Dan
My eye is swollen shut, the side of my head an aching mess of pain. My wrists are cuffed to a metal loop on the table, so that I have to sit forward in the plastic chair.
I rest my head—the good side—down on the Formica tabletop. The cool surface feels good. The blood crusted in my hair itches, but I don't have the energy to scratch it.
I must have fallen asleep, because when the door shuts, I jerk upright, bursting dark spots across my vision and radiating fresh, nauseating waves of pain through my head.
"Ouch," a woman says as she steps into my spinning vision. She's petite with dark chocolate-brown hair laced with caramel highlights. She squints almond-shaped eyes at the side of my face.
"Ouch is right." I try a smile. It hurts, and I wince.
She winces too, her eyes narrowing further. The woman reaches into her navy suit jacket and pulls out a pair of glasses. "Who did this?" she asks, pushing her shoulder-length hair behind her ears as she leans closer.
"Who didn't?" I try to smile again and am rewarded with the same wince. Her eyes meet mine for the first time. She blinks behind the lenses, and I blink back. She's gorgeous. Fuck me.
Clearing her throat, she stands upright, the pale cream satin blouse she's wearing under the suit jacket catching the florescent lights the way satin is supposed to. "I'm Dan," I say.
She suppresses a smile and raises one finely arched brow. "Yes, I know."
I shrug. It hurts but not as bad as smiling. "And you are?"
"Special Agent Consuela Sanchez." She turns around to take the other chair in the room, and my eyes land on her pants. They fit nicely. Not suggestive or meant to attract attention but also not baggy—she's not advertising or hiding, just wearing a pair of pants. Wearing a pair of pants over one hell of an ass. Jesus, I can't believe I'm checking out her ass at this moment. But as she turns to sit, a soft wave of regret pulses through me. I was enjoying the view.
Her eyes are waiting for me when I get back to them. She arches that brow again. "You're a hard man to find."
I don't answer. It wasn't a question.
She places her right hand on the table—elegant and small, the nails slick with clear polish. My eyes are drawn back to her face.
"Dan Burke. Your first arrest for violation of the Computer Crimes Act was when you were fourteen."
I reach up to scratch the blood in my hair. My finger hits a laceration. The pain wobbles my seat and spots my vision again.
Consuela's eyes are slits, and her lips are pressed into a tight line when I refocus on her. She didn't want me beat up. I don't think it's an act. She looks genuinely pissed.
"I could use a doctor," I say, remembering this time to keep from smiling. It's hard around Officer Consuela Sanchez. Ah, the name rings a bell inside my head. She started the task force to track the Her Prophet and incels. She was demoted, and I stopped tracking her. Guess I should have kept that file open longer.
"Yes." She nods, and hair sneaks out from behind her ears at the movement. It's thick. The kind of hair I could dig my hands into...
"What kind of Special Agent are you?" I ask, playing dumb.
She doesn't smile. "Homeland Security."
I nod, and my vision swirls. Sanchez stands. "You need medical help before we can have this interview." There is bitter regret in her voice.
"I look forward to seeing you again," I say as she opens the door. Sanchez looks over her shoulder at me, her hair hiding her jaw, but her eyes are bright, burning with intelligence. She looks suddenly like a predator. She's been hunting me.
Special Agent Sanchez wants me healed so she can be the one to tear me apart.
"Same here," she says, her voice an octave lower. My vision pinpoints, and I use what presence of mind I have left to lower the good side of my face down onto the table before blackness takes me.
"How long until I can talk with him?" Sanchez is somewhere close, speaking in a low voice. Where am I?
The attack comes back to me in stark, flashing images: Four police officers standing over me, the dappled sunlight hitting their uniforms, the sweat glistening on their faces, the puffed cheeks... the rage. The kicking. A woman's high-pitched screams. I jerk at the realness of the memory.
My eyes shoot open, adrenaline spiking. My heart thumps in my throat. An incessant beeping maintains the same beat.
