Chapter Seventeen

Inside the state-of-the-art computer lab, Allison studied the information on the monitor. To most people the tangle of words and numbers was gibberish, but to her it was the language of logic—plain and simple. Here, amidst what appeared to be unusable information, was her way out.

“I’ll start with the FBI files.” She nodded toward the computer.

“There. You see, Mother?” Drew looked over expectantly at his mother. “Our Dean will be home in no time.”

Mrs. Weston jerked her head, and then motioned to the guard, who walked to the back of her wheelchair. “I’m taking the boy with me.” She kept her grip tight on Mitchell’s arm. “I don’t trust her. Watch her every move.”

Allison gave Mrs. Weston a cold stare as she was wheeled toward the door, pushing Mitchell ahead of her. He tripped, trying to stay out of the way of the wheelchair.

“Please.” Allison turned to Drew. “Mitchell hasn’t had anything to eat or drink.”

“I’m not hungry.” Mitchell sulked.

Drew crossed to the guard and whispered something. The guard nodded and exited the room with the woman and Mitchell.

“There’s a meal waiting for him.” Drew returned to stand beside Allison’s chair.

Allison had noticed his disappointed expression as he watched his mother’s exit. It occurred to her that Mrs. Weston wasn’t grateful for Drew’s efforts to rescue her other son. Allison wondered if she could use this knowledge to her advantage. To Drew, she said, “Thank you.”

“Why are you starting with the FBI files?” He turned the conversation away from Mitchell and back to Allison’s task with the computer files. “I thought Northstar’s files would be easier.”

She expected the question and had her answer ready. Simple and logical, something any computer tech would appreciate. In this situation, the answer would stroke Drew’s ego.

“You’ve already done most of the work for me. It’s right there on the screen. I can backtrack to the safe house IP you captured, and tap through the FBI firewall connection into their mainframe.”

He smiled, seemingly pleased with her assessment. “Happy to be of assistance.”

Allison started typing. “Your mother didn’t seem impressed with your plan.”

“She doesn’t understand the skills it takes to accomplish something this elaborate, that’s all.” His answer was sharp, and for a moment, hurt seemed to fill his eyes. He recovered quickly, but not before she noticed.

“Well, I have to admit, you’ve made the last several weeks very difficult for me. I hate being bested.” Allison continued to type, her fingers flying over the keyboard.

He found another chair and sat down beside her. With him so close, her skin crawled, but she tried not to let it show.

“I went to the best schools. Excelled in all my classes. Graduated with honors from MIT.” His voiced climbed in pitch. “I could have had any job I wanted in the country, until Dean—”

Allison caught the unfinished sentence. Dean Weston’s misstep hadn’t only landed him in jail, he’d hurt his entire family.

“It seems your brother didn’t think of anyone but himself when he broke the law.” She knew she was pushing, but she wanted to keep Drew talking.

“He’s the baby of the family. Mother’s favorite.” Bitterness crept into his voice. “No sooner was he arrested, then she started in on me. ‘Hurry home, Drew, your brother’s in trouble and we have to help him.’” Drew’s falsetto imitation eerily resembled his mother’s voice.

Allison couldn’t think of a reply so she remained silent as she worked her way into the FBI computers, breaking every cyber-law on the books. Finally. “I’m in!” She stared at the federal logo of justice and truth.

Drew jumped up. “Yes. Delete the file, now.”

Allison removed her hands from the keyboard. She had no illusions that Drew and his goons would let her live. The story about letting her rot in jail was an empty threat. This might be her only chance to get Mitchell and herself out of this situation alive. She needed to proceed carefully. “I’ve been thinking about the files.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “If I delete them, there will still be backups and hardcopy evidence.”

“What are you saying?” His tone was a mix of suspicion and curiosity.

“The case against your brother will be rebuilt or restored. Take your pick. Either way, all your efforts will be lost.”

“So how do we prevent that from happening?”

“The FBI will be suspicious of a missing file. They’ll simply restore it from backups.” She let her words sink in. “But, if I alter the files, change the evidence so it doesn’t implicate Dean, then it won’t leave a hole in the data. No hole. No raised flag. The electronic information will contradict other evidence.” Allison paused. “Reasonable doubt. The FBI will have to let him go.”

“But that will take more time.”

She saw the gears grinding as Drew processed her theory.

