So worth it. Her night with Derek had been—she smiled and sipped her coffee—so amazing. The conversation had been great, the food had been fantastic, and the kissing—Oh—the kissing had been bone-meltingly good. The kind of kissing that made the world spin around you until it entirely faded away. The kind of kissing that left you hot and breathless and dying for more. The kind of kissing that made you wet just from the shifting press of lips and tongue and teeth.
The kind of kissing that had almost convinced Emilie to throw caution to the wind and invite Derek home.
A tingle ran over Emilie’s skin just thinking about it.
Because, man, it had been so long. Too long. Even before Emilie had learned about Jack’s infidelity, things had slowed down between them. A lot. Turns out that was because he was getting it elsewhere.
No, don’t ruin your Derek buzz by thinking of Jack.
Right.
Because Emilie was totally buzzing. She might just float through her whole day.
And there were so many other things about the date that had made it great, too. That he’d cared what she wanted to do. How he’d asked about her and really listened to what she had to say. That he’d held her and bought her a jacket when she’d been cold.
That he’d asked her out again.
Well, at least they’d talked about meeting after she finished at the Baltimore clinic tomorrow night. But they hadn’t actually made any specific plans.
If he didn’t call or text her, would she call him? Emilie’s shoulders fell at the thought.
No, don’t second-guess it. Derek hasn’t given you any reason not to believe what he’d said. He’ll call.
Looking at her phone again, Emilie sighed. If she put off this call with her mother any longer, she’d be late for her first patient. On the screen of her cell, she pressed her mother’s number and placed the phone to her ear.
When her mother answered, Emilie’s stomach went for a loop-the-loop. Ridiculous to be thirty years old and afraid to tell your mother something, but it was only because of how much Mama adored Manny. Years ago when their father split, Manny had stepped up to fill as much of the man’s shoes as was possible for a sixteen-year-old. Emilie adored him for that, too. And always would.
She and her mother made the usual small talk and discussed Saturday’s party plans, and then Emilie couldn’t put it off another minute. “So, Mama, I need to talk to you about Manny.”
“Oh, Emmy, not this again,” her mother said. “I’m not sure why you—”
“He pulled a gun in my house,” Emilie said, going the direct route to get her mother’s attention.
“He . . . what? Well . . . there had to be . . . a good reason?” Sometimes people wanted something to be true so badly that they’d find a way to read any situation to make it that way.
“Mama, it was because the UPS truck had pulled up in front of my house. Manny thinks someone is after him—”
“Has he called the police? Who is after him?”
Emilie dropped her head into her hand and braced her elbow on the table. “No one is after him. That’s the point. He only thinks there is. It’s pretty classic paranoia.”
Long pause. “He’s under a lot of stress, Emilie. That’s all.” Her mother sniffed.
Choosing her words carefully, Emilie said, “I’m sure that’s true, but I don’t think that’s all that’s going on. Mama, he was in the Army for twelve years. He fought multiple tours of combat and must’ve seen so many horrible things. The Army has a huge incidence of depression and PTSD, and he’s showing the signs. He needs help.”
“Emilie,” she said, and she could almost see her mother shaking her head. “I will talk to him.”
No. Not this time. Her mother had said this before to get Emilie to back off. And though she’d never go as far as to call her mother a liar, she couldn’t help but doubt that those conversations had ever taken place. “That’s not enough. Not this time.”
“Em—”
Emilie closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “He grabbed me, Mama. He shoved me up against a wall. He destroyed my property. And when I got mad about it, he got in my face and yelled while holding a knife. Does that sound like our Manny?” When her mother didn’t answer, Emilie pressed. “Does it?”
A troubled sigh came down the line. “No, mija. No, it doesn’t. What is it you want to do?”
It was a bittersweet victory at best, because Emilie did not relish the thought of having Manny picked up and hauled into an ER against his will. She explained the emergency evaluation petition and what it would unleash, and she didn’t miss for a second the way her mother’s breath caught when she’d explained that Manny could be held involuntarily for several days, longer if the medical staff agreed he was a danger to himself or others.
