Blowback (The Black Cipher Files Book 1) (15 page)

I couldn’t move. In that moment, I didn’t want to.

He had to stop. I couldn’t afford the weakness flowing through me. “What do you think you are doing?” I whispered harshly.

“Passing time?” The lilt in his voice gave him away. He was laughing. Again. His thumbs brushed agonizingly close to the fullness of my breasts.

“You’re breaking my rule.”

He cupped his hands around my breasts, fingers playing with my nipples. “Rules were made to be broken.”

I inhaled sharply. The scent of him surrounded me, embraced me. “No.”

His hands slid down my abdomen. Somehow he knew exactly where to press his fingertips against the flat plane of my stomach. He stopped just short of the low waistband on my hips. “No?”

“No more.”

With a sigh, he slid his hands up to rest against my rib cage. Even that innocuous touch aroused me.

“What is your rule?”

“Once.” I gritted the word out.

“Once what?” His tongue licked at the curve between my shoulder and neck.

“I only have sex with someone one time.”

He was silent for so long I thought he was going to let it drop.

“Ever broken it?”

“No.”

His hands slid from my body. “Ever wanted to?”

I didn’t answer. I had never even thought about it, until Lucas.

The air was warm, heavy with the scent of arousal. Ripe sensuality hung in the tiny space. With every breath, I remembered the feel of him possessing my body.

“Right,” Lucas said, nodding his head toward the attic steps. “You notice anything?”

He shifted gears quickly. Damn him.

I should be pleased. He did as I asked. But perversely, his compliance annoyed me. Was it so easy for him to stop? Was it all just a game? How could he get into my head in such a short time? Well, I wouldn’t show it. I’d focus on here and now.

I stared at the dark wood steps lined with an ancient Persian runner. Ignoring the quality of the carpet, I looked more closely at the wood treads. They were spotless. Huh.

“No dust.”

“Yeah.” He leaned against the other wall, away from me.

I hated that I missed his warmth. Damn him.

“Someone is going to a lot of trouble to keep up this place.”

Very strange. Impatience built. I wanted to see what was at the top of those steps. But we had to wait at least another half hour.

“Maybe Staci is still alive.” If that were the case it was going to be interesting to explain to her why we were in a clinch in her secret room. And if she was still alive, why was the NSA having me impersonate her...and why would they lie to me? “Interesting scenario.”

“I know Staci Grant is dead,” Lucas said.

“Maybe it wasn’t her.”

“I saw the report from the prison where she was captured.” His voice was grim. “Supposedly there were pictures...her head was missing.”

I wouldn’t ask how he’d seen something that had to be highly classified. And yeah, I’d seen the same report. “Her head was missing–”

“Tatoo. A distinctive one,” he replied shortly.

“Ever heard of Photoshop? All I’m saying is we can’t be sure.” I argued. But we had more pressing problems. “So who would be keeping up this place?”

“CIA maybe.” He huffed out a strong breath, the warmth hitting the back of my neck, sending a shiver through me. I knew he wasn’t trying to be sexual. Damn him. He was just frustrated.

“Why’d they pick you to impersonate her?”

I had assumed Carson had chosen me because Staci and I had similar builds and I had Arabic skills. I was decent at reading fusHaa, written Modern Standard Arabic. I did much better with Romance languages but I could speak Educated Spoken Arabic albeit very rudimentarily.

A control panel bleeped at the top of the steps, the light glowing red after the intruders reset the alarm. Finally, the slam of the front door reverberated through the house. We could move. I’m not sure who shot up the narrow attic stairs faster. Me or Lucas.

Good. So he wasn’t as indifferent as he pretended.

At the top of the steps, I paused and Lucas jostled me, pushing me further into the twenty by thirty foot room.

“Don’t turn on the lights yet,” I cautioned. The boys from the bedroom could still be watching outside.

Then I noticed the leaded glass circle window, visible from the street, had been blacked out. No light would seep through.

I flipped on the light. In one corner was a state of the art computer set-up. No visible internet connection. She wouldn’t use wireless. Too insecure. So Staci Grant didn’t have internet access up here.

