Somewhere in Montana
The thing about Montana is it’s big. And wide. And empty.
There is a lot of beautiful landscape, and a great expanse of ranches and farms. There are plenty of towns, though most are small. It borders Canada, to its North, making it an attractive place for certain folks to spend their time—especially those who might need to be out of the US in a hurry.
The state is not without its modern amenities, but there are great swathes of it that are virtually untouched by the invisible waves that comprise the digital landscape, over which Alex Kayne was the master.
And that was a problem.
It meant that Kayne was entirely dependent on the satellite smart phone, as she made her way through a patchwork of forests, hills, plains, and river valleys. It was a narrow sort of funnel to find herself in, when she left the large data pipeline of local cellular phone towers and residential and commercial WiFi, and was reduced to a tiny noodle of broadband running between a satellite above and the small phone she carried in her pocket. Her options became limited, and she was not accustomed to nor a fan of limited options.
This was where things got the most dangerous for her.
She knew, though, that Derrick Conners had a pretty impressive broadband setup in his hideaway. He was using it to keep tabs on the outside world, which Kayne had in turn used to backtrack to his precise location. And his WiFi, as secure and fire walled as it was, was easy enough to crack, and had allowed QuIEK to get a sonar-like scan of the interior of Conners’ home. That, along with live satellite imagery of the man’s Montana compound, gave Kayne a 3D map she could use for planning her approach, as well as where she needed to go once she’d made it to Conners’ compound. She had QuIEK build her a virtual landscape of the place, updated in real time, and she could dwell there virtually. A digital ghost, roaming Conners’ compound, unseen, haunting it, waiting.
That was all well and good, and maybe a little creepy to contemplate. But the isolation of the place was going to make any physical approach a challenge. Which, of course, was the whole point—the entire reason that Kayne was off-grid and in the wild in the first place.
The problem as that everyone was too wide-open here.
There were miles of open plains between her and Conners. She’d be spotted from miles off, no matter how she tried to get there. QuIEK could hide her from video surveillance—as long as it was networked. But it couldn’t hide her from a pair of binoculars, or just someone patrolling in a Jeep or on an ATV.
Infiltrating at night was the obvious solution, but that didn’t exactly make it easy. Again—miles of open plains. That meant she couldn’t use any lights, which would flag her approach immediately. She’d be forced to stumble through the dark with nothing but moonlight showing her the path. Dangerous, all on its own. There would be any number of pitfalls and obstacles in the dark.
Plus, there was the threat of wild animals. The region was home turf for a surprisingly high number of deadly critters and predators. Hiking her way on foot to Conners’ compound, in the dark and possibly even in broad daylight, was out of the question.
If she tried to drive it… well, same issues, really. Just faster. Maybe fewer big cats or bears or rattlesnakes to worry about, but she’d effectively be driving a billboard that said “intruder, shoot me.”
That left only two potential options, neither of which fell into the “easy” category.
First, there was the Missouri River. Conners’ property butted up against it at one point, and the big house was only a mile or so inland. She could conceivably get a boat from somewhere up or down stream and make her way to a spot nearby, then hoof her way into the compound.
That still left trekking across some fairly rough terrain in the middle of the night. And it was possible that Conners would have someone monitoring the river. They might see her coming. Or hear her—the boat was going to make a lot of noise, and in the relative silence of the night it would pinpoint her location as much as any lights would have. So that option—it wasn’t great.
The second option was to drop in from above.
Kayne had no trouble chartering a plane or helicopter, and a pilot to fly her in. There were hundreds of pilots for hire in the region, doing everything from air surveys to crop dusting to dropping hunters in hard-to-reach spots. She could easily have someone fly her over Conners’ compound. The trouble was getting to the ground.
She had no experience in skydiving, so that was out. She had no time to train in it, and she honestly wasn’t sure how comfortable she was with jumping out of a perfectly good airplane. Even if she had already gained experience with it, night jumps were crazy dangerous. She stood as much of a chance of becoming mashed Kayne chow, for the dining pleasure of whatever wild cat or other predators were in the region, as landing safely. This mission was risky enough, thank you.