“Please, wait, Emilie. Let me see him. Let me talk to him,” her mother pleaded.
“Mama—”
“Saturday. I’ll see him at your house on Saturday. Let me see him with my own eyes before you do anything. It will kill him, Emilie.” The strain in her mother’s voice made the backs of her own eyes prick.
Blowing out a long breath, Emilie nodded. “Okay, Saturday. But I’m filing the paperwork after that. If he hurts himself or someone else—”
“He won’t. Okay, but he won’t,” she said.
Their good-bye was a tense, awkward affair. The phone sagged in Emilie’s hand. Well, it had gone better than it could’ve but not as good as she’d wanted. Waiting made her uneasy, but Saturday was only a few days away, so Emilie could live with the compromise. She hoped. Boy, this was sure gonna make the party lots of fun, wasn’t it?
She just barely resisted banging her head against the table. Instead, she got up, placed her mug in the sink, and grabbed her things for the day.
The morning sped by with a string of appointments. When lunch came, Emilie was almost tempted to walk down to the coffee shop again, but she didn’t have the time today. She unpacked the lunch she’d made and ate at her desk while she surfed the internet. On Facebook, a news story one of her clinic colleagues had posted caught her eye: “Two Killed in Suspected Rival Gang Shooting.”
Emilie recognized the story as the one Derek had mentioned last night, and she clicked through to read.
Two men were gunned down in separate incidents yesterday in what Baltimore City Police suspect were rival gang shootings. Police are still identifying the victims, whose bodies were found on East Preston Street in the Berea neighborhood and near Brehms Lane in Belair, both on the eastern side of Baltimore City.
A suspect is wanted for questioning in connection with the Belair murder, and is described as a Hispanic male, aged 28 to 35, with black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Anyone with information should call BCP.
A source at the police department said authorities are speculating that yesterday’s execution-style murders are related to last Friday night’s explosion at the Confessions strip club on Weston Avenue, a known hangout of the Church Gang. Louis Jackson, director of the city’s task force on gang violence, said, “It’s not uncommon to see a series of high-profile gang-related incidents occur when the power of the dominant gang wanes or appears poised to do so. This could be other groups making their move.”
Investigations into the city’s gang violence estimate that the Church Gang is responsible for nearly one-half of all gang-related murders in the city and 23 percent of its overall murder rate. . .
And this was why Emilie hated reading the news. She still did it, of course, but it was more than a little unsettling to hear that the city she worked in once a week might be in the middle of escalating gang warfare. Not that she was really surprised. She worked with patients at the clinic who dealt with or were victims of the city’s gangs all the time. If not as victims of violence, then as victims of the heroin addiction these gangs made possible. It wasn’t for nothing that Baltimore was known as the heroin capital of the United States. Government agencies estimated that as many as ten per cent of the city?
??s residents were addicts.
Heartbreaking, really. Which was why Emilie gave her time at the clinic up there once a week. She’d do more if she could.
Knock, knock.
Emilie looked up from her computer to find Carol, the office receptionist, standing in the doorway. “Your one o’clock is here,” Carol said.
Quickly cleaning off her desk, Emilie nodded. “Give me two minutes and send her in?”
“You got it.”
The afternoon went by in a blur, a blessing when she had things she didn’t want to think about. And then at five o’clock on the dot, her cell buzzed an incoming text message. Emilie retrieved her phone from her top desk drawer.
Derek.
Her smile was instantaneous.
This time last night I was on your front porch so I thought it would be a good time to text. ;)
She laughed, and was it any coincidence that the last time she’d done so, she’d been with him? Emilie debated how to reply and finally decided to just go for it: Perfect timing, though I preferred you on my front porch . . . Stomach flipping, she pressed Send and grinned like an idiot while she waited for his response.