“It will be permanent,” she insisted. “The FBI will see the breach, but they’ll be watching for viruses, lost files. They won’t notice altered text until it’s too late.”

“Why are you willing to do this?” He voiced his suspicion.

“I want Mitchell set free. If I help you, then you’ll have to keep your word and let us go.” She measured her tone to sound both hopeful and trusting.

She saw him hesitate. Her suggestion was outside the parameters he’d discussed with his mother. Allison hoped he didn’t have to ask for permission to alter the plan. His mother might be more suspicious about Allison’s motives than her son.

“Okay. Do it.”

Allison’s heart raced and her throat went dry. He’d bought it! It took effort to remain calm and put her hands back on the keyboard. After a few keystrokes, she started to cough. She stopped typing and brought her hand to her mouth and attempted to clear her throat. Now was not the time to show her nerves. She started typing again, but her cough grew worse. “Could I have a drink of water?” she asked with a croak.

Drew’s eyes narrowed at her request, but he left his chair and walked to the door to talk to the guard.

Her coughing fit started again, but she continued typing—the noise drowning out the sound of her keystrokes. She glanced over her shoulder. Drew’s back was still turned.

She hit the ENTER key and sent her message along with all her hopes.

Thank goodness this system was fast. By the time he returned, Allison had hidden her message in the text on the screen. With luck, he wouldn’t spot it.

Allison cleared her throat again. “Water, please.”

“It’s coming.” He returned to the table, his eyes watching every keystroke.

She hoped her typing was fast enough to keep him focused on the new text. She didn’t want to give him time to reread her work.

A knock sounded and one of the guards brought in a tray.

Allison took advantage of Drew’s distraction to resave Dean Weston’s file to another location. If her plan actually worked, then the FBI could retrieve the original records.

Drew took the tray from the guard and set it on the table away from the computer equipment. “Stop,” he commanded.

Allison stopped typing and coughed again. She turned in her chair and stared at the pitcher of water next to a stack of sandwiches. “Will you pour me a glass?”

He filled a glass and handed it to her.

For half a second she considered tossing the water onto the keyboard and CPU in hopes of frying the system. But in the next half-second, she realized that she’d need to destroy the entire server farm to do any real damage. Besides, they still had Mitchell, and she couldn’t risk his life. Without pausing for air, she drained the glass. The dryness eased and she gave Drew a small smile. “Thank you.”

Still holding the glass, she stood and crossed to the tray. She hadn’t eaten after they had arrived at the safe house, and the little snack she ate on the plane was long gone. She took a bite of a sandwich. The roast beef was tender and the lettuce fresh. Apprehension and fear for Mitchell made it taste like sawdust.

“Your mother said she’d give Mitchell something to eat. Did she?”

“The guard said your nephew cleaned every last crumb from his plate.”

She let out a relieved breath that Mitchell was doing well enough to eat. “I’m glad.”

“How much longer?” Drew looked back at the monitor where lines of text displayed.

She swallowed. “I’m almost done with the alterations. Once I copy the changes out to a text file, I can save it.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “Why are you making a copy?”

“You want the same text in Northstar’s files, right?”

“Of course.” His eyes widened. “I get what you’re doing.”

She nodded. “Since Northstar supplied the evidence to the FBI for your brother’s arrest, the altered files need to be identical.”

She finished her sandwich, sat down again, and began typing—altering the information on the file. She made the data look like Dean Weston was an unsuspecting pawn in a blackmail scheme that allowed the cartel to hop the border to capture Senator Burnsworth’s wife.

It sickened her that anyone working for the U.S. government would use their position for personal gain at the expense of innocent lives. Children, some not even as old as Mitchell, were affected by the accessibility of the drugs Dean Weston brought into the states. What Allison was doing went against everything she believed in. The man should stand trial for his crimes and pay for what he had done.

Mitchell was right. By helping Drew, she dishonored everything she stood for. From the time she’d dreamed about being a police officer, to working for Northstar, all she’d ever wanted was to protect and serve. She believed good and right should prevail. It was who she was. Yet here she was, prostituting her soul to save Mitchell’s life. She had no choice. With any luck, she’d save her own life as well.

****

Sloan poured another cup of coffee. He swore as he stared at the two aspirins in his palm. He didn’t want to take them, but his head pounded from too much caffeine and no sleep. He hadn’t slept since leaving Idaho.