There was an airstrip and a helicopter landing pad on the property. That presented some possibilities. But she doubted any pilot would be willing to land there, with no questions asked, and without getting clearance from the property owner. Even if they faked an emergency landing, Conners’ people might shoot first and ask questions never.
That settled that, then. On paper, coming in by air was the quickest and easiest and maybe even the safest bet. But logistically, it was just impossible. She’d be putting the pilot at risk, even if they decided to help her. And realistically, someone from Conner’s camp would definitely spot a plane or helicopter landing at night, less the three miles from the main house. So there was no chance of a stealth approach.
Even her old standbys were out of the question. There was no way she was going to con her way in. It wasn’t like Conners would welcome any guests, while he hid out from the FBI.
Again, Kayne didn’t like limited options. And right now, her options were as limited as they could get. She needed to find a way to open this up a bit. She needed to think outside of her usual box of tricks.
What if she just called in the authorities?
She had plenty of people to reach out to with the FBI. Her “teammates” within Historic Crimes would treat any call she made as a tip from one of their confidential informants. They’d be on this in a heartbeat, considering one of their own was in an ICU because of Conners. And they wouldn’t have to worry about going in quite as stealthily as Kayne needed to—they’d simply surround the place, cut off all of Conners’ exits, and take him down. In theory.
There was always the chance that something would go wrong, and Conners would slip through their fingers. It happened. Kayne was living proof that it happened.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to risk that. She also wasn’t sure she wanted to be responsible for more FBI and HCD agents being hurt or killed. Maybe it was their job, but she’d be the one pointing them at danger and telling them to run toward it. She was comfortable with that.
But in truth, there was another reason why Kayne was hesitant to bring in the Feds.
She wanted to be the one to bring Conners down. She wanted to hurt him.
Seeking revenge was an ego play, she knew. A bad call, really. It meant she was letting her emotions drive her, which was how mistakes were made. It was how someone like her got caught. Or killed. Or both.
That thought made her pause, considering.
Was she running on emotion?
A little. She was at least lucid enough to recognize that fact. But emotion wasn’t a deal breaker, just a red flag. It was a sign that she needed to slow down, refuse to rush, and to make a plan.
Making a plan was kind of her thing, right?
She was currently holed up in a dingy little motel on the main highway, about thirty miles from Conners’ compound. Those were thirty hard, cold, challenging miles to cross. At the moment it felt like an impassable gulf. And with only two options of approach, both of them terrible, the gulf widened.
By air or by river?
Alone, or call in the Feds?
Stay or go?
She thought about Eric Symon, currently in a coma, recovering from emergency surgery and struggling for his life. Every minute Kayne spent here, in Montana, was one she wouldn’t have with Symon. Though, of course, she wouldn’t have any moments with Symon anyway. He was under guard, and everyone was on the lookout for her. She’d be arrested on sight, and would likely be blocked from getting within fifty feet of Symon. It was entirely possible that she’d seen him for the last time, kneeling in a pool of his blood.
She shook that thought out of her head.
By air or by river?
Alone, or call in the feds?
Stay? Or go?
It ran like a roulette wheel through her brain. Every bet a bad bet. Every option a gamble she’d never even consider, if it weren’t for Eric Symon.
She was sitting on top of the bedspread, pillows behind her back, laptop on her knees. On the nightstand beside her was a styrofoam cup of some of the worst coffee she’d ever tasted, accompanied by a can of Pringles and half a chicken salad sandwich she’d bought at a gas station across the street. Dining options were limited here. Even the motel vending machine was empty.
She stood, setting the laptop aside, and stretched. She fished a plastic bottle of water out of her backpack—the sole luggage she’d brought with her. She was running light. A habit, but also a necessity. At times like this, though, she’d give anything to be back in her old apartment, the high-rise home she’d had in the Bay Area, more than three years ago now. She’d love to be listening to music, making dinner, settling onto her sofa to tinker and unwind with a personal project. Or read a book. Or fall asleep watching Netflix.
