Me? I’m wishing I had an Alka-Seltzer. This shit is hell on my stomach.
O’Doul takes a short, stiff walk around the office with his hands on his hips, shooting Tabby the occasional glare. Finally, he lets out an aggravated sigh and relents.
“Fine. Since we’re ‘negotiating,’ how about this. If you successfully make contact with Killgaard, and if we successfully determine his location from that contact, and if we’re able to apprehend him as a direct result of your assistance, then you can have all your equipment back—after we’ve extracted all relevant evidence to this case—and I’ll write you a letter. But if your phone call produces nothing, I’m under no obligation to uphold my end of the deal.”
Tabby considers his words for a moment. “That’s a hell of a lot of ifs.”
“Life is full of uncertainty. Take it or leave it.”
Tabby purses her lips. She glances at me, and I incline my head. Take it.
“All right,” she says breezily. “Deal.” Like a boss, she struts over to him and sticks out her hand.
He shakes it.
Tabby adds, “But we should wait until after Miranda’s press conference. That will give me a legitimate excuse that might not tip him off that I’m involved in the investigation.”
“How so?”
“Because I saw it on TV, obviously.” She shrugs. “Miranda can drop some obscure fact about the hacker’s methods that I’d be familiar with, and I can say I decided to reach out to him.”
“But why now?” My voice is a little too loud. Everyone except Tabby looks at me. I get the distinct feeling they’re all thinking the same thing: That dude is losing it.
I clear my throat, try to act casual. Normal. Like I’m not out on a fucking ledge.
“You’ve known how to contact him for years. If I were him, I’d want to know why you waited so long to call.”
Just to twist the knife a little deeper, she throws my words from our elevator ride back at me. “But you’re not him, remember?”
She doesn’t even bother to look at me when she says it.
O’Doul ignores our back and forth and accepts Tabby’s suggestion. “Fine, we’ll do it right after the press conference. Be back here at five p.m. sharp tomorrow. And in the meantime,” he glances meaningfully at me, “stay out of trouble.”
Oh, great. Here’s the part where I’m supposed to get Tabby to let me babysit her again. No problemo. I might as well just castrate myself first and get it over with.
“I’m staying right here,” she says to O’Doul. To Special Agent Chan, she says, “No offense, but there’s no way I’m not here to watch while you extract data from my baby.”
Indifferent, Chan shrugs, but O’Doul is looking more and more like he’s going to keel over from stress. He glares at me. “Will you deal with this, please?” he says gruffly, waving in Tabby’s direction. Then he whips his cell from his pocket and stabs his fingers against the screen to make a call.
Tabby sends me a look that says if I take a step in her direction, I’ll get a knife shoved through my thorax. Then she steps backward into the office and slams the door.
“Well,” says Ryan beside me, “looks like we’re hangin’ out here for a while. I’ll get us some chow.”
By the time we’re ready to make the call to Killgaard the next day, Chan has finished extracting the data from Tabby’s computer, Miranda has given an epic performance as a damsel in distress at a mobbed press conference on the steps of the studio, and Tabby and I are apparently not on speaking terms because she’s refused to acknowledge my existence every time we’re in a room together.
I’m persona non grata, and it’s really crossing my wires. I’ve got a head full of scrambled eggs.
As for the FBI, they’re more hyper than a bunch of little kids on Christmas morning. I’ve never seen a bunch of grown men so giggly and excited. Apparently, Killgaard has been involved in so many previously uncredited high-level hacks, he’s shot right to the top of the Cyber Most Wanted List.
Yes, they really have one of those. Which is where I suspect Tabby’s name will appear if this all falls apart and I have to smuggle her to safety across some international border in the hidden compartment of the Hummer.
I’m pacing back and forth in front of the office windows when Ryan ambles in, fresh from a shower in the employee gym on the first floor.
“What’s the 411?” he asks, dropping the duffel bag with his clothes and shaving kit on the floor beneath the window.
“Just waiting on these fucknuts to get their shit together.”
Rodriguez and Chan are on the other side of the room at Chan’s desk, arguing over who should sit where during the call. O’Doul and Miranda are deep in discussion outside the adjacent office, where Tabby’s been for hours. She’s emerged only once, to shower and grab a sandwich from the food platters delivered at regular intervals from the cafeteria.