Her cell buzzed again. Me too, which is why I’m texting. Would either Little Italy or Inner Harbor work for you tomorrow night?
They made their plans for a quiet little place with absolutely divine food in Little Italy. He’d offered to pick her up, and, though her instincts told her that was probably fine, she decided to meet him there instead.
She packed up her belongings to leave. And even though she was going home to an empty house, she was happy. Because Derek had given her something to look forward to, and Emilie hadn’t had that with a man in a long, long time.
MARZ RECLINED IN his chair, laced his hands behind his head, and basked in the news that he was definitely going to see Emilie tomorrow night. Because that was one of the few things that had gone right about his day.
This morning, they’d debriefed last night’s op and brainstormed scenarios for dealing with Seneka. The possibility existed, of course, that Garza was working on his own, but they had to plan as if they might be up against the whole corporate beast. Plus, something Garza had said that first night they’d seen him at the drug deal argued in favor of him not working solo. When the leader of the other side of the deal asked if Garza was staying with the Churchmen, Garza had replied that he had to because someone wanted him to keep an eye on business with Church.
At the time, their team had no idea who that someone might be. Now that they knew that Garza was SWS, that organization was a prime possibility.
And that was some bad frickin’ news, because Seneka operatives were highly trained, well-funded, and not too concerned about scruples, morals, or ethics. When it came to getting a job done, the ends justified the means every damn time.
Marz and the guys knew that firsthand, since they’d been caught up in someone’s “means” a year ago. If Seneka was mixed up in the ambush that killed half their team, like they believed, they already knew exactly what the organization was willing to do.
And now everyone was counting on Marz.
Because the last thing Nick had said as this morning’s meeting ended was, “We can’t consider going after Seneka until we know what’s on that chip. We need all the available intel in hand and we need it yesterday. Can you do it, Marz?”
Of course, he’d said yes. What other answer was there when their lives, their reputations, and their honor were on the line?
Nick was talking about a tiny microchip they’d found a few days before, hidden inside a teddy bear that belonged to Becca. Her father—their commander—had sent her the bear months before his death, and the chip was just one in a string of mysteries they had yet to solve.
Correction: that Marz had yet to solve.
Which meant it was time to get back to work. Marz sat up in his chair just as Charlie and Becca walked into the gym.
“Yo,” Marz said, giving a wave.
“I come bearing gifts,” Charlie called. “Or, actually, we come bearing gifts, since—” He lifted the hand wrapped in gauze. The bandages hid the fact that he’d lost two of his fingers when the Church Gang had taken him hostage two weeks before. The gang had done such a butcher job on the digits that Becca had been forced to call in a few of her EMT friends to perform essentially a field operation to prevent infection.
“Prezzies are my favorite. Whatcha got for me?” Marz asked as they crossed the room.
Charlie and Becca walked up to the desk and each settled a drink and a plate with a giant sandwich and chips on the plywood surface. “Food,” Charlie said. “I was starving, so I figured you might like a break, too.”
“Aw, dude, you are my favorite person right now,” Marz said, his stomach growling at the sight of the food.
“You realize you say that to everyone who makes you food, right?” Becca said with her hands on her hips.
Marz chuckled and winked. “I’m easy like that. But, thank you, too, Becca. You’re my other favorite person.”
Shaking her head, she turned away and started back across the room. “Be good, boys.”
“What fun is that?” Marz called, brushing crumbs off his jeans. Becca just waved. Smiling, Marz looked at Charlie. “You know, wearing your shirt inside out just makes me want to know even more what the shirt says.” Today’s shirt was gray-blue and the outline of a picture was visible through the cotton.
Across the room, Becca opened the door just as Nick walked in. Her laughter echoed through the gym as he tugged her into the hallway. He came back a minute later wearing a big grin.
Charlie sighed as he pulled up a folding chair and sat down. “Jeremy literally has no regular T-shirts.”
“And?” Marz said, gesturing for the other man to keep talking.
“I’m wearing it inside out for a reason,” Charlie said, eyebrow arched.
