Daniel Suarez - Daemon

It was going to take some time to crack the key, though. Gragg pulled out the DC-to-AC adapter and plugged it into his car lighter, then plugged his laptop into the new AC power source. He launched Asleap , a program for grabbing and cracking wireless key exchanges. He could see the network clearly enough. He sent the command to de-authenticate every user on the new network and prayed to the freaking gods that some client connections were present.

Thirty seconds later, two authentication exchanges occurred to reconnect the clients. Gragg started breathing again. He now had an encrypted hash that Asleap was working the dictionary to decrypt. He was on his way.

Gragg leaned his driver’s seat back and stared at the ceiling, wondering if he’d ever get out of here alive.

Jon Ross hopped out at the front entrance to Alcyone Insurance. He opened the rear passenger door of Sebeck’s Dodge Durango and grabbed his laptop bag from the backseat. It was Sebeck’s personal car and reeked of his aftershave. The interior was immaculate, devoid of personal touches like Kleenex holders or errant CDs. It had the brutal cleanliness of a military barracks, and by revealing nothing about Sebeck it revealed a lot.

Ross looked from the backseat into the rearview mirror to make eye contact with Sebeck. “Well, Pete, again, my condolences on Deputy Larson. And I wish you the best of luck on the case.”

Sebeck just stared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Sebeck’s cell phone started ringing.

Ross slung his laptop bag over his shoulder. “It means that I’m done. The Feds have this under control.”

“Don’t even try that bullshit on me, Jon. Go get some sleep.” He motioned for Ross to get out, and he unfolded his phone as he pulled away from the curb. He smiled grimly as he saw Ross flip him off in the rearview mirror. Then he answered the phone. “Sebeck.”

A woman’s voice said, “Nothing can kill you, can it, Pete?”

He felt his pulse accelerate. It was her. When had he last heard her voice? How long ago? This phone line is tapped. “Cheryl, I’m heading to the office. Call me there.”

The line went dead. Sebeck stowed his phone, then drove a couple of blocks. He pulled over in a residential area, then looked in the rearview mirror. No one watching. He got out and opened the tailgate of the Durango. Sebeck reached down into the spare tire well and came up with a bright red prepaid, disposable cell phone. He closed the tailgate, looked around again, then got back in the Durango and plugged the phone into his car lighter. Moments later the little phone chirped, and he grabbed it.

“God, it’s great to hear your voice. Things have been crazy. We lost two men today. I’ve got more in the hospital.”

“I know. I caught the news in the terminal at O’Hare.”

“You’re in Chicago?” He knew better than to ask too much.

“No. Westwood.”

“At the company suite ?”

“You’ll come meet me.”

“Oh God, baby.” Sebeck sighed. “This is a really bad time. This Daemon thing is—“

“You survived, Pete. I’ll make you remember why you want to be alive.”

That she would. Sebeck was quiet for a moment. Cheryl Lanthrop was the most beautiful woman he had ever been with. Her predatory sexuality made it even harder to resist. It was unfair that he should be expected to resist a woman like her. He had convinced himself that even his wife would understand.

Still, it was a bad time to disappear. But they could reach him by phone, couldn’t they? The Feds would probably be busy tearing apart CyberStorm’s network all night. And Sobol’s estate? Hell, there were hundreds of police surrounding it. If he got caught, no man alive would think less of him.

He hesitated. “I’m just…” He couldn’t find words.

“Only you know what you want, Pete.”

He already knew he was going. He was someone else entirely with her. His responsibilities faded away. His goals were here and now—the conquest of her. And that’s what it required: conquest.

“I’m on my way.”

Wilshire Boulevard between Beverly Hills and Westwood Village was a canyon of tony high-rises one row deep. The buildings seemed out of place in Los Angeles, as though someone had grafted a piece of Manhattan’s Upper East Side to L.A.’s suburban grid. This was the location of Cheryl’s corporate condo.

Cheryl was some sort of medical executive. In one of his fits of curiosity about her, Sebeck had run a background check. She had a surprisingly benign past; good premed education, clean credit, no criminal record. Her employer sold and installed complex medical diagnostic systems, and she traveled the world consulting on multi-million-dollar deals. She had money—the type of money Sebeck could only dream about. And she had perks, like the corporate suite at this copper-roofed faux French provincial tower.

Sebeck still had a parking card, so he was able to avoid the doorman. His face was still in the news, and he wasn’t anxious to be seen in the vicinity.

As he exited the elevator on the fifteenth floor, he peered both ways down the hall to be sure no one was in sight. As he approached Cheryl’s door, Sebeck noticed it was slightly open. He looked around warily, then nudged it in. Cheryl stood beneath a halogen spotlight near the entryway. She wore a black cocktail dress with spaghetti straps. Black stockings with garters, visible below the hemline, wrapped her long legs and shapely, shoeless feet. Her auburn hair sparkled in the light. She smirked and curled a finger at him. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Worth losing everything for.

Sebeck moved toward her, closing the door behind him. He knew better than to expect consolation from her. What they shared was different. Just before he reached her, she pirouetted and ducked her head low, bringing a roundhouse kick straight at his head. He saw it coming and grabbed her leg just in time. The impact sent him back against the wall.

She followed it with an open-hand karate punch toward his face. He ducked back, releasing her leg. “No bruising! Cheryl—“

“Shhhh.” She put a painted fingernail to his lips.

Sebeck took the moment to grab her wrist, twisting her arm around her back. He brandished handcuffs seemingly out of thin air. She quickly tried to clear his legs out from under him, but he blocked her legs. Their shins slammed together, and he bore down on her to fling her to the floor. He felt her strong, lean body resisting, and then finally throwing him over her. He landed hard on the carpeted floor.

Struggling for breath, he managed to hiss out, “We’ve got to be more quiet—”

She let out a tigress growl, kicked the handcuffs away, and landed a few vicious punches to his abdomen. His tightened stomach muscles dampened the blows.

She smiled playfully and lightly bit his ear. “You goddamned pig.” She grabbed him in a headlock and started a chokehold.

Perfume mixed with sweat filled his nostrils. Adrenaline filled his veins. If this wasn’t love, then it was something nearly as good. He felt his consciousness begin to fade. He smacked his open hands against her ears, and she dropped the chokehold in an instant, grabbing her head in pain.

He rolled over, kneeling next to her. “Baby, did I hurt you?”

She looked up, one eye and half a mischievous smile visible behind a curtain of auburn hair. He saw his mistake too late, and her open hand shot like a jackhammer into his solar plexus. He doubled over in pain as she leaped over him, moving for the handcuffs.

She had a thing for cops—and he was probably one of several she had flings with around the country. He didn’t care. She was a sexual hand grenade with the pin pulled out, but he could never manage to resist her. Whatever this said about him didn’t matter. Cheryl was here, and the whole world could go screw itself.