Hack, page 2
Then there was the Washington Post connection. Though he couldn’t prove it, Nik suspected Whyte had tipped off her old employer to a bid-rigging investigation he had been working on for weeks. He’d have to watch what he shared with Korum.
As if reading Nik’s mind, Korum said, “Be careful who you trust. You know what NSA stands for, right?”
“National Security Agency,” Nik said. “Everybody knows that.”
“Un-uh,” Korum said. “No Such Agency.”
Nik disconnected from the sheriff and punched in Patrick “Mo” Morgan’s number. Nik could hear a din in the background when he reached Morgan and fellow colleague Mia Landry at the Third Edition, their new favorite watering hole. Nik broke the news to his colleagues.
“Too bad for you,” Mo said. “We’ll hoist a cold one in your honor.”
“Make it quick,” Nik said. “I need you and Mia to tag team this one.”
“Aw, fuck, I knew I shouldn’t have answered the phone,” Mo groused.
“Cheer up,” Nik said. “With any luck, we’ll be back at the Third Edition before last call.”
As it turned out, it would be the new year, and under different circumstances, before the trio reconvened for a boozehounder.
Chapter 3
December 15, Washington, DC
Nik slammed into the roadblock three miles from the Trident Office Park. Two patrol cars were wedged nose to nose in the center of the road, lit up by flashing light bars and flares running along the shoulders, giving the street the appearance of an airport runway.
Nik coasted to a stop, and a cop in a wide-brimmed Smokey hat and raincoat walked in a cautious arc toward his vehicle. A steady, cold rain had begun, and Nik cracked the window of his ancient Land Cruiser and nodded when the officer drew near.
The cop stood behind and off to the side of the driver’s door and shined a light into the interior of the vehicle and then directly into Nik’s eyes, temporarily blinding him. “Where you headed, sir?”
Nik squeezed his eyes shut and looked straight ahead. Black dots the size of hockey pucks danced in front of him when he tried to refocus.
“Trident, there’s been an explosion. I’m a reporter with Newshound,” Nik said and fished his credentials and driver’s license out of the vehicle’s console and handed them to the cop through the window. The officer took them and walked to the back of Nik’s car, keyed the microphone mounted on his shoulder, and read out Nik’s driver’s license and license plate numbers.
He reappeared at Nik’s window a couple minutes later and returned the identification.
“There’s another roadblock ’bout a mile up. It’s manned by Homeland Security. I don’t expect you’ll get through, but I’ve been instructed to let you pass,” the cop said, waving to the other trooper to clear a path in the roadway for Nik.
Nik thanked the officer, started pulling away, and then braked. “Any other media come through this checkpoint?” he asked, his breath stacking up outside his window like a tiny rain cloud. The cop paused before answering. “You’re the only vehicle we’ve seen so far,” he said.
“And why Homeland Security?” Nik queried.
“You’ll have to ask them that. You need to move along now, sir,” the officer said in a determined voice.
Nik maneuvered his vehicle around the police cruisers, punched the accelerator, and squirted through the roadblock. Within a matter of minutes, he rounded a curve and saw more flares and orange pylons in the distance, but no cars. The second checkpoint appeared abandoned.
Nik arrived at the entrance to Trident Office Park a few minutes later, just in time to witness a mob surging toward him as he stood outside his parked vehicle.
“What’s going on?” he yelled as medics, nurses, and security guards shot past him helter-skelter in all directions, wide-eyed with panic. Someone shouted back, but Nik wasn’t able to make out what they said. The rain was falling harder now, and Nik stood rooted to his spot, not certain what to do, when he was knocked from behind and spun around.
A tight knot of men and woman, all athletic-looking and identically dressed in thick boots, cargo pants, berets, and matching dark-blue windbreakers, were on a dead run in the opposite direction, back into the heart of the office park. Nik didn’t hesitate. He broke into a sprint and fell in behind the small squadron.