“Yeah, but I’m going to pester you until you tell me so take the route of least resistance.” Marz grinned.
Charlie rolled his eyes. “Fine. This one has a Schnauzer wearing a saddle that says, ‘Weiner rides: 25¢’.” The guy threw him a droll stare, challenging Marz to laugh.
Marz worked at a straight face. “That’s a good price.”
Charlie threw a potato chip at Marz. He caught it and popped it in his mouth. “Don’t worry. Your weiner rides are our little secret.”
“Oh, my God,” Charlie said, rubbing his good hand over his face. “So, how’s the key search running?” He took a bite of his sandwich.
“Slow as fucking molasses,” Marz said, grabbing a handful of chips.
“Faster now since we networked the machines, though, right?” Charlie shoved the long strands of his dark blond hair out of his eyes and scanned his gaze over the computers.
Marz nodded at Charlie. “Yeah. But it’s not fast enough.” He took a bite of his sandwich—turkey and Swiss on rye—and gave Charlie a thumbs-up. Chained to the computer station all day, Marz hadn’t eaten much else.
“Hey.” Wearing a gray t-shirt and jeans, Nick eyeballed them as he walked up to the desk, and his expression said he’d overheard some of their conversation. He grabbed a folding chair and sat backward on it, his arms resting on the backrest, then he glanced at the closest monitor. “So, can you explain this to me in layman’s terms? What needs to happen and what do you need to make it happen?”
Marz glanced to Charlie, who waved a hand as if to say, It’s all yours.
“Okay,” Marz said. “Let’s say you have data you need to send over the internet or on a disk, but you don’t want anyone to be able to read it if they intercept it. To protect the data, you encrypt it. There are various ways of doing this, but no matter which you choose, encryption is largely accomplished by putting a big-ass math problem between potential snoops and your data. The answer to that math problem is the password or key that deciphers the encryption. The bigger the math problem, the longer the answer and therefore the password, and therefore the more po
ssible number sequences there are in the password. Make sense?” He munched a few chips.
A look of concentration on his face, Nick nodded. “Following so far.”
Charlie scooted his chair closer. “There are pretty much three ways to break a cryptograph,” he said. He held up his uninjured hand and counted off with his fingers. “First, you can attack the cryptography itself. That’s the code Marz is talking about.”
“Essentially, solve the math problem,” Nick said.
Nodding, Charlie continued. “Yes. Second, you can attack the software or hardware if you have a specific target in mind. And third, you can access relevant humans.”
“Meaning someone gives you the key,” Marz said.
“Okay,” Nick said. “So . . . I take it we only have that first option at hand.”
“Well, mostly,” Marz said. “We’d been thinking that the bracelet Becca’s father gave her might provide the passcode for the chip. That would’ve fallen under that human option. But no matter what we do, it’s not working.”
The bracelet was made up of a series of silver circles and bars. Charlie had recognized that those charms actually meant something—they translated to binary code. The string of circles and bars could also be read as zeroes and ones, but so far no joy.
Between the chip and the bear, at least they knew why the Churchmen had ransacked Becca’s house and tried to nab her. She had in fact had information from her father, she just hadn’t realized it. And they still hadn’t figured out how to access it.
Marz took a drink of water and set his cup back down. “So, yeah, mostly, we’re looking at solving the math problem. There are two main ways to do that. A brute-force attack, which simply means entering every possible key sequence until you hit the correct one. And a side-channel attack, which means finding some extra source of information that can be exploited to break the system.”
“Like what? Gimme a concrete example,” Nick said.
“Okay,” Marz said. “Like the greasy smudges your fingers leave on the screen of your smartphone when you enter the passcode. Or the fingerprints you leave on an ATM’s keypad after you enter your pin. In both of those instances, the extra information of those fingerprints significantly narrows your search from a key involving ten possible digits with nearly four million permutations, zero through nine, to a key involving just four digits, which only has twenty-four possible permutations.”