The morning sun slanted through the sliding glass doors with a golden clarity that felt like something out of myth. That’s how Anna felt as she glanced out at her back deck before serving the pancakes, bacon, and freshly warmed maple syrup. As she looked at Fred, Linda, and Gil, arrayed around the breakfast table like knights and a lady at King Arthur’s court, an excitement bordering on jubilation hammered within her breast. And Linda was smiling.
With all her worry about Heather, somehow Anna had known her daughter was OK, a deep well of knowledge that came from her connection with her only child. But the loss of Jennifer and then Mark had wilted Linda like a two-week-old rose. Anna had looked into her friend’s eyes and seen suicide growing behind those empty green orbs. Fred had seen it too. Both of them had fought against it, but it was like Pickett’s Charge, more than a century-and-a-half after that bloody day at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and every bit as futile.
Linda’s late-night online chat with their kids had changed all of that. She’d been too frightened of losing the communications link to run to get Anna, and both Fred and Gil had worked all night at the lab. After Heather, Mark, and Jennifer had signed off, Linda had come running, banging on Anna’s door until she’d stumbled down the stairs in her purple nightgown and slippers.
They’d sat on the couch, talking, crying, laughing, and holding each other until dawn brought their husbands home. Then, after a quick synopsis of last night’s excitement, Anna had insisted on making a hearty breakfast to clear their minds and to give them all the inner warmth and strength she felt they’d need for the decisions that lay ahead. After all, their babies were out there, young adults, but their babies still, and they were in some sort of trouble.
There was no way in hell Anna, Gil, Fred, or Linda was going to let those lovely young people fend for themselves. Not in this lifetime or the next. They were much too young and inexperienced in the ways of the world for that.
“Looks great, sweetheart,” Gil said, motioning her to sit down.
“Wonderful,” said Fred, scooping a stack of steaming pancakes onto his plate.
“Yes it does,” said Linda. “I guess I’m just a little too excited to eat, though.”
“Nonsense.” Anna speared a golden pancake with her fork, placed it on Linda’s plate, added butter, and scooped a ladle of syrup in a lazy S pattern over the top. “No more talk of the kids until after breakfast. The sooner we all get to it, the sooner we can get down to business.”
Gil’s chortling laugh brought their heads around. “No use arguing. I’ve been through this before. Best enjoy a good meal and good company. Anna’s hard to redirect once she gets the bit in her teeth.”
Despite everyone’s desire to talk about what they were going to do about their children, they began to eat, and as they ate, the warm glow of the delicious breakfast amplified the happy knowledge that their kids were still alive and well.
After the dishes were rinsed and put in the dishwasher, all four adults retreated to the living room, settling onto the L-shaped couch, sinking into the soft tan leather as their minds worked on the problem at hand.
“OK, Anna. It’s time.”
Gil’s voice broke through her practiced comfort zone like a hammer hitting glass. He placed an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to his body, her forehead brushing the brim of his One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish hat. Anna felt the world spin out of her control, something it never did. Not now. Not ever.
Then she was crying, her face buried in Gil’s strong shoulder, her arms wrapped around his neck, awash in a misery she’d denied for six months. For God’s sake, she was Anna McFarland, mother, caregiver, the one who fed strength to her friends and family. What was happening to her?
Then Linda was there. And Fred. Their arms wrapped around her and Gil, hugging them so close it seemed they would all become one.
Gil was the first to speak. “Anna. Are you ready for this discussion?”
Anna pulled back, bringing her head up to stare directly into her husband’s eyes.
“Yes.”
Gil nodded, his deep voice acquiring an authoritative note.
“As excited as we all are to learn that they’re still alive, it’s time to think about how we get our kids out of whatever they’ve gotten themselves into.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Fred.
“And if we’re feeling like we’re in over our heads, imagine what Heather, Mark, and Jennifer are going through.”
Each of the others glanced around, catching the look in one another’s eyes before returning their gaze to Gil.
Anna felt the words pulled from her lips. “So what do we do about it?”
“We call the FBI. Obviously our kids have been kidnapped, coerced into a situation beyond their understanding. We need the best of the best to deal with this.”
Linda shuddered. “But I swore we wouldn’t contact the authorities.”
Fred reached over and placed his hand on hers. “They’ve gotten involved in something beyond their control. No matter what you told them, we need to bring in the professionals.”
The room fell silent. Then Anna’s and Linda’s eyes met. Anna nodded slightly, an action mirrored by her friend.
“OK. Whatever it takes to get our babies back.”
Gil reached for the wireless handset, lifted it from the cradle, and dialed 411.
“Hello, operator. I need a number in Washington, DC. The Federal Bureau of Investigation. Yes, I can wait.”
Denise Jennings ducked into the break room, glancing over at the Bunn coffeemaker sitting on the counter beside the stainless steel sink. A thin layer of dark-brown liquid covered the bottom of the glass pot.
Damn it! Didn’t anyone else make coffee when the pot got low?
She briefly considered reprogramming Big John to find the obnoxious culprit, shook her head, pulled the filter basket, and dumped its contents into the trash can. Thirty seconds after that, fresh coffee began pouring from the Bunn into the empty pot.
Jesus. How hard was that?
Five minutes later she returned to her lab, steaming mug in hand, swiped her ID badge through the electronic reader, leaned forward for the retina scan, and, hearing the lock click back, opened the door. Ignoring the handful of staff not at lunch, she turned right into her office, closed the door behind her, and sat down at her desk. Sipping from the “I’m crabby in the morning” mug, she typed in her computer password. She’d done it so often that the sixteen-character mix of upper-and lowercase letters, numbers, and special symbols, though it changed weekly, presented no significant one-handed challenge.
As the log-in screen was replaced by her desktop display, Denise froze. Big John had opened a popup dialog:
Denise Jennings...Eyes Only
Just below the text, another login and password prompt blinked at her. Denise stared at the prompt for several seconds, dread building in her gut until she felt nauseated.
Her fingers danced across the keyboard, the password dialog fading away, replaced by the familiar Big John response window.
Datapoint Acquired.
Correlation to Jack Gregory Query = 0.943732
Event:
McFarland/Smythe Call to FBI.
Reported computer chat contact with:
Mark Smythe
Jennifer Smythe
Heather McFarland
Next chat contact scheduled today, 22 April, 22:30 Hrs.
A 94 percent correlation to her Jack Gregory query.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
As much as she’d hoped her handoff of information to Freddy Hagerman had ended her involvement, that clearly wasn’t happening. Big John had his hooks in her, and apparently he didn’t intend to let go until he’d bled her dry. Denise had been so busy she hadn’t gotten around to canceling her high-priority intelligence information request yet. So, of course, Big John made sure he returned critical information before she did, information that could send her to prison if she chose to ignore it.
Denise closed the window and leaned back in her chair, her heart thumping against her rib cage like one of those movie aliens trying to chew its way out. Well, she wasn’t going to jail. If it took playing both ends against the middle to assure that, so be it.
Denise picked up the phone on her desk, punched in the internal five-digit number, and waited.
“General Wilson.” The NSA director’s voice seemed to echo through her head.
“Sir. This is Denise Jennings. We’ve got a situation.”