Probable. If she wanted a totally secure, secret system.

I’d save the computer for last. I prowled the room, quickly surveying the contents. Woven tapestries in varying hues, hanging by simple wood rods, adorned the walls.

At the end opposite the stairs was a ten by ten mat. A rack with weights and sparring equipment butted against the wall. A stack of white towels sat on a weight bench.

I walked over to the towels, picked one up, and inhaled slowly. No scented detergent, but they didn’t smell musty either. They smelled...clean.

“Someone comes here regularly,” Lucas said from right behind me.

I jumped, inside. “Yeah.” Outwardly calm, I set the towel down precisely on top of the others and turned. “Let’s get started.”

Before they came back.

We both crossed to the desk and I turned on the computer. I entered the same password as her house alarm doubting it would work. To my surprise–the computer brought up a series of icons.

Afghanistan.

Africa.

Indonesia.

Pakistan.

U.S.

5491.

The file icons listed were known countries with terrorist camps. The numeric file, I had no idea.

I didn’t want to get any more involved in his search for John Wishbone, but Staci and Johnny were linked somehow. So I had to ask. “Would Johnny Wishbone have gone to work for an Islamic Jihad group?”

Lucas was grim-faced and silent. “I don’t know.”

It seemed improbable for the son of a 9/11 victim. But it also seemed unlikely Staci would identify John as a possible recruit for a group like that.

He yanked open the file drawer and started flipping through file folders coded with Arabic names. He opened one file at random, scanned the contents and then replaced it quickly. I tried to focus on my own information gathering, but I couldn’t help but notice his morose countenance.

I clicked on the United States icon.

A list of files with both letters and numbers came up. Initials and dates possibly. But after twenty minutes of clicking on file names I realized while the password might get me into her computer, it didn’t grant access to any coded or sensitive information.

“Any luck?”

He closed a file folder slowly. “Not exactly.”

“This could take years.”

Fortunately, Staci Grant was meticulously neat and ordered. In the drawer to the right of the keyboard, an organizer separated pens, clips, scissors, tape and other office supplies. In a matter of minutes, I copied the files on the hard drive to a large capacity flash key.

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah.”

I shut down the computer. Before I could reach for the flash key, Lucas had wiggled the device free and tucked it into his jeans pocket.

We closed up the attic, reset the remote panel. Peering out the office window, I saw a nondescript sedan with two men inside, facing the front of the townhouse. “Still there.”

“Can’t trip the alarm.” Lucas eased cautiously down the narrow stairs, with me following.

The men in the sedan obviously had a link to the alarm system. After closing the hidden access door, we went into the master bedroom. I checked the windows. “Sensors here.”

“How does the person keeping up her place get in and out?” Lucas murmured.

I dug through the bedside table. A stash of magnets and double stick tape were in the second drawer. I held them up.

“There’s a possibility,” Lucas said thoughtfully.

“Yeah.” I taped the magnet near the wireless alarm sensor. “Get ready to run if this doesn’t work.”

Lucas nodded. “Meet back at the van.”

Circumventing her alarm system was ridiculously easy. I wondered why the items were in Staci’s drawer. Had she put the low-tech devices there before she died? Had she thought someone was monitoring her?

I raised the window slowly. Lucas eased out onto the striped awning protecting the dining room window and slid down the heavy canvas. I climbed out, closed the window and slid after him.

So far, so good. No shouts. No gunfire.

I dropped to the brick patio and crouched. The tall bushes hid us from the mother and toddlers playing in the yard next door.

As we crept toward the van, I saw it.

Staci Grant’s car.

The late afternoon sunshine gleamed off the polished chrome of her Lexus, parked in a visitor spot in the alley. My gut cramped at the innocuous sight of her car, far away from where it had been abandoned after I’d been kidnapped.

Someone had brought the car back.

I should check the car and see if my missing weapon and badge were there. Too risky. I would have to come back later.

My gaze shot to Lucas, still creeping toward the van. He hadn’t noticed the car.

As I reached the van, he smiled at me, a smug twist of his lips. “Where to?”

