Dominance, page 8
Mary Margaret O’Sullivan’s voice carried across the street. The older woman stood on her porch with one hand raised, a constant sentinel in a neighborhood that noticed everything. A porch light activated although daylight lingered.
Mary always had information to share. It could be a car idling suspiciously, a misdelivered package, or an unfamiliar cat. Blackburn acknowledged her with a raised hand without interrupting her pace. Not now. The evening air worked against the heat smoldering behind her sternum, and she surrendered to the rhythm of her stride.
Her feet found a steady rhythm on the asphalt as she cut through familiar streets. The image rose unbidden, the figure in last night’s shadows. Watching Jenna? Watching her? Who could say. Heat gathered low and tight, not fear so much as readiness.
Deonte Mills stayed with her. Five years old, hollow-eyed, belly distended from neglect. Bruises mapped his small frame. The case had landed on Dawson’s desk, but glass slivers and a chemical tang in his pajamas pointed to a father with a pipe and a temper.
She pushed harder. Her breath smoothed out as she set to the work of thinking.
She veered left past the park where kids on scooters carved the air. Wheels clicked over seams in concrete. Laughter carried thin and high. Another image surfaced. Jenna Langston sprawled beneath an autonomous vehicle, its safety protocols overridden by intent.
Jenna Langston, who had been lying on Blackburn’s floor mere hours before her death. Blackburn clenched her jaw as her lungs burned. She would not slow. She needed a headlight.
Buildings grew older as she moved into worn streets where paint peeled and porches sagged. The air smelled of hot dust and old oil.
The compact car loomed ahead, a rusting relic hunched at the curb. Its headlight gleamed intact for now, pristine and vulnerable.
Blackburn slowed to a purposeful walk. Rusted, ready. She pulled on a glove. Her kick landed clean. Plastic burst in a brittle pop, and shards skittered across the concrete, ticking to a stop against the curb. Evidence for comparison, not for conviction.
She crouched and chose the largest fragment, grip steady while sweat traced her temples and darkened the cracks in the sidewalk. She slid the piece into a bag, took two quick photos, then ran.
On a longer route home, she let the noise in her head settle until the pieces lined up. Footfalls set a metronome. Air moved in and out. The city’s hum faded to a workable quiet.
Someone had turned that sleek autonomous machine into a weapon, a weapon that killed Jenna Langston and left a trail she could read in code, scrape patterns and telemetry.
Blackburn would find them, whoever they were.
Chapter 7
Willow moved through New Dresden with the crowd, her gaze skating off glass and neon before moving on. Traffic hummed. Heat lifted from the street in wavering sheets. She tried to keep her hands still at her sides and failed. The twitch gave her away.
She checked her pockets and her bag again. No detector. No toolkit. Nothing she could trust in a clean room or on a curb. The absence sat low in her gut. She adjusted her pace and kept walking.
Blackburn would notice the gap in an instant. Willow pictured a look that meant more than words. Not anger. Not surprise. A small settling of the mouth, a silence. Enough to tell her she had fallen short.
She drew a slow breath. It steadied the shake, not the need. Showing up empty would cost her. Not just in the job. With Blackburn. That mattered. She put the thought back where it belonged and worked the problem.
She carried the city in her head. Not the bright storefronts. The places that kept parts in bins and cash under the counter. She cut two blocks without thinking. Gorilla Parts sat where the side street bent around a shuttered cafe that still smelled faintly of urine and bleach.
The sign needed paint. The window held a stack of towers that should have been recycled a decade ago. Good. The place was not for collectors. It was for people who built things because they had to. Like Willow.
She pushed the door open. The glass was heavier than it looked and sticky around the seal. Dust and warm plastic hung in the air. A trace of ozone indicated someone had powered a board within the hour. The city noise dulled to a muffled wash.
Shelves leaned. Boxes listed. Wires slept in gray nests. She moved down the aisle, counting lengths, form factors, power needs. The device in her head took shape with each shelf she passed. Screen, power, brain, antenna, housing. Keep the list short.