A man wearing pale blue scrubs appears at my side, pushing buttons on a machine. He silences the alarm, then turns his attention to me. His hair is auburn and styled in a coif.
Auburn's jaw works on a piece of gum as he smiles at me. "You're awake," he says, like that's a good thing.
"Yes." My voice comes out as a croak. Auburn turns away for a moment. He twists back and offers a cup with a straw poking out. I sip lukewarm water. My burning throat delights in the wash of hydration. I close my eyes, concentrating on the effort of sucking.
I try to bring a hand up to take the cup and hear the rattle of chains, then feel the chill of metal against my skin. I'm cuffed to the bed.
Auburn takes the drink away, and I open my eyes. "That's good for now," he says. "You're getting fluids from the IV, and I don't want to overwhelm your stomach right now." Right, we wouldn't want to overwhelm my stomach. It did get the shit kicked out of it super recently.
"How am I, Doc?" I ask.
Auburn frowns, his brown eyes welling with sympathy. "Not great, buddy." For some reason, him calling me buddy doesn't bother me. Oh, I'm high. I giggle, which makes me laugh. Which hurts.
"Ow," I complain.
Auburn leans forward and adjusts my pillow, helping me sit up better. He smells like peppermint—must be the gum he's chewing—and Purell—must be the hospital we’re in. I'm in a hospital chained to the bed. Whoopee. Oh, and I'm high. Whoopie-doo-da-day.
Auburn steps back, and Sanchez comes into focus. She is standing by the door, arms crossed, a wrinkle of concern between her brows. "Hi," I say, a smile passing over my lips. It doesn't hurt as much. Looking at her feels good.
Wow, I am hiigghhh.
"What are you giving me, Doc?" I ask Auburn but keep my gaze on Sanchez. Why would I ever look anywhere else when I have that cute little frown to stare at? She pushes off the wall and approaches the bed. Her hips sway—not because she's showing off, just because that's how her body moves. Moves. Moves. That word is funny, so I giggle again.
Which makes her frown tilt on one side. She thinks I'm cute. Right back at you, cutie. My smile hitches higher, pressing at the injured eye. Oh, it's not swollen shut anymore. That's good. How long was I out?
"You're on a morphine drip," Auburn answers my question. "I'm Richard Fern, your nurse. Doctor Travis will be in to see you during rounds."
I spare him a brief glance but am drawn back to Sanchez. She's standing at the end of my bed now, her manicured fingers resting on the plastic footboard.
"What time is it?" I ask.
Richard glances at his watch. "It's just about 7:00 p.m."
I try to do the math. I got to my mom's around 10:00 a.m. her time, spent about an hour or so with her before getting chased and the crap beat out of me. So… I can't do the math. Ha. "You're not going to interrogate a man in my condition, are you, Sanchez?" I ask, smiling, teasing. "I'm high as a kite and have been unconscious for some length of time." That covers it.
She frowns again. "I'm not going to interrogate you while you're under the influence." Sanchez shifts her focus to Richard. "When will the meds wear off?"
"If I turn the drip off, he'll be sober in fifteen, but—" His gum pops. "—he will be in a ton of pain."
"I do not like the sound of that," I say, swinging my attention to nurse Fern. Fern, dern, stern… Sanchez is kind of stern.
Richard purses his lips. "Me either, buddy."
"Yeah." I turn back to Sanchez. "That's not nice."
"We need to speak. Time is of the essence," she says.
My brain floats on a placid lake, but her words send ripples of worry through it. What’s so urgent? I mentally flick through Joyful Justice's critical missions. There is nothing planned for at least ten days that I can see... Of course, I'm not at my absolute best at the moment. Best, test, nest, jest.
"Give us a minute," Sanchez says to Richard.
"Okay, but," he addresses me, "if you need me, Dan, just push this right here." He points to a button in the plastic bedrail to my left… the one I'm not handcuffed to.