Just because we’d found her files didn’t mean he’d found his information. Instead of frustration or annoyance, I was curiously relieved. I wasn’t getting rid of him yet.

Where to? There was only one place left to go.

Home.

SEVENTEEN

I refused to think about the difference between my apartment and Staci Grant’s home.

I never stayed in one place very long. I’d been in my current apartment complex for about five months. Almost time to move.

No roots. No ties. No way to connect me with any specific place or person. My mail was diverted multiple times before going to a post office box. The utilities were included in my rent and I paid every month in cash.

I didn’t even keep the NSA current on where I lived. I file change of address paperwork about five months after I move in and right before I move out. In fact, I’d just sent the form in last week to change to my current address. Knowing the bureaucracy of the agency, the change should go thru when I was already at my next place.

Lucas pulled the van to the curb adjacent to the parking lot of the complex, then gestured to the boxy, nondescript building. “Your place?”

“Yeah.” I knew he’d give his opinion and it wouldn’t be good.

“Nothing significant around, completely indistinguishable. This complex could be in twenty different cities.” He shook his head. I tried not to mind. It was perfect for my needs. Quiet and impersonal.

“I used to live in a place like this.”

I thought about his apartment in San Francisco, the neighborhood, the neighbors, their interest in him, and shuddered. I had no contact with my neighbors. They probably wouldn’t recognize me in a line up, which suited me just fine.

Before getting out of the van, I stretched and watched for any off behavior. Lucas stared out the window. “See anything suspicious?”

I didn’t.

The parking lot, mainly deserted, was separated into sections by small patches of grass. A cement walkway bordered with some moldable shrub led to the building’s entrance. Most of the tenants worked during the day, some traveled and were gone for extended periods.

“Nope.”

“Me either.” He twitched. “Can’t tell if I’m just jumpy or if my skills are rusty.”

I popped open the door of the van and waited. If anyone were going to strike, now would be the time. But there was no suspicious activity. No one sat in a car alone or hovered in the bland lobby. Nothing out of place or out of the ordinary.

Slowly, I breathed a sigh of relief. Of course, it was short-lived. “No keys.”

I hadn’t thought about that problem until I got here. I definitely didn’t have a key stashed in a flower pot. I had no I.D. which was going to cause me no end of grief tomorrow when I tried to get into NSA headquarters. Just the thought of the paperwork I’d have to endure brought my simmering headache to a full roar. Red-badged.

There was no worse humiliation as an NSA employee.

“No problem.” He opened up the back of the van and pulled out lock picks. The man certainly was prepared.

We moved cautiously, taking the steps up to the second floor. But no one lurked nearby.

“You want to use them?” He gallantly offered, but I’d rather see what he could do.

“Go ahead.”

He made short work of my locks. With the same equipment, I might have gotten inside even faster, but not much.

After the lock clicked open, we assumed positions on either side of the door. I went low while he went high. I didn’t want to notice the synchronicity in our actions.

We were inside.

No one hid inside the doorway or crouched behind the sofa. But I had a new set of problems. My apartment had been tossed. Neatly, efficiently tossed. “Dammit.”

“What’s wrong?” Lucas asked.

“Tossed.”

He glanced around my neat, almost bare interior, taking in the leather sofa and blank walls. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Everything was in place, however little things were just slightly off.

He didn’t question, didn’t disagree, he just cut right to the point. “Can I help?”

I ignored his offer. I was used to being alone. Solitary in both my work and home life.

Lucas Goodman and I had spent most of the last four days together. Surprisingly, having him around wasn’t driving me crazy. I liked it. “So...when are you leaving?”

“As soon as you check out the NSA computer for information about Johnny.”

I prowled my apartment, searching to see if anything had been removed. There wasn’t much to take. The computer on the desk had no files. I used it for research then wiped the hard drive. Every single time.

I never checked on Bella here. Ever.

Methodically I opened drawers full of office supplies that I never used, pens, paper, highlighters while Lucas skimmed my bookshelves.

“Lot of biographies,” he commented neutrally.