The escaping crowd Nik had encountered when he arrived at the office park had apparently abandoned its supplies in a rush to flee, and the ground was littered with blankets, medical supplies, and rain gear. He stopped and scooped up a poncho and slipped it over his head. A patch on the breast read “Trident Security.”
Nik looked up just in time to see the crew he was trailing disappear around a building. He raced to rejoin them, and when he turned the corner, he came to a dead stop. He stared out at an area the size of a ball field that had been leveled.
The blast had pancaked a four-story building, and its husk sat smoldering, cloaked in an eerie orange halo, while the acrid smells of melted electronics and burnt rubber made Nik’s eyes water and nose run. Upended cars and trucks were scattered about, doors and trunks ripped from hinges. Out on the perimeter, away from the center of the explosion, damaged buildings displayed gaping windows filled with glass shards like rows of busted-out teeth.
“Who are you?” a sharp voice snapped from behind Nik. He wheeled around to face a man with yellowed eyes and a blond mustache the size of a large, woolly caterpillar nestled on his upper lip. He wore a black ball cap tightly pulled down over his head, tactical vest, and black battle dress trousers tucked inside combat boots. Strapped on his left wrist was an oversized military watch and on his right thigh, a sidearm. A name tag on his vest simply read “Colonel,” no last name. Nik was about to identify himself when the man spied the patch on Nik’s poncho.
“Trident Security. Good. Follow me. We need to see if we can recover any bodies. A cadaver dog is on the way,” the man said and dashed off with Nik in tow.
The group Nik had been trailing made its way to the wreckage. The colonel took charge and instructed them to form a bucket brigade. “We need to make a hole,” he ordered and started funneling out rubble hand over hand.
Nik took a place in the back of the line and stacked blocks of concrete around his feet and worried how he might react if they actually pulled a body from the building. Nik had an aversion to blood and got light-headed when he saw it, and, on a couple occasions, had even fainted at the sight of his own blood.
After about ten minutes, the colonel called out, “I think I hear someone.” The conga line doubled its pace and quickly carved out a small cavity wide enough for one of the women to wedge into. “Throw some light in this hole,” she said, and almost instantaneously, a powerful handheld spotlight bathed the area in a yellow glow, illuminating not only the opening but everyone in the rescue line as well.
That’s when the woman directly in front of Nik turned and surveyed his matted-down hair, fogged wire-rimmed glasses, and soggy loafers.
“You ain’t security,” she said.
“Never claimed to be,” Nik said.
“Who are you?” she interrogated.
“Nik Byron,” he said.
“I mean, who are you with, Byron?” she said.
Nik knew better than to lie. “I’m a reporter with Newshound.”
The woman took a half step back, swiveled her head, and, while keeping one eye fixed on Nik, shouted over her shoulder, “For fuck’s sake, someone let a fucking reporter in here.”
Chapter 4
December 15, Washington, DC
Patrick Morgan and Mia Landry reluctantly abandoned their cozy booth at the back of the Third Edition and headed for the door. Mia tucked her unruly hair under a purple-and-white beanie, slipped on a silver puffy jacket, and made her way to Georgetown University Hospital. Mo tugged on a beaten-up Red Sox baseball cap and shambled down the street to his apartment. He went to work trying to track down Homeland Security sources and, at Nik’s urging, called veteran news editor Frank Rath and dispatched him to Newshound’s offices to monitor media reports and be prepared to edit any stories the reporters might file.
Nik’s three colleagues had followed him to Washington from the Midwest when it appeared he was going to be chief editor and had stood by Nik despite his demotion. They were aware Nik had remained loyal to them as well, and that he would have resigned from Newshound had they not uprooted their lives and careers to make the cross-country journey to the nation’s capital with him.
Ironically, all three had adapted to their new surroundings much better than Nik had.