"Thanks, Richard." Fern, dern, lern, pern... Those are not all words...
Fern the Nern turns off my meds and leaves, then it's just me and Special Agent Sanchez. She moves around to the right side, sitting in the large armchair for family to spend the night.
A memory blazes across my consciousness: Mom in a chair like that after my tonsils were removed, the skin around her eyes tight with worry, her hair tangled from sleep. But she's smiling at me, her gaze warm and loving… trying to hide the fear. Trying to protect me. Always.
Please let her live.
My throat tightens.
These meds make everything funnier and sadder. I swallow the emotion and focus on Consuela Sanchez.
"Last time we spoke, right before I passed out, you were reading me my rap sheet," I say.
Her lips twitch to one side into a half smile, and victory surges through me. I want to make her laugh. "We only got to my first arrest. Want me to give you the other three? All when I was a minor, mind you." Minor, mind you. Minormindyou. I giggle again, and Sanchez's half smile becomes full—still no teeth, but this woman is warming up to me.
"Yes, you really shaped up when you went to college."
I nod. "Upstanding citizen. So, why did you send some local Jersey cops after me—"
"Why'd you run?" she cuts me off, her voice low, eyes suddenly sharp.
Oh. Watch out, Danny boy. Sanchez is a predator, remember?
I smile my harmless smile, the one I've perfected. I'm easygoing. She is not buying it. The smile does feel lopsided. My whole head feels lopsided.
Sanchez wets her lips, drawing my focus. Wow.
"Shit," she says.
"You have a gorgeous mouth." Did I just say that out loud? Judging by the fresh frown, yes. I did just tell the Special Agent about the attractiveness of her mouth. She is special...
Slowly, I raised my gaze up to her eyes. "I'm high," I say in defense. She draws her bottom lip under her teeth, and I can't help but drop my gaze to her mouth. "That is not helping," I say. "My focus is not very good."
She stands quickly, and I close my eyes, leaning back into the pillow, trying to find a thought that isn't drifting on a bed of pain meds.
When I open my eyes again, Sanchez is back at the end of the bed. "I'm sorry that you were hurt. And I'm sorry that you're going to have to be in pain for this conversation. But it's better than high." She meets my gaze. Direct, no nonsense. She's sorry… but not that sorry.
I nod. "Okay."
She glances at coat hooks by the door where a briefcase hangs along with a rain jacket and umbrella—both are dry. How long has she been here? "We have to do this now." Sanchez crosses to the briefcase and pulls it down, coming back to the seat next to me.
The pain starts to bleed into my reality, bringing with it some cognitive ability.
Sanchez pulls out a tablet and starts navigating. "How do you feel now?"
"I'm still high but better."
She scoots forward on the seat, and I catch a whiff of her perfume—vanilla and some kind of herb… thyme. I'm pretty sure it's thyme. Not rosemary.
"Dan?"
"Yeah." I focus on her face. "Yes." I nod. "Ouch." Nodding is a bad idea.
She holds the tablet out to me. I take it with my left hand—the free one. On it is one of my Facebook posts. It's the koala bear meme. I used a page titled "Be Compassionate." It has over two million views, and most of that organic. "This is your page," Sanchez says it like she knows. But she couldn't possibly know.
I shake my head. Ow. Nodding and shaking are both out. Looks like I'm down to hand gestures. Except one hand is chained to the bed. The one-armed hand gesturer... I'm still high.
Sanchez is frowning at me. "Sorry." I almost shake my head again but stop myself. "My head hurts, and I keep moving it." I offer her a shy smile. My I'm just a lost boy, won't you help me? smile.
Not going for it.
Okay.
"I'm not on Facebook," I say. "I don't do social media."
She laughs, but I don't feel victorious. Her laugh is not amused so much as confident. She's laughing at me. Not with me.
