Jon Evans - Swarm

“Charming image,” Clark said waspishly. “Never mind the technical details. The point is, if we can get onto their network, we could shut all their drones down.”

“Probably. Unless they know the kill switch exists, and they’ve programmed their communications hardware to filter it out before it reaches the neural net.”

“Who knows that sequence?”

“Until a few days ago, just James and me. No one else, I don’t think.” I shook my head in confirmation. I’d never considered it a great secret, but I’d never had any reason to tell anyone else. “I’ve since shown it to Dr. Elliot and some of his staff.” Clark looked blank. “The head of the DEA technical team.”

He nodded, pleased. “Nice to know we might be able to end this whole shitstorm with one fell swoop.” He switched to exhortation mode. “That’s why your visit to Convoy is so important. We need to get onto their drone network and shut it down before more people die. Whatever you two find down there might help.”

“No. Not both of us.” Sophie turned to me. “Just me, not you. Not after what just happened.”

“Forget it,” I said firmly. “I’m coming. A little Caribbean R &R sounds like just the thing for me. I mean, we’re just talking about paying Jesse and Anya a friendly visit and keeping our eyes open, right? No big deal. It’ll be fine. It might even be fun.”

I didn’t really believe that. But I wasn’t about to let her go by herself, and not just out of concern for her safety. It was past time to find out what Sophie was hiding.

“Try to stay out of trouble this time,” Lisa advised me as we departed.

I smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

A government driver took us to a Holiday Inn via downtown’s Apple Store. I emailed Jesse from there while Sophie bought me a new iPhone. En route to the hotel I checked mail on it, and found his response:

Come on down. Good timing – going into Port-au-Prince tomorrow for supplies. Can supply airport pickup for small fee. Anya suggests one pound of flesh nearest heart, per passenger, plus tip. Email flight details.

“Is your phone on?” I asked, as we continued on to the hotel.

“I’ve been mostly keeping it off. Not that it would matter much. They must have someone here who harvested the DEA chief’s address. It wouldn’t be hard to find out what room we’re in and train a drone to hit that window.”

“Great.”

“Yeah. It used to be reasonable to assume that if someone wanted to kill you, they’d at least have to take some kind of personal risk. Not any more. That changes everything.” She sighed. “I’ve been working with the DEA’s technical staff for the last couple of days. Unpaid, I might add. They’re hopeless. No clue.”

We left the car, entered the Holiday Inn, made our way into the elevators. For the first time since we had left Pasadena we were alone together.

“Your poor face,” she said softly, touching it.

“I fear for my modelling career.”

We looked at each other.

“At the school, that was an ambush, you know,” I said. “They were waiting for us. I think for you.”

It was intended as an opportunity for her to open up and tell me everything.

Instead she just shrugged. “Who knows?”

The elevator dinged open. We made our way to the big and impersonally nice hotel room, where Sophie’s things lay scattered untidily. The window had a view of the Washington Monument. In a fit of paranoia I closed the curtains before turning to her. I didn’t quite know what to say.

She could tell by my expression that something was wrong. “What is it?”

I took a deep breath.”Michael Kostopoulos.”

“What about him?” She looked puzzled.

“Why was he sending you emails just before he died?”

“He – what? Kostopoulos? Sending me emails?” She sounded genuinely dumbfounded. “What are you talking about?”

“I broke into your mail,” I said harshly. “I read it. You were supposed to meet him at the Cadillac Hotel.”

After a brief pause Sophie burst out laughing.

“What the fuck?” I was well on my way to outrage. “You think this is funny?”

“Yes,” she gasped, getting hold of her mirth. “I’m sorry. But it is. That wasn’t my account. You didn’t hack into my email, you hacked into me hacking into someone else’s. You have to admit that’s pretty farcical.”

I took a moment to absorb that revelation. Sophie had never known Kostopoulos at all: she had just read an email he had sent to someone else. It took some of the wind out of my indignant sails, but it also raised a hundred more questions. “Whose email? Why did you hack into it?”

She winced, looked away. “I’m sorry. I can’t answer that.”

“What?” Her stark negation took me aback. “Why?”

“James, I’ve never told you a lie, and I’m not going to start now. But there are some things going on I can’t tell you about.”

I stared at her. “Why not?”

“I can’t tell you that either.”

After a long moment I said, “I don’t understand.”

She sat down heavily on the bed. “I’d like to tell you everything, believe me. I want that more than anything. But I just can’t.”

A thought occurred to me. “Do you think we’re being bugged?”

She shook her head.

“Then… ” I stared at her helplessly. I already knew she wouldn’t change her mind. “Do you think you’re protecting me or something? Like Peter Parker not telling Mary Jane he’s Spider-Man? Because if so, that is purest fucking bullshit.”

“I’m not exactly Spider-Woman,” she said, “but you know what, with great power comes great responsibility, that part is true.”

“What great power?” I demanded.

She didn’t answer.

“You know I wouldn’t tell anyone else if you told me not to,” I thought out loud. “So it’s something you think I’ll do if I find out. Right?”

“I can’t explain. It’s complicated.”

“No, it’s not. You don’t trust me. It’s as simple as that.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Then what is it?”

“James,” Sophie said quietly, “I love you. I trust you. And I need you to trust me too. I need you to accept that right now there are some things I just can’t tell you. Please. You’ll understand why when I can.”

“Yeah? When will that be?”

She shrugged. “Maybe weeks. Maybe months. I don’t know.”

A poisonous silence filled the room.

“You know what kept me going, in the jungle?” I asked bitterly. “You did. Thinking about seeing you again. I nearly died there. And you know why, don’t you? Or at least you know part of it. I don’t care if you promised someone else you wouldn’t say anything. You need to tell me.”

“I can’t,” she said sharply. “Do you know what it’s been like for me? Wondering if you were dead? Wondering if I would ever even find out? I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, I kept looking up at people and thinking they might be you, like they might spring you on me by surprise. It was awful. You’re my rock. My anchor. I need you. Especially now. You don’t understand how much pressure there is on me right now. But I can’t tell you why. I’m sorry, I want to, but I can’t.”

“Sure. Right. Your rock. Your anchor,” I repeated savagely. “You know what I feel like right now? Like hired help. Like your fucking mascot.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry. You’re sorry .”

She shrugged as if to say what more can I do? As far as she was concerned, I could tell, this conversation was over, this situation resolved.

I shook my head, torn between fury and sudden trepidation.

Then I bit out, “What if sorry isn’t good enough?”