“Want to talk about Dan?” I ask. Declan frowns. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
He rolls his eyes. “So mature.”
I sip my beer. “Motherhood has not changed me that much.”
Something moves behind his eyes. “How is...” His brow furrows. Poor man is trying to figure out how to ask me about motherhood.
I laugh at the consternation wrinkling his brow. “My child is perfection.” Declan breathes out a laugh. “I understand most people feel that way, but in my case it’s totally true. I have it on good authority that he is the absolute best.” Blue shifts, resting his head on my lap. “You too,” I assure him. “You’re such a good boy.”
“You’re one lucky lady, surrounded by so many good boys.”
I bark a laugh. “Yes, I am.”
Declan smirks.
“So, Dan Burke,” I prod him. “My old buddy, my pal, who the CIA seems to have disappeared.” Dan is Joyful Justice’s chief technology wizard—or at least was until he fell into federal hands and disappeared.
Declan’s frown fits back into place. “You keep making that face, and you’re liable to get stuck that way,” I warn him.
One side of his mouth tilts up. “Let’s talk zero days.”
My brows rise, waiting for the next question, but Declan just stares at me with narrowed eyes as if waiting for me to monologue on the topic. “You need to be more specific. I’m not a techie.”
But I do know about zero days. They’re flaws in codes that allow hackers access to sensitive systems. They’re called zero days because that’s how long the owner of the system knows about the vulnerabilities—none. Hackers pride themselves on finding zero days. Dan, a master hacker, had a cache of them. He gave them to me when I fled the island…but didn’t mention that fact so I wasn’t as careful with them as I should have been.
Declan leans forward, his elbows landing on the table. “Burke’s dangerous—his zero days are disasters waiting to happen.”
Hair on the back of my neck prickles. “Well, your side has Dan. Are you worried about what the CIA will do with his zero days?” Declan shakes his head and sits back, his eyes casting to the beer can in his hand. It’s my turn to wait for a monologue that’s not coming. “This exchange of information is going awesome so far,” I tease.
Declan’s lips twitch. “We’re dancing around each other.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m being pretty clear what I want. Where the fuck is Dan?”
Declan’s eyes meet mine, a spark of anger in the whiskey brown. “I don’t know where Dan is.”
“Above your pay grade,” I needle.
“Not my department. CIA has him, not Homeland Security.”
“Okay, can you find out?” His jaw tics. “I can tell you where Dan’s zero days are...”
“I can find out his location.”
“We have a copy of his zero days—I’m not sure it’s his only copy. But we have one.” Some of the tension leaches out of Declan’s shoulders. “But,” I say, figuring I should be fully transparent if I want the same, “I did lose them for a while.”
Declan’s shoulders tighten up again. “What does that mean?”
“Just that.” I clear my throat. “Someone else had the thingy, the fob.”
“The thingy? Fob?” Declan’s voice grates over the words.
“His zero days were on a USB drive that looked like a key fob. And there was a time when someone else had it.”
“Who?”
“Have you heard of the Chameleon? Also known as Karma.” Also known as John Johnson, Peter Drunfeld…and the man who I fell in love with when at my most vulnerable then betrayed me. The man who shot Robert Maxim. The man who rescued Mulberry when he was arrested and then helped us get out of the country. But Declan won’t know him for any of that. He’ll know him as the Chameleon—a master of deception.
Declan blinks fast. “The—” He stops talking. Rubs a hand over his face. “Fuck.”
“It doesn’t look like he tried to sell them. Unless it was a private sale.” I bite my lip, hating how exposed I left us. “And I got the fob—the USB drive thingy—back.” Peter took it out of the safe at our house…the one where we had a family and fell in love. The one where I had a brief respite from this life. Where I got to be a mother and a wife and not a vengeful, rage-filled vigilante.
Declan meets my gaze again. “Is the Chameleon dead?”
I swallow. “Not yet.” But Robert Maxim is working on that…another thing I’m not going to tell Declan.
“How did he get it?” he asks.
“Your turn to spill some beans.” I switch the topic, not willing to share my total and utter stupidity with Declan Doyle.
“I already told you I will try to find out where Dan is. What else do you want to know?”
“Who was behind Mulberry’s arrest—was it all you?” I ask.
“No,” Declan shakes his head and drops his gaze to the scratched table top. “There is pressure coming down the chain of command to crack down on Joyful Justice. Mulberry was just an easy win.” Declan lets out a short laugh and his eyes meet mine again. “Or at least that’s what we thought until he escaped.” Declan raises both brows, the unasked question hanging in the air. How did you do that?
“Where is the pressure coming from?” I ask instead of telling him how the Chameleon orchestrated that daring rescue.
“There is a new secretary of Homeland Security who is taking the responsibility to combat terrorism seriously.” Declan lets out a sigh.
“So it’s not just Joyful Justice.”
“JJ is smart. You’ve never claimed credit for any acts of terror in the United States.”
“I don’t believe we’ve ever claimed credit for any acts of terror. We help people who ask for it—we’re not terrorists.”
“Just facilitators.” Disdain drips off each syllable.
