Blindsided Read online

  Scott swallowed. His scalp prickled in warning, but if he walked off the job, it wouldn’t just hurt his own reputation—and potentially national security—it would reflect poorly on Steele. Kurt didn’t deserve that.

  And Scott wasn’t a quitter.

  “In, sir.” He didn’t like it, but if Valerie was guilty, he’d make damn sure she didn’t escape.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Chantilly, VA

  Wednesday, 8:00 a.m.

  VALERIE DRUMMED HER FINGERS ON her desk, trying to pinpoint the source of her unease. Now that her elation over breaking Westgate had ebbed, she couldn’t help wondering if she’d made a grave mistake, despite Duncan’s assurances that the leak was plugged.

  What if he thought he’d fixed the problem but he was wrong?

  Chewing a nail, she glanced at the day-shift operator, Carmen. If someone at the company was using her reports to break into their clients’ systems, she had just put the country’s national security at risk. There were about a dozen people at Aggressor with the skills to access her reports without permission.

  What didn’t fit was the timeline on some of the malicious attacks. Weeks or months had gone by in several cases. With that much lag time, none of the companies should have been vulnerable.

  She stuck a half dozen Skittles in her mouth and sat up, suddenly energized. What if someone was tampering with the client reports, taking out a key vulnerability to leave themselves a backdoor?

  For the next two hours, she compared the copies of the reports she kept on her personal drive with those she’d uploaded to the network. Nothing. She reached for more candy, only to find the bag empty, and slumped in defeat. If clients weren’t getting the wrong report, then why weren’t they making the changes to protect themselves, especially after spending the money to have Aggressor find the holes?

  Not wanting to bother Duncan until she had more to go on, she dialed the office of the CIO at P + F whose name was at the top of her report.

  “Marjorie Wilson,” the woman answered, her voice brusque.

  Valerie hesitated. “Ms. Wilson. I didn’t expect to get you directly.”

  “My secretary called in sick and the temp agency hasn’t sent a replacement. Who is this?”

  “Sorry, I’m Valerie Sanchez. I work at Aggressor International.”

  “I’m not interested.” Her voice faded as if she were distancing herself from the phone.

  “No, wait. I’m not selling anything.”

  Ms. Wilson sighed.

  “I saw recently that your print servers had been hacked and—”

  “Where did you hear that?” The question came like a slap.

  “On a forum for hackers and network admins, ma’am. I’m following up because I know I pointed out that vulnerability in my report to you last year and—”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” The CIO was vibrating with anger now. “What report?”

  “The pen test report I wrote for you in October of last year.”

  “I don’t read unsolicited materials, but if you hacked our system to prove something…”

  Valerie wanted to beat her head against her desk. “Ma’am, your company hired us to provide a penetration test, and I’m the one who wrote the report. It would have come from Duncan Hollowell, after your teleconference with him.”

  “I don’t know what you think you’re up to, but we never hired anyone, and this conversation is done.”

  What the hell? Valerie sat with the phone to her ear for a beat and then replaced the receiver, her hand shaking.

  If Marjorie Wilson was telling the truth, then it wasn’t someone at Aggressor taking advantage of early information. There was only one man who made the assignments and coordinated with the clients: Duncan. If the clients weren’t real…

  Oh shit. Valerie doubled over and wrapped her arms around her stomach to stem the tide of nausea.

  How could he?

  She rested her forehead on the cool Formica desktop and tried to sort through her muddled thoughts. Was she overreacting? Maybe there was a misunderstanding.

  Shoving the empty candy wrapper into the trash—and now regretting having eaten so much sugar this early in the day—she brought up another report and called another client from a couple months ago who had been recently hacked. This time she used a slightly different approach.

  “Hi, Tom,” she said after they made introductions. “We’re surveying our past customers on their experience, trying to determine how we can provide better service. Would you be willing to answer a couple of questions?”

  “I think you have us on your list by mistake,” he said genially. “We’ve never used Aggressor.”

  Her stomach backed up into her throat. “Oh, I’m so sorry. We might have some cross- contamination from the prospective client database. Sorry to bother you.”

  Breathe. Valerie stared unseeing at her computer.

  Duncan had used her. Betrayed her. Was he trying to scare companies into hiring Aggressor, or something more sinister? The top-secret files he could get from a company like Westgate… Holy shit.

  And she was the perfect patsy.

  What could she do? Who could she talk to? Did one just walk into an FBI building and ask to see an agent? Imagining it made her throat turn dry.

  Somehow, she had to protect herself.

  Any downloads made from the system would show up in the daily log. Carmen would check it before shift change, which meant Duncan would haul Valerie into his office first thing in the morning.

