Rick Mofina - Free Fall

“Are you sure you’re okay? We have to get going to catch our flight.”

Another chime sounded on Seth’s laptop, followed by a second.

“People are tweeting links to the video, Veyda. This one says, ‘Hope this sad dad finds his daughter.’”

Veyda’s face hardened.

“I am not his daughter and he is not my father. My parents are dead to me. You know what to do, Seth. Do it. Then shut it all down and pack it up. I’ll be ready in five minutes.”

Linthicum, Maryland

Down a labyrinth of corridors within the secured confines of the Defense Cyber Crime Center, Keith Dorling pursued his prey.

For the past few days he’d been struggling to identify the source of the potential threat arising from the Zarathustra emails.

The sophistication and artistry employed by the sender to cloak and preserve their anonymity was astounding. Dorling had followed the mazelike trail to servers around the globe.

His pulse raced when the path took a troubling turn to the Shanghai headquarters of the Chinese military’s infamous Unit 68416. Dorling had feared the sender would be linked to signals intelligence, that the origin was a hostile action by a foreign government.

But he kept digging and soon he’d discovered China was merely a decoy; the trail bounced off satellites to domains used to control malware in Iran and the United Arab Emirates.

Now he saw that the sender had become complacent.

Didn’t think anyone would last this long on your tail, did you?

His target’s attempt to keep their identity secret had unraveled. After the trail left Dubai, Dorling tracked it with ease to Libya, then Bermuda, and finally…

“Bingo!”

He reached for his phone and called FBI Special Agent Ron Sanchez with the Joint Terrorism Task Force, who answered on the first ring.

“Sanchez?”

“Ron, Dorling at DC3. I’ve got Zarathustra and an IP address. It’s here in the US. You better move fast to get warrants.”

California

The words “Kate Page, Newslead” were printed in block letters on the paper sign held by the giant waiting for Kate in Arrivals at LAX.

“I’m Kate.” She looked up.

“Devon Hill, Newslead shooter.” He reached out to greet her.

Holy cow, Kate thought, as her hand disappeared in his, Chuck hadn’t been kidding when he’d promised someone protective for the job from the LA bureau. Devon had to be six foot seven, with a muscular build.

“Let me take your bag, Kate. My car’s this way.”

Devon’s car was a Jeep Liberty and he navigated it expertly through the airport chaos. While driving they made small talk about her smooth flight and California’s weather until they stopped at the Holiday Inn where Kate had a reservation.

Devon waited in the lobby as she checked in and freshened up. She’d slept a bit on the plane and wanted to take advantage of the three-hour time difference and get to work.

“Good to go,” she said, and they immediately headed out to meet her source, who lived in San Dimas.

“It’s going to take us about fifty minutes or so,” Devon said as they traveled east on the 105. “You sure you’re up for this? I read all your stuff after Chuck Laneer assigned me to this job.”

“Yeah, why?”

“Chuck told me that you’ve had some strange experiences and that your guy could be critical, or he could be a dangerous nutcase.”

“We’ve come too far on this story. We’ve got to chase down this lead.”

Devon nodded.

“So how’d you get stuck with me? Why do you think Chuck picked you for this assignment, Devon?”

He shrugged, smiling.

“My talent, or my size.” He released a deep chuckle. “I was a second-team defensive tackle in college. But pro ball wasn’t in the cards. Besides, I didn’t like the concussion issues. So I followed my passion, photography. I worked on a few papers, like the LA Times , before I joined Newslead. Was a Pulitzer finalist for pictures of the wildfires up in Calaveras County.”

“Sounds like Chuck picked you for your talent.”

Devon smiled. As they left the 105 to go north on the 605, traffic was heavy, but it was moving. Eventually they got on the westbound 10 at West Covina, then north on State Route 57 to San Dimas, a small, pretty city, snuggled along the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains.

“It used to be famous for oranges and lemons. Now the locals are big on horses. It’s also a very white town-” Devon grinned “-according to the Census Bureau. I did a quality-of-life feature for the Times here.”

They left the freeway for the Arrow Highway. Following his GPS, Devon made a number of turns until they were on a street that paralleled West Railway. It was a sleepy corner of San Dimas. He slowed to check address numbers along a stretch of modest, neat-as-a-pin houses with well-kept yards shaded by sycamore and oak trees. California fan palms towered over neighboring streets.

“Here we go,” Kate said.

They stopped in front of number 213.

Paint blistered and peeled on the picket fence bordering the yard. The fence leaned inward and outward in places where pickets were missing. The garden beds were overrun with weeds that had trapped faded flyers and discarded fast-food take-out bags. Shutters were closed in all the windows. The sedan in the driveway was rusted and filthy. The rear was crumpled and the cracked right taillight was secured with duct tape.

“You sure this is your guy?” Devon asked.

“Well, according to the records check I did, the property belongs to Mavis Carlson, aged seventy-eight.”

“She’s your source?”

“No, it’s a guy using the name ‘Malcolm Grady.’” Kate checked her phone and the information. “This is the address he gave me and I told him I’d be here today.”

Kate began typing on her phone.

“I’ll send a message to let New York know where we are. Chuck’s orders.” Then she and Devon approached the side entrance of the house. It had a flimsy door; the top half was screen mesh and the way the sun hit it, Kate couldn’t see inside.

She pressed her face to it, peering into the darkness.

She froze when they heard the soft electronic whizzing of a security camera that was tilted at them above the door. The lens turned to focus.

Kate knocked on the screen door.

“Hello, Malcolm! Malcolm Grady! It’s Kate Page with Newslead!”

A few seconds of silence passed before a man’s voice from the darkness said, “You were supposed to come alone.”

“I never said that, Malcolm. The man with me is Devon Hill. He’s a Newslead photographer. A reporter and photographer always travel together on significant assignments like this one. It’s our policy.”

“But I specifically said no names, which means no pictures. You assured me that you protect sources.”

“I know, but we can talk about that once you let us in and let me assess the documents on Project Overlord that you promised. If you’re changing your mind, or if this is some sort of hoax, I’ll fly back to New York.”

Silence followed.

“What’s it going to be?” Kate asked. “I kept up my end of the bargain. I came here on faith that you were the real deal.”

Nothing. More time passed and nothing.

“Was it all just talk or are you the real deal, Malcolm?”

Several seconds passed before a man appeared at the door. He appeared to be in his late thirties. His curly hair shot, Medusa-like, from the sides of his balding head. He had a scraggly five-day beard, and his paunch strained his faded T-shirt, which bore stains and E=mc2 across his chest. He wore khaki shorts and sandals.