Frank, at sixty-eight, a seasoned journalist who had covered government coups, Wall Street scandals, and presidential campaigns, had settled in as the dean of the newsroom, happy to tutor and share war stories with eager young reporters. Nik had coaxed Frank out of semiretirement back in the Midwest, and they had been together ever since.
Shortly after arriving in DC, Mia, a former intern whose superior reporting skills had turbocharged her career, had launched Dateline Washington, a podcast that covered the singles scene in the nation’s capital. The program became an instant hit with young professionals in their early twenties, like Mia, and gained her widespread notoriety, and, in no time at all, the concept had spread to the rest of Newshound’s markets nationwide.
Mo had won the admiration of the staff with his unrivaled professional and personal work ethic. Not only did he spend countless hours meticulously crafting his stories, he was also a devoted bodybuilder and encouraged everyone to join him at the local Y for noontime workouts. With biceps as thick as railroad ties, fingers round and stout like shotgun shells, and a chest the size of an anvil, the thirty-six-year-old Mo cut an impressive figure in a newsroom filled with otherwise out-of-shape and flabby reporters.
Nik, on the other hand, remained unsettled and was amazed at how quickly his colleagues had acclimated to the unfamiliar terrain.
“Brah,” Mo had slurred one boozy evening at the Third Edition, laying a tree trunk of an arm across Nik’s stooped shoulders, “Newshound moved us across the country on their dime, doubled our salaries, and put us up in corporate apartments while we searched for places to live. What’s to bitch about?”
It was Nik’s experience that reporters could always find something to bitch about, and bitch Mo and Mia did when Nik called and told them about the Trident story.
“We ain’t fuckin’ ambulance chasers,” Mo protested.
“No, and you aren’t desk jockeys, either,” Nik said, having fully anticipated the blowback. “Companies inside Trident handle a lot of highly classified work for the government, and they’re trying to make this out as a ruptured gas line when it’s doubtful that’s what happened. Something’s not right.”
“What’s Whetstone think?” Mo asked, knowing the question was certain to irk Nik.
“He’s out of town,” Nik said curtly. “It’s my call.”
“Remind me never to invite you to a boozehounder again,” Mo grumbled.
Mia was the first to come across the trail of the bloody explosion. She spotted an ambulance driver exiting Georgetown Hospital’s emergency room drop-off and approached him. “Are the Trident victims here?” she asked in a distressed voice.
“Most have been admitted to ICU,” the driver said.
“How bad?” Mia said, feigning anguish and only mildly uncomfortable with the subterfuge.
“I’ve seen worse,” the driver said, “but bad.”
“I’ve been trying to find out what happened but can’t get a straight answer. Do you know?” Mia pressed.
The driver looked around before answering, unsure of how much to divulge. “Well,” he began, when his partner blew through the emergency room doors. “We got to go, Doug,” she said as she sprinted toward the ambulance. “Now!”
The driver broke away from Mia and headed to the vehicle, but after he opened the door, he turned back to her and silently mouthed a word that she thought was “bomb.”
“Wait,” Mia said, but the driver climbed into the ambulance and was gone.
Mia dashed into the hospital and was making her way toward the intensive care unit when she was stopped by a security guard with a face full of peach fuzz and festering pimples. He looked to be about seventeen.
His name tag read “Officer Stevie P.” He had a badge on his lapel, and on his hip belt, a canister of mace, handcuffs, and a nightstick.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“I hope so. I’m trying to find the explosion victims,” Mia said.
“Which one?” Officer Stevie asked.
“From Trident Park,” Mia said, attempting to bluff her way past the guard.
“You family?” he asked suspiciously.
A heavyset nurse with readers perched on the tip of her nose overheard the exchange and stepped out of an office into the corridor.
She peered over her glasses and then barked, “Stevie, how many times I got to tell you you’re not to bother the visitors. Now get back to the tollbooth before people leave without paying for parking.”
“I just came in to use the facilities and warm up a bit, is all, Nurse Louise,” Stevie said before trotting to the exit.