The thing that rarely gets talked about, when you hear about someone being a fugitive, living on the run—the life is exhausting. Constantly watching every face in the crowd, making sure you can make a run for it at any minute, never having roots or a foundation to return to—it wore on the soul in a way that most people would never understand.
Kayne was luckier than most fugitives. Thanks to QuIEK, a certain level of scrutiny was negated, and a certain level of worry was abated. She could “hide in plain sight” because she had an unseen guardian angel erasing all traces of her in the digital realm. And in the modern landscape, that realm was as much a part of reality as the one we explore with our physical senses.
To erase yourself from that world was to cease to exist, in many ways.
The thing no one realizes, however, is that regardless of how nice or comfortable your hotel or rental house or AirBnB is, it isn’t home. Those aren’t your dishes. That isn’t your sofa. These aren’t your sheets, or your towels, or your throw blanket. You are a stranger here, passing through. You own nothing, you take nothing with you, you have nothing to return to. The welcome comfort and warmth of home is something that lingers in the back of your mind, a landscape that no longer includes you. It’s like having a phantom limb.
You are a stranger in a strange land. Always. And only.
Maybe that was why she’d latched onto Eric Symon and felt oddly close to him. He was her nemesis, in a way. But because of that, he was someone who knew her. He was someone who noticed her, even when she was invisible.
She would be lying if she said she’d never considered any sort of romantic notions about Symon. About Eric. She had. Of course she had.
But she was infuriatingly pragmatic and practical. It would never work. There would never be that moment where the two of them gazed into each other’s eyes and built a bridge of trust that crossed the gulf between them. There was no possibility of a happily ever after. And because that door was closed, Kayne didn’t even allow herself the fantasy anymore.
It was more of a Stockholm syndrome thing, anyway. No real romantic feelings, she had long ago decided.
If anything, she’d been more attracted to Ross Eckhart than to Eric Symon, anyway. Physically they were both pretty equal. Intellectually, to. Morally and ethically. They were a lot alike. But Eckhart had an edge over Symon in one key and crucial respect.
She and Eckhart lacked the shared history she had with Symon, but they had some common perspective, common experiences. She’d connected with Eckhart on a more basic level, she thought. More like the sort of thing that happens every day. No extraordinary circumstances muddying the waters. Just connection. Just gut instinct.
No gulfs to bridge.
She shook her head, sipped her water, and turned back to her laptop.
No gulfs to bridge, she thought. Unlike this approach to Conners’ compound.
What if she was going about this all wrong?
She’d been thinking about the limitations—all the things that made getting to Conners a huge challenge.
What were the advantages?
Her access to this home network, along with the satellite imagery, had allowed her to build a pretty extensive virtual map of both his compound and his home. Was there something there she could use?
She started running through everything QuIEK had found while it scanned and searched Conners’ digital presence. She brought up a list of IP addresses—the devices connected to Conners’ home WiFi. There was a network of security cameras from outside of the building, covering all angles of the grounds. Nothing inside the home, but she didn’t really need that. QuIEK was able to use the signal strength of the WiFi to sense the home’s interior. In some ways it produced a better view of the place than any cameras would have.
Of course, there were cameras in the home. Laptops, tablets, smartphones—QuIEK could get her video and audio from all of it, adding it to the map, enriching and enhancing that virtual landscape.
Some of the IPs on her list were those devices. But then there were others.
One of the more interesting turn of events in the technical world was the advent of the “internet of things.” Basically, the world had embraced the idea of putting nearly every appliance in a home on the internet. The appliances could do things like monitor energy usage, track inventory, alert the user when consumables like soap and detergent were running low. And users could also control certain functions remotely, turning lights on or off, adjusting the temperature, even locking or unlocking doors.
It was clear, from the list of IP addresses, that Conners was a gadget junkie. His entire home was one big network, every appliance, every light switch, even his vehicles, all of it was a part of the internet of things. And there were some IP addresses that were not specifically on property. She’d more or less ignored them, since they couldn’t contribute to the virtual map that QuIEK had constructed. But now she looked through the, identified what they were and where they were.
She smiled.
No gulfs to bridge, she thought.
The bridge was already there, waiting for someone to cross.
It just didn’t have to be Kayne.