At least five hours had passed since they’d returned to the safe house and discovered Allison and Mitch missing. He’d tried to rest, but visions of Allison and Mitch, alone in a city without friends, wouldn’t allow any peace. Sloan grimaced as he drained the cup. The coffee was hot and bitter as it chased the pills.

Agent Kane hadn’t regained consciousness yet. The latest report indicated he was in a drug-induced coma to aid recovery. The doctor hadn’t offered a prognosis other than to say he was in serious, but stable condition.

The FBI BOLO—be-on-the-look-out—warned officers to consider Allison armed and dangerous. If she was cornered, she could be gunned down by some trigger-happy agent anxious to add commendations to his file. The thought left a cold trail in the pit of Sloan’s stomach despite the hot coffee.

He wandered out on the porch as the sun slipped behind a January cloud in the crowded Los Angeles sky. As every minute passed, the chill of helplessness crept ever closer.

To ward off his defeatist thoughts, he pulled Mitch’s tablet out of his pocket and turned it on. The start screen showed a Samurai, his hand on the hilt of his sword, in a kneeling position. A man of honor and sacrifice. Something he knew in his heart that Allison believed in.

He hadn’t let the tablet out of his sight since he’d found it. It was proof of Allison’s innocence, even if no one else understood. Mitch wouldn’t have left the game behind by choice. While they’d been cloistered inside the remote Idaho home, she’d made it clear how important the game was to her nephew.

Only seventy-two hours ago, a blizzard had stranded him at Allison’s house. That time seemed so distant now. He missed the intimacy they’d shared. Just thinking about her warmth—her lips, fresh and inviting—banished the chill in the cool L.A. morning air.

He had to find her—and soon.

A shout from inside the house forced his thoughts to the present. He went in to see what the commotion was about.

Agent Roberts stood behind Tom. Both stared at the computer screen.

Tom cursed under his breath. His fingers pounded furiously on the keyboard.

“What is it?” Sloan drew closer and looked over Tom’s shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“Can you believe that?” Tom gestured at the screen. “She’s doing it again.”

“I’m not sure what I’m seeing.” Agent Roberts’ gaze didn’t move from the monitor as he shook his head.

“This is unreal!” Tom stabbed at more keys.

Sloan leaned in and watched the screen as window after window popped up and then disappeared in rapid succession. “What’s happening, Tom?”

The tech threw up his hands and sat back in the chair, shaking his head. “That bitch just hacked through the FBI firewall!”

Sloan grabbed Tom by the shoulder and spun him around in his chair. “Who? Allison?”

“Yes, Allison.” Tom shoved Sloan’s hands off his shoulder. “Who else would it be?”

“Are you sure?” A surge of hope flooded Sloan. If Allison was on a computer, then she was alive!

“Of course I’m sure. Look.” Tom spun back around and pointed at the monitor as more screens zipped past.

Sloan didn’t understand how Tom knew it was Allison, but he was willing to take the tech’s word for it.

“What is she doing?” Agent Roberts looked concerned and bewildered at the same time.

Tom frowned. “She just used this connection to hack into one of the most secure areas in the FBI files. She has access to everything.”

“Stop her!” Agent Roberts shouted.

“I tried.” Tom shrugged. “She got through too quickly. Whatever she was doing, it’s done now. If we hadn’t been sitting right here, on the connection she used, we would’ve missed it.”

Sloan stepped back. Tom was right. The screen was dormant now, as if nothing had happened. If Sloan hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it.

A hum vibrated near his elbow and he looked down to see the printer kick out of sleep mode. A second later a single sheet of paper slid into the tray.

Tom glanced over and pulled it off the printer before Sloan could reach for it.

“What’s that?” Sloan tried to look at the paper in Tom’s hands.

“Probably an exception list of the files that got hacked.” A frown creased Tom’s forehead as he glanced at the page. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“What does it say?” Sloan still couldn’t get a look at what was printed.

“Bushido.” Tom shook his head. “That’s Japanese. Did she change the default language on the system?”

“Let me see.” Sloan snatched the paper out of Tom’s hand.

The printer hummed again, but the word on the page held all of Sloan’s attention.

Bushido

Bushido was the word Allison had used for Mitch to understand honor. Sloan felt for the game in his pocket. Mitch’s game. The Samurai code.

Honor.

Allison was sending a message.

“Look at this,” Tom said as he read the new page. “It’s an IP and e-mail address. And there’s a name: Dean Weston.”