  She walked down the hall on unsteady legs, the shell of her body encasing a hot writhing mess. Several coworkers passed her in the corridor and she nodded absently, trying not to act out of the ordinary, but everything around her was too bright, too loud.

  All of her acting abilities failed her.

  In the storeroom, she held her badge up to a reader on a heavy-duty steel cabinet. An electronic lock buzzed quietly. She opened the reinforced door and removed a small thumb drive from the shelf. Only a handful of employees had access to flash drives since they were a common way to spread viruses. But the hackers often used them—with approval, of course—as part of their testing process, asking secretaries or guards to print something on their behalf, or leaving one behind in the bathroom so an employee would plug it in to see whose it was.

  Back at her desk, she copied her mail files—which included Duncan’s assignments—and client reports to the flash drive, keeping her head down. Unfortunately, the drives had built-in RFID tags. She’d never get one past the guards now that she didn’t have the excuse of an active client. The mail room presented the same problem.

  Normally, she approved of all of Aggressor’s security measures. Today, they worked against her.

  Sweat formed on her brow and trickled down her back. Through the glass, the operator stared at her and pressed her intercom button.

  “You all right?” she asked.

  “Fine,” she laughed self-consciously. “Not nearly enough sleep is all. I’m going to head out in a minute.”

  Slipping the small drive and a Scotch tape dispenser into her coat pocket, she signed out of her computer, waving to Carmen as she grabbed her bag and exited the Fish Bowl. Outside, six-foot cloth cubicle walls formed a ring that hid her from view.

  She strode purposefully around the circle until she was almost behind Carmen and stopped next to an empty workstation. Her heart thrummed in her ears like a bass drum as she surreptitiously glanced around, placed her shoe on the corner of the desk, and pretended to retie her laces.

  The camera was to her back and pointed more toward Carmen, but she tried to keep her body between the all-seeing eye and what she was doing.

  Moving swiftly, she removed the drive and tape dispenser from her pocket. She tore off a piece of tape and stuck it to the side of the flash drive, and then popped the cap from the top of the cubicle’s metal support, pretending to use the flimsy wall to catch her balance. She taped the flash drive inside the square tub
e and returned the cap with a snap.

  If the security guard downstairs was paying close attention, she was screwed.

  Down the elevator, across the tiled lobby, her limbs were stiff, muscles jerky as if her body’s timing was off.

  What she needed was sleep. And food. She’d had a quick bowl of cereal before leaving home earlier, but now her stomach protested. But she was wired, as if she’d been taking on coffee straight from an IV all morning.

  The security guard nodded as she passed through the turnstile. No shouts, no weapons. Her back tingled in anticipation until she made it safely through the glass doors.

  An icy wind blasted through her jacket, chilling her to the core the instant she stepped into the sunshine. Maybe she had a few more hours before everything blew up in her face. Enough time to make some calls.

  A few rows down from her car, Scott’s Jeep still sat in the parking lot. He’d been surprised by her late night, but she’d been equally surprised by his early morning.

  She knew nothing about him except that he had been a Marine—no secret given the round sticker on his car’s rear window that glinted in the sun—and he was training for field ops. And that a guy like him could have any woman he set his amazing blue eyes on. She highly doubted he’d ever want her.

  Especially now that she was poised to blow the whistle on Duncan and possibly topple Aggressor. Holy shit. She sat in her car for a minute until she stopped hyperventilating.

  Preoccupied by the morning’s revelations, she made it home on autopilot and dragged herself up the stairs to her second-floor apartment.

  She dropped her huge purse on the kitchen counter—she never went anywhere without her laptop and a change of clothing in case she stayed at work overnight, so a big bag was mandatory—and opened the fridge. No way was she coherent enough to risk cooking something. Opting for a peanut butter and banana sandwich with cinnamon, she collapsed onto a stool and devoured the delicious mash-up that had been Dad’s favorite.

  Comfort food was exactly what she needed right now, even if the memories it brought back made her chest hurt.

  Five minutes later, she pushed away her plate and stumbled into the bedroom, feeling loopy from fatigue. She needed to call the FBI and make an appointment or whatever, but if she talked to someone now, they’d write her off as drunk or on drugs.

  Even fully sober they might not believe her story. What if they accused her of trying to set up Aggressor to cover her own illegal activities? They’d say she spoofed Duncan’s account to make it appear that he’d assigned her those clients, using company time and resources to pull it off.

  But she had Jay. Surely if they both told the same story, the FBI would at least investigate.

  Returning to the kitchen to retrieve her cell phone, she dialed Jay. The call went straight to voice mail. Frustrated, she left the phone on the counter and stalked to her room.

  Two hours. That was all she needed. Enough sleep to take the edge off. After donning her favorite sleep shirt—a super-soft cotton T with the words TALK NERDY TO ME across the front—and a pair of pajama pants, Valerie brushed her teeth, set her alarm, and barely made it under the comforter.

