. Once they’d identified the computer, it was simple to trace her ID and find the evidence he’d so carefully planted.

His brilliant frame-up had made him famous in the hacking world. And now he was back. The National Security Agency had designed Stryker’s firewall, and it was impressive. But so were his skills.

Alert to any sign of detection, he typed a few lines of code, nudging the protective barrier around the software that could make the fabled computer-enhanced supersoldier a reality.

A sense of omnipotence streaked through him. His fingertips tingled and a visceral exhilaration sizzled in his groin. Nobody except another hacker could understand the feeling.

All he needed was a few seconds to gain entrance to the ultrasecure area where Stryker’s files and programs on the neural interface were stored.

He was typing the last bit of code when his cell phone rang.

He jumped. “Son of a—” He jabbed the talk button. “
What?
I’m in the middle of something.”

“The computer expert is here.”

Excitement spread through him like electricity. At last, a challenge. “When?”

“An hour or so ago. She’s an FBI agent—Natasha something.”

“Natasha?” His fingers went numb with shock. “Are you sure?” He stood, propelling the computer chair backward. “What does she look like?”

“Tall. Long blond hair. Do you know her?”

Natasha.
“Of course not.” Sweat prickled his neck and armpits. He glanced at his computer screen. “Is she online?”

“No. She’s in her room.”

“Did she have a laptop?”

“Nope. Mintz won’t allow wireless in here.”

“I want to know the instant she puts her fingers on the keyboard.”

“I’ll try. You know how hard it is to call out. How much longer until—”

“Don’t start with me. I’ve got to think. You just make sure you’re ready.”

“Are you sure I’ll be safe?”

“God, just do your job and give me a break.” He jabbed the disconnect button.

Tall. Blonde.
Rage burned through him.

That was his luck. Of course they would send Natasha. His nemesis. The only hacker he’d ever known who could even approach his talent. He’d realized her worth the first time he’d ever met her.

He sat and pulled the keyboard toward him. He cracked his knuckles and flexed his fingers, then arched his neck. A slow smile spread over his features. In a way it was like a karmic balance.

He’d almost destroyed her once because she refused to follow his lead, but fate in the guise of the
FBI had intervened. They’d trained her and hired her instead of sending her to prison. At the time the irony had eaten a hole in his gut.

Now he understood. His patience, his efforts to distance himself from the radical group who’d caused the death of Stryker’s wife, were paying off in a way he’d never dreamed.

Stryker’s interface and the software that operated it were worth billions. Several foreign leaders were waiting, cash in hand, for the technology that had the potential to create a real supersoldier.

Yes, he wanted the money, but that wasn’t why he was doing this.

He finally had a chance to prove once and for all that he was the best. He was pitted against Natasha Rudolph again.

He held the advantage because he knew her greatest fear. Before this was over, she’d pay for dodging prison eight years ago. And her punishment this time would be worse—so much worse.

He put on his telephone headset and hit a preset number on his cell. He had to make sure everything was in place for his first destructive attack on Stryker’s estate.

As he waited he placed his fingertips on the keyboard. A thrill, almost sexual, shot through him, all the way to his groin.
Natasha
was on the other end of his computer.

It would double his pleasure to know she would die along with Stryker.

Chapter Two

By midnight, Natasha was certain of two things. Someone had definitely targeted Dylan’s computer, and she needed much more powerful equipment if she was going to build an effective firewall.

She stretched and arched her neck to loosen the tight muscles, then glanced toward the ceiling. If she had to be down here much longer, she’d go crazy. Sure the lab was brilliantly lit and air-conditioned, but that didn’t change the fact that it was buried under twelve feet of dirt, steel and wood.

A movement across the hall caught her eye. Dylan Stryker leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face. He’d appeared in the glass-walled room across from hers a couple of hours before, freshly showered and dressed in neat khaki slacks and a navy polo shirt that left his long, muscled arms bare.

Even though she’d been concentrating on the patterns in screen after screen of code, a part of her had remained acutely aware of his presence.

Mintz had told her he was working on a computerized surgical simulation program. It
had only taken a few seconds’ observation for her to figure out that he was using a stylus like a surgical tool to practice attaching microscopic nerves to microscopic wires.
The neural interface.

She’d read the basics of the device in a classified NSA memo. It was a rectangular box about the size of a USB plug, maybe a centimeter long. The 3-D computer-generated mock-up looked like a millipede with thousands of hairlike microfibers covering its surface. Once the device was surgically implanted into a human being, and each microfiber was attached to the proper neural sheath, the interface would feed impulses to and from nerves too damaged to receive proper signals from the brain.

No wonder the government wanted it. The possible uses were astounding. The supersoldier of fiction, with computer-enhanced reflexes, sharpened vision and hearing, perfectly timed response and accuracy, could become a reality. The thought of that technology falling into the hands of terrorists was horrifying.