A clerk behind the counter lowered a magazine and watched her without interest. “You need help?”
She did not answer. A hand-lettered frequency range on a worn packet pulled her in. RF receiver module. She lifted it, weighed it, checked the pins by feel and sight. Good. On the next shelf, a narrow-beam infrared sensor with a removable lens sat half hidden behind a row of capacitors that had been sorted wrong for years. She picked it up and turned it into the light leaking through the front window. Clean.
The battery shelf had been raided. Two packs left that weren’t swollen. She chose the lithium-ion with a decent discharge curve and set it in the crook of her arm. She worked quietly and quickly, not for show but because it was standard.
Willow crouched at a bin labeled DISCARDED. The floorboards creaked under her weight. Plastic cases, stripped boards, screens with spidered corners. One 2.5-inch LCD still wore its protective film. No scuffs. She set it with the other parts. On the next rack, a plastic enclosure the size of a paperback waited, scuffed but intact. It would take a hinge if she needed one. It would keep the rain off. Enough.
She brought what she had to the counter and lined it up. The order mattered. Power left, signal center, display right, housing last. She wiped her palms on her jeans and went back for connectors.
A soldering iron hung from a hook, its cord kinked and shiny with old flux. She heated the element in her mind and ran through the joints she would make. A strip of jumper wires. A small breadboard. Perfboard and standoffs would be cleaner, but speed came first. She reached for a Raspberry Pi and paused over the versions. She took the one with onboard Wi-Fi. Cheap. Reliable. It would handle what she needed if she kept the code lean.
The clerk looked up again. “What are you building?”
She kept her head down and checked screw sizes by eye against the enclosure. “A scanner,” she said, her voice flat and precise. “Bluetooth, infrared, GPS signals. Handheld.”
He blinked. He didn’t follow. He didn’t need to. “Right. Need anything else?”
She scanned the rack behind him. Electrical tape. Zip ties. She pointed with two fingers and waited until he slid them across. “Those.” Her gaze shifted to the plastic bin he had pushed half out of sight. “Got a micro antenna?”
He fumbled under the counter and lifted a tub of mixed lengths. She laid them out from shortest to longest and checked connectors. SMA. u.FL. She ran her thumb over a dual-band stub with decent gain and light flex. It would manage crowded spectrum at short range. It would do for now.
The shop held its heat. A low thrum carried through the floor from something old and overworked in the back room. She let the noise sink behind thought and took stock of her pile. She added heat-shrink tubing, a ferrite bead, a cheap USB power meter. Small things that saved time later.
Her phone vibrated once in her pocket. She didn’t check it. She pictured Blackburn instead. The way she stood over her and asked the one clean question. The one that cut through excuses. Willow put the last item on the counter and faced the clerk.
“Ring it up.” She set her card on the scuffed counter, the LEDs humming above as she mentally rebuilt the project with cleaner lines and fewer weak points. “And plug this in, please,” she added, handing over the soldering iron’s cord.
“You’re gonna do that here?” The clerk’s voice climbed, then went flat when she did not answer.
He ran the sale while Willow mapped the sequence. Power. Ground. Headers. Antenna path. The board translated into a clean checklist. When he slid back the card and receipt, she split the packaging with her thumbnail. Plastic crackled. The smell of new electronics rose, sharp and faintly sweet from the antistatic bags. She arranged the parts precisely and wasted no movements.
She laid out tools on chipped laminate that had softened at the edges. Nothing fancy. The iron warmed until heat shimmered off the tip. She tinned it, the rosin flux releasing thin, sugary smoke, and set joints that shone tight and clean. She connected the antenna to the Raspberry Pi with the infrared sensor and receiver module. Short runs filled the breadboard in a logical pattern. The LCD slid into the front panel and snapped home with a bright click she deemed acceptable.
Fifteen minutes. Electrical tape secured stray leads. Zip ties held the heavier pieces to the enclosure to prevent rattling in the field. She closed the case and pressed power. The screen illuminated on the first try. A minimal interface. Readable. Only essential elements.
