Page 6 of Lock ’N’ Load

Karakurt: Aside from our own people, none.

White: He must be stopped before this information is released to the public.

Banks: Understood. Although, other matters are moving forward. I leave for Iqaluit in an hour.

Karakurt: I’ll take care of it.

Iqaluit? Trista strummed her fingers on the desk. Where have I heard that name before?

The images on her screen flickered, and she froze, staring at the now-black screen. “What the—” Her screen came back online and she relaxed.

White: Good. Report in when—

Trista waited impatiently for White to finish his sentence, but he didn’t. “When what?” she said out loud.

A red pop-up window—a warning window—appeared in the upper portion of her screen, and she darted her gaze to the task bar.

Dark Curtain was no longer running.

Bolting upright, she grabbed the mouse and clicked the Dark Curtain icon, but it refused to engage. “No, no, no!”

Wide-eyed, she clicked the icon again and again, already knowing the program—and everything else on her computer—was frozen. Worse…if Dark Curtain wasn’t engaged, that meant…they could see her. Well, not literally see her, or her actual identity. But when the program froze, it was the equivalent of someone ripping the curtain off the wall, revealing her standing there in the room, listening.

She didn’t understand what had just happened or, more importantly, how it had happened. She’d designed Dark Curtain with three times the number of safeguards that CIA protocol required. This should never have happened.

The chat screen went dark. Conversation was over. Resting her elbows on the desk, she dragged her hands down her face, considering the likely cause of the program’s failure. The flicker of her monitor could have been a power surge, but all classified systems at Langley were on a backup generator.

“Tris?” Kevin looked at her, brows raised.

Bonnie also eyed her from across the room.

“Did your monitors just flicker?” Trista asked.

“Yup,” Bonnie said.

Kevin nodded. “For a second, yeah. It happened to me yesterday after you’d left for the day. I reported it to facilities, and they said they’d look into it.”

“Apparently, they didn’t fix it.” Leaning back, she crossed her arms. One would think the CIA, of all agencies, would have quicker network repair response. Now she’d have to start over with Karakurt. He might even change his code name, but she’d find him, wherever he was. She just wished she’d heard the entire conversation before the system had glitched out on her.

She had no idea what Karakurt and the others were discussing, and she’d been excited to hear more. For that matter, she didn’t have a clue who Banks and White were, although White seemed higher in the food chain than Karakurt, and Karakurt was pretty high as it was.

Opening up her chat folder, she clicked print. Whatever they’d been discussing, at least she had a transcript. Maybe the spooks could make something out of this. She grabbed the single sheet from the printer and slipped it into a large envelope with the appropriate security restrictions stamped on the outside, then headed for her boss’s office to drop it off.

Trista’s stomach let out a growl as she parked in the side lot of the Mellow Moose Tavern. The Moose was just about every Langley employee’s favorite place to eat. Unexpectedly, there were quite a few cars in the main lot. Then again, the Moose was one of the only restaurants around that served decent food this late at night. Or morning, really.

It had been nearly midnight when she’d turned off her computer and headed home. Despite missing lunch and dinner, all her successive efforts to find Karakurt again had proved fruitless. She yawned, looking forward to grabbing some takeout, then falling into bed. She’d been at it for nearly seventeen hours, and she was exhausted.

Tomorrow, or rather later today, she’d get back on her board and surf the chat rooms. Sooner or later, Karakurt would show himself again.

Another gurgling growl low in her belly had her reaching for the door handle, but it was jerked from her grasp as the door opened. A hand gripped her wrist, twisting her arm as she was yanked up and out of the car.

A hand clamped over her mouth. She tried to scream, but the sound came out in a muted squeal. Her attacker spun her around and shoved her against the side of the car. Rearing back with her elbow, she tried jabbing him in the ribs, but all she connected with was air.

Something sharp bit into her neck. A knife. And with every quick inhale, the knife pressed deeper into her flesh.

Her heart pounded, terror twisting in her belly as her attacker dragged her across the pavement toward the tree line. She twisted in his grip, swinging her arms out, trying to hit him.

But she was no match for his size and strength.