“Why does that name sound familiar?” Agent Roberts looked at both Sloan and then Tom.

“Dean Weston was arrested for helping a drug cartel kidnap Senator Burnsworth’s wife.” Tom supplied the missing information.

“That’s right!” Sloan snapped his fingers. “His girlfriend, Lorraine Voras, was accused of being complicit in Weston’s activities.”

“Yeah. And her case was one that got thrown out of court this week when the press got hold of our confidential files,” Tom added.

Sloan’s mind raced, his heart rate kicked up a notch. Both messages were from Allison. She was trying to tell them something. He tried to remember what else he knew about the case.

Sloan had reviewed the file to help O’Neal determine Weston’s state of mind. He recalled seeing a Los Angeles address for Weston’s mother, who suffered from a degenerative bone disease that bound her to a wheelchair and had moved to be near the doctors in charge of her care.

Initially, Sloan surmised Dean Weston was desperate for a way to make enough money for his mother’s mounting bills and turned to illegal drugs for quick cash. A deeper analysis of the family finances, however, revealed a healthy trust from her deceased husband that was more than sufficient to cover the doctors’ fees. So Sloan had concluded Weston was in the business of illegal drugs solely for his own profit.

What was the connection between Dean Weston and Allison’s disappearance? Why had someone shot the FBI agent to get to her?

“Is there anything else in the message?” Sloan stared at Tom, hoping there was something more to give them better clues.

Tom shook his head. “No.”

“Maybe Allison made a mistake,” Agent Roberts said. “It’s possible she unknowingly revealed her intent.”

Sloan glanced again at the paper in his hand. “It wasn’t a mistake.”

The other men looked at him.

How could he explain what his gut told him?

“This.” Sloan held out the page with Bushido printed on it. “This is a message for help from Allison. It means she’s in trouble.”

“You’re wrong.” Tom gave a shake of his head. “She just screwed up the hack.” He paused. “No. Wait! It’s not a mistake. It’s a bone.”

“A what?” Agent Roberts frowned.

“She’s taunting us. Making us look like idiots.”

“Why bother to send a message? Especially with a name she knows we’ll check?” Agent Roberts lifted an eyebrow at the Northstar tech.

“Don’t you see?” Tom faced Roberts with an earnest expression. “She’s leading us down the wrong path. She wants us looking one way when the real target is something else.”

Sloan heard the argument. He understood the logic, but couldn’t get the message out of his mind. It was Mitch’s game. The Warrior Code game. Allison wouldn’t have sent that word as a red herring. She would never do anything to hurt Mitch. How could he convince Tom and Agent Roberts she was in trouble?

If he found the location of the IP address on Allison’s message… “I think we should at least check it out. Don’t you?” Sloan asked Agent Roberts.

The agent nodded. “I agree. We don’t have anything else to go on, and this is a connection we can’t ignore.”

Sloan turned to Tom. “Can you get a physical address based on this information?”

“Sure, if you want.” Tom lifted a shoulder. “But it’s a waste of time.”

“Just do it,” Sloan barked. Then he added, “Once you have the address, contact O’Neal and tell him we’re checking on the message. Bring him up to date on everything.”

“Fine!” Tom grumbled under his breath. “I’ll get the address.” He returned to the computer.

Roberts leaned over Tom’s shoulder and pulled out his phone while Sloan paced behind them.

Two minutes later, Tom handed Sloan a paper with an address in the upper Hollywood area. “Here’s the address for Dean Weston’s mother. I’m telling you, you’re going to needlessly raid an old lady’s home.”

Sloan drilled Tom with a look and stuffed the paper in his pocket. He’d already checked his weapon and was putting on his jacket to leave. “Contact O’Neal.”

“Whatever.” Tom grumbled again, turning back to the computer.

Agent Roberts thumbed off his phone. “We’re to meet up with the S.W.A.T. team,” he said. “They should be at the location by the time we arrive.”

Sloan nodded and followed Agent Roberts out of the safe house. As he climbed inside the same large SUV they had used on the first raid, his heart soared. Allison was alive! She’d sent a message. A message she knew only he would understand.

He buckled his seatbelt and stared unseeing out the windshield. The simple truth hit him squarely in his gut. He loved Allison. He loved everything about her. So much her own person—she didn’t need anyone else to define her. She was independent and innocent at the same time. But right now, she needed him.

He hoped they weren’t too late. That he wasn’t too late.