She tested the weight in one hand and watched the bars settle as the unit detected faint Bluetooth traffic nearby, including the clerk’s smartwatch. The analyzer emitted a crisp, periodic chirp that cut through the low grind of the air conditioner.
“It works,” she said flatly. She swept leftover parts into a plastic bag. The rattle of screws and headers barely registered.
As she turned to leave, the clerk muttered under his breath. “People are weird these days.”
Willow stopped. Her boot squeaked on the linoleum. She looked back, not quite meeting his eyes. Her voice remained low and even. “Got any jammers I can test it with?”
The clerk squinted, curiosity and caution battling within him. “You a cop?”
She huffed a short laugh, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Hell no. Cops don’t know this stuff.” Not her cops, anyway.
Silence stretched for a beat. He let out a rough chuckle. “Fair enough.” He ducked behind the counter, rummaged through dusty shelves, then placed a compact GPS jammer on the surface. “Get your baseline.”
Willow raised the analyzer again. It gave a soft, affirmative beep. Ready. She set filters for L1 and L2, narrowed the bandwidth, and added averaging to smooth spikes. “Baseline acquired,” she murmured, eyes fixed on the screen.
The clerk flipped the switch on the jammer. Numbers plummeted. Spurious peaks rose across both bands. A dirty, rolling hiss of energy filled the spectrum. The jammer radiated heat she felt when she leaned closer.
“How’s it look?” he asked, amusement curling his words.
Willow’s grin flashed, small and quick. “Like chaos,” she said with satisfaction. Her eyes flicked to him. “Ever leave these running overnight?”
He shook his head and laughed under his breath. “Not worth dealing with crossband interference.” He powered the jammer down. The room’s ordinary hum returned, thin and stale.
She slid the analyzer into her bag, careful with the cable and screen. The work felt right in her hands. At the door, she pulled her phone and opened a spreadsheet template: Date and Time, Location, Signal Strength in dBm, Frequency Band, Interference Detected, Signal Pattern, Signal Source Suspected, Analyzer Settings, Notes, Action Taken. The fields waited, bright and empty.
She entered the jammer test, then glanced out the door for Blackburn. No sign. Only traffic noise outside and the low whir of a ceiling fan inside the shop.
She stepped into the heat with the analyzer in her palm. The unit chirped occasionally. Clean GPS reads. Nothing significant.
She walked a methodical grid along the block and logged fixed points. Curb. Midlane. Doorway. Three readings at each, facing north, then east, then south. She noted bins and planters and the mouth of an alley where a device might hide unseen. The screen displayed stable numbers, steady as the tide.
The sun bore down on the broken pavement. Hot tar smell rose from the street. Storefront glass reflected harsh light at eye level. The beeps remained regular. Routine data without interference to investigate.
She checked logical hiding places. Overfilled trash bins. Planters with compact soil and space beneath. Alley gutters with sufficient cover for a battery pack. More noise. No signal worth pursuing.
Sweat formed on her brow. Flux clung to her fingers. She wiped both away with the back of her wrist and continued. She excelled more at fast pivots and clean hits than this slow, methodical search. The heat pressed, relentless and dull. Her patience held steady as she worked through the list.
Then it happened. A sharp beep cut through the monotony. Willow stopped mid-stride and turned toward the source: a coffee shop set into brick smeared with graffiti too faded to read. Chicken Coffee.
The glass door held a moment before yielding a cool weight against her palm. She kept her movements even. Inside, espresso machines hummed beneath low conversation and the clean scent of roasted coffee.
Her pulse quickened. Steady. The noise outside had broken into something traceable.
Willow moved through the shop with the analyzer in hand, eyes shifting between the screen and the room. The device maintained a soft beat, each tone accompanying a twitch of signal on the display. A businessman typed without looking up, keys ticking at a steady clip. A cluster of students bent over open tablets while the barista called names in a low, even cadence. Routine. The jitter on her screen suggested otherwise.