“Declan.” I lean forward on the table. “If you saw even one of our requests, you’d help. You’d want to be a knight in shining armor.” He opens his mouth to protest, but I don’t let him interrupt. “But no one can save anyone else. We can only save ourselves. You know that.
“We don’t ride around the countryside looking for damsels in distress—because that’s a patriarchal myth we don’t buy into. Instead, we listen to people who need support and then we give it to them. Whether that’s training or intel—we give it to them because they need it. We’re not knights. Or terrorists. We are helpers. We are there when no one else is. We support. We don’t save. And that’s an important distinction. One you may want to recognize as much more powerful than a white knight riding up and taking out the evil dragon.”
He shakes his head, lips pursed like I’m full of shit. “There are criminals who need to be brought to justice.”
“No shit, Sherlock. And there are a lot of power structures that need to crumble.”
He leans back, crossing his arms. Sand caught in the dark hair on his forearms catches the low light. “Let’s talk about your mother.”
I cough out a laugh at the abrupt change in subject. “You sound like a therapist.”
He shrugs, arms still crossed. “We were talking about terrorists.”
“You think my mother is a terrorist?” I can’t help the laughter in my voice because the absurdity is just too much. My mother—April Madden—alcoholic, religious fanatic-turned-feminist-heroine...oh. Wait. She does kind of fit the profile.
Declan stands, crossing to the fridge. “Want another beer?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, thanks. Just water if you have it.”
He pulls out two plastic bottles and returns to the table, passing one to me. “So your mother,” he says as he sits back down, the cheap chair wheezing under his weight. “You think she’s behind these Her Prophet attacks?” Declan asks, referencing the smattering of revenge killings attributed to the movement my mother helps lead.
“No, I mean, I don’t think she would be planning them.”
“Can you find out who is?”
“Oh, Mr. Declan, you are tricky.”
“Am I?”
“Here I was thinking you wanted dirt on Joyful Justice, but really you’re going after my mother. You can’t believe I’d rat out my own mom.”
“I’m going after whoever is orchestrating the Her Prophet attacks, not your mother specifically. You claim she’s not involved. So?” He shrugs those big shoulders of his. “There isn’t anything to rat out.”
My only response is a tight smile.
“She doesn’t have a history of violence?” Declan asks.
A flash of my mother, drunk, her eyes red and wild, as she screamed at my brother James and me—his little body blocking mine—so that if she lashed out it would be him who got hit. I bite my lip, the memory too vivid, the loss of him still too much.
“She was an alcoholic,” I say, my voice smaller than I want it to be while making excuses for her I don’t want to make. Sympathy softens Declan’s features. It makes me want to punch him. Speaking of violent tendencies... “But she doesn’t drink anymore.” A fact I’m not one hundred percent on, but I’m not about to throw my own mother to the cops even if she is a violent, alcoholic, religious zealot. “Is your new director interested in my mother?” I ask.
“DHS is interested in anything that threatens the nation.”
“Yeah.” I lean back, taking my water bottle with me. “Women refusing to be lambs anymore is definitely a threat—I get that.” I grin at him as I crack open my water.
“There are ways to advocate for freedom that are not violent.”
“Not my style.” My grin grows.
Declan shakes his head, a whisper of a smile pulling at his lips. “Tell me something I can take back with me—something that proves you’re a valuable confidential informant worth protecting.”
“Richard Chiles is a dangerous psychopath who needs to be in prison.”
“That’s not valuable, that’s libel.”
I breathe out a laugh. “How about the snipers who killed Senator Jackson weren’t just your run-of-the-mill white supremacists—they were sent by Richard Chiles.”
“You don’t have any evidence.”
“Yes. Actually, I do.” Declan cocks his head. I pull out the USB drive Rebecca gave me. “Emails,” I say sliding it across the table. Declan doesn’t move. “We pulled them off his computer. They are written in code, but we’ve provided the key for you. Richard Chiles hiring Scythe to broker the deal.”
Declan’s eyes narrow. “Scythe? Fuck.”
“I’m the best CI you’re ever going to have.” I stand. Blue rises with me. “Let me know when you have information about Dan.”
Declan stands, still not touching the small thumb drive. “How do I get in touch?”
“Send me an email.”
His brow furrows, probably because he doesn’t have my email address. “It’s on there.” I gesture to the USB drive still sitting on the table.
I cross to the door and start to open it when Blue growls. I freeze.
“What is it?” Declan asks.
“Shhh.” The door is open a crack. Blue presses his nose to it, sniffing the air. Then he sits back. I ease the door closed. “There is someone out there,” I whisper as the automatic lock thunks back into place.
“It is a hotel,” Declan points out like I’m new to the whole public spaces phenomenon.
“No.” I step away from the door. “There is someone out there who wants to hurt us.” I hike up my skirt to pull my gun from its holster. “Let’s try not to kill them,” I say.
Blue’s nose swipes my hip as I move out of the line of sight of the door. Declan realizes I’m not fucking around and pockets the USB, then pulls his weapon, moving to stand with me. “How many?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Blue doesn’t actually speak.” Blue cocks his head at me. I can speak. “I meant you don’t speak English.” Blue looks toward the door again, his hackles raising, a low growl rumbling from his chest.