Sanchez meets my gaze, her Bourbon brown eyes bright. "Dan." My name from those lips sounds good. "I know what you've been doing. I know how you've been doing it. What I need is your help to do it to a different group."
Wait. What did she just say?
My confusion must show on my face because she scoots to the edge of the chair, getting closer to me. Her perfume floats over me again. "Your targeting and manipulation are incredibly sophisticated."
"I don't know what you're talking about." It sounds like a lie even to my own ears. I'm incredibly turned on… Sophisticated manipulation, yes, please.
"What you're doing is brilliant."
Brilliant, you say?
I narrow my eyes and firm my lips to keep from bursting into a grin. "I want you to work with me. With Homeland Security. I think, with your skills, we can do major damage control." She inches even closer, her brows raised, breath coming fast. She's excited about this.
"I'm on a special task force tracking the Her Prophet followers and the incels. I've discovered that there is a group fomenting the incels in the same way that you've been recruiting and positioning Joyful Justice. I need your help to change their minds—to help them see that women are not their enemies. That the end of the patriarchy is as good for men as it is for women."
A lock of hair falls free from the bun at the base of her neck and dances around her face as she finishes. Her lips are parted, her eyes holding mine. She's waiting for me to say something.
"I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about. I work for a start-up in Bangkok."
Her gaze shutters. "That's not true, Dan. You know it's not. Don't play with me. This is important."
I try out another one of my smiles. Confused surfer dude. "I seriously don't know what is going on. I came home to visit because my mom is sick." Always important to include some truth in every lie sandwich—it's like the mayo, keeps things stuck together. "And a bunch of cops showed up at her door."
Sanchez sits back as my voice rises. I'm tapping into the outrage of an innocent man here. The pain is helping. Because, hot damn, everything is starting to hurt. "One of the reasons I left this country—"
Sanchez cuts me off, her voice low and as hard as diamonds. "Don't lie to me, Dan Burke." Full name now, would you look at that. I've really pissed her off. I try to fan the flame of my false anger, but how personally she's taking my refusal to admit to my crimes is making me happy for some irrational reason.
"Your mother doesn't have cancer," Sanchez says, her voice still low but softer. "We made that up so I could find you. Because I know all about you, Dan Burke."
Bomb drops. World Explodes. Rage unleashes.
"Wait!" I sit up in the bed, dragging at the IVs in my arm. "You're saying my mother doesn't have cancer?" Nothing in Sanchez's expression changes. The Special Agent has no regrets. "She is going through chemo for nothing!" I'm yelling. Of course I'm yelling!
"The chemo wasn’t real," Sanchez says quietly. Her calm seems that much stiller compared to the raging whoosh of sound inside my head. "And it wasn’t for nothing. I needed to find you."
I flop back onto the bed and squeeze my eyes shut. My hands fist in the rough sheets. "Unbelievable," I mutter.
"I would think you'd understand."
My eyes fly open, and I focus on the woman sitting in the chair next to my bed. "Understand?" My voice is acid, and I throw it at her, hoping to burn.
"Yes, I did what I needed to do. That seems to be something you also do." Her voice is cold mist floating above a frozen pond.
Wait, what does she know?
"You spy on your friends, you track them, you worry about them. Care about the fate of the world. Dan Burke—you are not a bad man."
What is happening?
"I'm not here to arrest you, to lock you up." She shifts forward, her hand twitching in her lap. She almost reached for me. "I am here to convince you to work with me."
My brain stutters, trying to compute everything it's heard in the last sixty seconds.
My mother is not dying of cancer.
Homeland Security faked her illness to drag me out of hiding.
Special Agent Consuela Sanchez doesn't want to lock me up. She wants to… work with me.
"Through your social media posts, you are convincing people that Joyful Justice isn't a terrorist organization—"
"It's not."
She waves my point away like it's a bothersome mosquito. "You are influencing people, reshaping their views, making them identify as Joyful Justice supporters." Her eyes are wide and bright. She admires me. "I want you to help me shift incels’ minds—to lead them away from violence and toward reconciliation."