She adjusted gain and filters with small, precise motions. The spikes persisted but refused to settle into anything useful. Too much interference. Or someone deliberately stepping on her frequency. A quick glance toward the door caught a shift of shadow and a face turning away too quickly to identify. Her thumb paused over the controls. Static prickled along her skin. Nothing substantial.
She stepped back onto the street. Warm air greeted her. Traffic noise pressed in, a layered hiss of engines, voices, and brakes. The analyzer chirped against her palm while she logged into a crowded spreadsheet. Time, coordinates, frequency band, amplitude. She returned to the sidewalk and continued moving, letting the city’s noise pass while she worked the grid.
Willow made a steady line down the block, incorporating cross-streets at regular intervals. Sunlight glanced off windshields and windows. The analyzer signaled when expected. She recorded every deviation and flagged the repeating ones. None exceeded background levels.
Time dissolved until the alert cut through her focus. Not a random spike. The readout surged, bright and clear. She verified it twice. It remained consistent.
She lifted her head and spotted the outlier. A storefront half a block ahead that she had completely overlooked. Glass and polished steel contrasted sharply against a row of tired brick. Above the entry, silver letters caught the last light: Alba Electrics.
She didn’t recognize the name. Curiosity tightened, contained, as she crossed the distance.
The doors slid open with a smooth hiss and cool air met her face. Inside, rows of electronics sat in clean lines under cold LEDs that cast sharp reflections across a polished floor. The place smelled faintly of plastic and dust. With each step, the beeping intensified, drawing her deeper into the aisles.
She slowed when the pattern turned jagged. One shelf disrupted the store’s order. Communications gear jammed into a single bay, pieces stacked without attention to fit or function. The rest of the displays appeared curated. This looked abandoned.
She approached closer. The air carried a weak vibration she felt more than heard, a quiver through teeth and skin. The analyzer’s screen shook with it, patterns flickering too rapidly for any filter to smooth.
She identified the culprit immediately. A wireless repeater jammed into a tangle of wire and stripped insulation. It sat crookedly, pushed near the edge as if no one wanted to examine it closely. Whoever had installed it cared neither about concealment nor quality.
Willow leaned in and methodically assessed it. The chassis matched a common model. The board had been replaced with something else. Mid-range parts sat beside cheap components, connections tightened enough to function but not to endure. Solder spatter dotted the board. It was functional, barely. It could create interference.
Her display confirmed this assessment. Peaks and troughs cut across the band in a sharp, irregular pattern. The antenna was misaligned by several degrees. The unit had been configured to bleed across adjacent signals. It could severely affect GPS and nearby devices, pushing false data and disrupting timing. Spoofing was possible. Jamming was certain.
She took out her phone and entered the details. Make and model. Any visible serials. Screen glare forced her to adjust the device until the text became readable. She avoided touching the hardware. Willow sketched the wiring layout and noted the power feed and grounding points. She added photos to the record, wide shots first, then details of connections and labels. She tagged location, time, and meter settings. Last, she added a note to withhold contact until she had reason to escalate, and a better understanding of who owned the store.
As the data accumulated, the picture became clear. The build was sloppy but deliberate. It was positioned to appear as stock while contaminating the surrounding signals. Sufficient to corrupt, insufficient to provoke obvious complaints.
She checked the aisle. No clerk. No visible camera domes. Only her reflection sliced thin across a metal faceplate. She maintained an easy posture, as any customer might when examining a product.
She adjusted the analyzer again, ran a brief sweep, and captured a sixty-second sample for later analysis. The signal maintained the same angle. The drift was minimal. Not random.
She stood still for a long breath. Then she logged one final line, flagged it priority, and saved a local backup.
With a quiet breath of focus, she powered off the scanner.
“Excuse me,” Willow said as she approached the woman behind the counter, adopting a disarmingly casual tone. The glass edge felt cool beneath her fingers. The air carried faint scents of dust and warmed plastic. “What’s that weird-looking thing on the shelf over there?” She gestured toward the repeater with feigned nonchalance, uninformed. It was always easier when people underestimated you.