“Sorry about that, miss,” the nurse said to Mia. “He can be a little creepy. What can I do for you?”
Mia gave the nurse a sad smile, hoping to earn some sympathy before answering. Nurse Louise was unmoved and stood motionless, arms crossed, head cocked to one side, a pensive look on her face as she appraised Mia with what the reporter considered penetrating vision.
Mia thought, It’s as if she can see right into me—my racing heart, scar tissue, chipped teeth from my field hockey days. No chance of bullshitting her.
“I’m a reporter with Newshound,” Mia confessed, “and I’d like to talk to some of the victims from the Trident Park explosion.”
The nurse remained rigid, sighed deeply, and then said, “You better come with me,” and turned on her heel and headed toward a set of double doors that read “ICU,” her shoes squeaking loudly on the polished floors.
______________
On the other side of town, Mo was striking out with Homeland Security officials. They either didn’t know anything or they were being evasive.
“It’s Sunday, Mo,” one source told him when reached at home. “Why don’t you give it a rest?”
Mo was inclined to agree. He called Frank Rath at Newshound’s offices to check in and see if he had heard from either Mia or Nik.
“Not a word.” Frank yawned. “And as far as other media goes, they’re saying it was an accident.”
“Feels like a wild-goose chase,” Mo said. “You think Nik’s overreacting because he’s itching to get his career back on track?”
“Maybe,” Frank said. “Dunno. Hang on. There’s Nik now on the other line.”
Frank came back a couple minutes later. “Mo, you still there?”
“Yeah.”
“Nik spoke with Mia. They’re both headed to the office. Should arrive in about thirty minutes. He wants you in here, too,” Frank said.
“Really? Is that necessary?” Mo pleaded.
“’Fraid so. Looks like we might have a mad bomber on our hands,” Frank said.
Chapter 5
December 15/16, Washington, DC
The small team worked late into the night, carefully piecing together a story that attempted to strike the right balance between fact and informed speculation. It was Frank’s job to make sure the story straddled that fine line without toppling over it. He knew firsthand that if you crossed that line one too many times, it eventually vanished.
Nik told his colleagues about the panicked stampede, the cratered building, the work to dig through the rubble, and the special ops team led by a colonel with an old-school, bushy mustache he had encountered at Trident. Everything came to a brief standstill, Nik said, when they discovered he was a reporter working for Newshound.
“They debated what to do with me, but, in the end, the guy running the show, with the yellow mustache, told them to escort me from the premises and make sure I left. They refused to identify themselves, the government agency they worked for, or, for that matter, if they were with the government at all. By the way they operated, it was pretty clear they were experienced and had performed rescue missions in the past,” Nik said.
“So, you didn’t get the colonel’s name?” Mo asked.
“No, in my notes, I refer to him as Colonel Mustard. But now that I think about it, when they were rushing me off the site, I did hear a name. It sounded like Calkins, but I couldn’t swear to it. It was noisy and chaotic.”
“Colonel Mustard, like the character in Clue,” Mo said. “Not a lot to go on. We’ll see if we can track down a Colonel Calkins. At least it’s a start.”
Before he was evicted from the office park, Nik had taken several photos of the devastation on his cell phone, and they planned to publish those with the story. The pictures showed the flattened building and the overturned vehicles, but, unfortunately, he wasn’t able to get any pictures of the rescue workers.
Mia related the story about the ambulance driver and his silently mouthed “bomb” warning and said a nurse admitted her to the intensive care unit, where she interviewed several injured office workers. They told her they didn’t know what had caused the explosion, but they were surprised to hear it was being blamed on a gas-line rupture since the office park relied mainly on alternative energy sources for most of its power.
They decided not to mention the ambulance driver’s “bomb” quote since Mia might have misinterpreted what he actually said, and, moreover, she didn’t know his name. Mia pledged to track down the driver when she returned to work later that day.