I don't say anything. My head is still fuzzy, and if I make any salient points, I might just admit to a crime… though there is nothing illegal about social media advertising per se. "I want immunity," I say, "and a lawyer." I almost nod my head but then remember not to. "I need a lawyer before we continue this discussion."
Sanchez stands and paces away from the bed. "That's not going to happen."
"Excuse me?"
"This is war, Mr. Burke, and you're a terrorist. The regular rules don't apply. You're either going to help me, or you're going to disappear."
Cue ominous music.
"Let me get this straight," I say. Sanchez paces back to the end of the bed and meets my gaze. "Either I help you change the minds of incels—not that I'm saying I can do that." She rolls her eyes. "Or you disappear me?"
"Yes."
"Wow."
"What did you expect, Dan? Did you think that no one was going to come for you?"
"I didn't do anything." I grin, and my face aches. A tidal wave of exhaustion washes over me, and I close my eyes. "Can I have some more morphine before you transfer me to oblivion?"
"You would rather end up in a black ops prison than help me?" Her voice is hard, cold, angry.
"I don't do well with threats." I keep my eyes closed.
"Ironic coming from a man who leads an organization that is all about the threats."
"We offer immunity in exchange for..." Shit. Did I say that out loud? I open my eyes, and she is standing at the foot of the bed, hands braced on the rail. There is victory blazing in her eyes. I just admitted something.
"You offer immunity?" she asks quietly, not wanting to scare me off. Not realizing I've already done it to myself.
"Lawyer," I say again, "or morphine." Give me counsel or give me pain killers.
"I can send you to a place where you will feel much more pain than this."
"You can threaten me all day, but that won't make me want to work with you." I stare at her, and she doesn't look away. But I can see in her eyes—saw it when she first witnessed my wounds—Sanchez is not a torturer. "You don't go in for torture," I say. "You're too smart for that. You must be desperate to be trying it now. Or your bosses don't like this plan and have not given you the support that you need."
Something flashes in her eyes, but she doesn’t look away. I've hit the nail on the head though. A pang of sympathy gongs in my chest. She is out on a limb here. If I balk, she's screwed. They will lock me up, but Joyful Justice has contingencies for that. We have contingencies for almost anything.
Not for having the hots for your captor though… or thinking her idea has merit.
"Let's say for a second I am the international hacker you believe me to be."
She crosses her arms and levels me with a look. "Okay."
"How could you expect this genius, this absolute font of knowledge and expertise to admit to anything without any protections against prosecution?"
"Because the alternative is, like I said, a black ops prison in a miserable desert where humiliation and pain await with open arms."
"Scary."
Her eyes narrow. "You should be scared."
"And you should be worried. Because you may have caught me—with what I'm going to say is one of the most underhanded, fucked-up tricks a person has ever pulled." Her face remains impassive. Really not ashamed of arranging my mother’s false cancer diagnosis, complete with a dose of chemo. This woman is a fucking warrior. "But the fact is that you can't make me do anything. You can threaten me, harm me"—I gesture to my face—"or should I say harm me more, but I am not the guy you're looking for. I'm just not. I run a start-up in Bangkok. So I'm not worried about getting put away in a black ops prison. Because I'm not your guy."
A slow smile spreads across her face, as if she's got another trick up her satin sleeve. "You're my guy, Dan Burke. You are most certainly my guy."
Those words stir all the wrong parts of me for all the wrong reasons. She licks her lips.
"Stop it," I say before I can shut myself up. "Dammit." I close my eyes again. "I'm in too much pain right now." I hit the call button for Richard Fern the Nern, hoping he will pump me full of morphine so I can forget about this siren of a woman and get back to floating on a placid sea of amusing wordplay.
"This isn't over," Sanchez says.
"Get me a lawyer, and we can talk."