  Strange, vivid dreams filled her head, but disappeared from her mental grasp the minute she woke to a loud knock on the door. The clock showed she’d only been out for forty-five minutes. She closed her eyes and groaned.

  Who the hell could be at the door? She never had unexpected guests. Or expected ones for that matter. If it was a door-to-door salesman, she might seriously contemplate murder. Sliding her feet into slippers, she threw on a sweatshirt to hide her braless state and padded into the living room.

  Her cell phone rang. She paused in indecision.

  Another impatient round of banging came from the door. Valerie stepped up and peeked through the viewer. Two men stood on the outdoor landing in blue FBI windbreakers, badges on chains around their necks. Her stomach took a dive. How did they know…?

  Ring ring.

  She yanked open the door, unable to hide the frown on her face, or the shiver that ran through her from the cold wind’s assault.

  A tall, trim man with close-cropped brown hair stepped forward. “Ms. Sanchez?” He was not quite handsome with sharp cheekbones, a thin nose, and gray-blue eyes that matched the winter sky.

  Valerie didn’t respond, just waited. Her phone went silent.

  His eyebrows narrowed. “I’m Special Agent John Dresner, FBI.” He flashed his ID at her, and then gestured to the stocky black man next to him. “This is Special Agent Curtis Williams.”

  His credentials appeared real enough, but what did she know? “What can I do for you?” she asked. Had she called them in her sleep?

  Her phone dinged to alert her to a new voicemail.

  Agent Dresner crossed the threshold, forcing her to take several steps back. “Valerie Sanchez, you’re under arrest.”

  Scott’s alarm interrupted the faint music he’d fallen asleep to after less than an hour of snoozing in the back of the Tahoe. “She’s up and on the move already?” he grumbled to the empty cargo space, pausing the tunes. Maybe he should get a dog. At least then he wouldn’t be talking to himself.

  The fog of sleep lifted quickly. Two men wearing FBI windbreakers and dark slacks stood on the open-air landing in front of Valerie’s apartment. From a hundred yards away through binos, Scott watched as she opened her door wearing a Virginia Tech sweatshirt and striped pajama pants.

  Her rumpled, yanked-from-sleep appearance ignited his protective instincts. She sure as hell didn’t look like a threat to the nation’s security.

  Except Hollowell had proof. She’d taken the bait.

  But why now? Not only had she been clean since her father went to jail over a decade ago, but she knew Aggressor performed routine investigations of their employees to look for anything suspicious, anything that made them vulnerable to extortion. Excessive debt, an extramarital affair, exploitable habits like drugs or sexual fetishes. The same things the military and government agencies looked for when performing background checks for top-secret clearance.

  The only thing they’d found on Valerie was the offshore account. But wouldn’t someone with her skills know how to mask her ownership? Scott didn’t understand how all that computer shit worked, so he had no idea, but she didn’t strike him as an idiot.

  The two men entered her apartment.

  Scott’s job was basically over. After less than a week of round-the-clock surveillance, she would be out of his life for good. With one hand, he started to clean up, placing his Nikon in his backpack, along with a couple of CLIF bar wrappers.

  He kept the binoculars trained on her doorway, his body heavy as a tank.

  It wasn’t her he’d miss. Definitely not. But he’d miss the work, the chance to return to his roots. In Afghanistan, he’d spent days at a time camped out in one position, he and his partner isolated from the rest of the platoon in the middle of enemy-controlled territory. Scott ate, pissed, and napped in the prone position, undetected thanks to his ghillie suit and sloth-like movements as he observed a group of terrorists to determine their habits and rank structure.

  Surveilling Valerie had been a hell of a lot easier and light years more comfortable. But still good practice.

  Outside, the agents exited the apartment with Valerie in tow, her hands shackled. The white guy had her large blue handbag slung over his shoulder, one hand on her, the other near his service weapon.

  The FBI agents reached the bottom of the stairs and turned toward the parking lot where their nondescript, tan bureau car waited in a “no parking” zone.

  Ten yards from the car, the fair-haired fed doubled over and dropped to his knees. The ear-splitting report of a high-caliber shot shattered the air.

  “What the fuck?” Scott reached for his rifle, heart in his throat.

  All he got was air. He’d gone without his long gun for this op because if a cop found him sitting surveillance, he’d have a hard time explaining away t
he Barrett.

  Valerie dropped to her knees and lowered her head. Instinct, but not a good one.

  “Run, goddammit.” Launching himself over the flattened back seats and through the passenger door, he took off running.

  The black FBI agent pushed Valerie behind a cement pillar and shielded her as he returned fire. Scott couldn’t see the sniper, but he had to be in one of the upper-floor apartments in the adjacent building. The roof wasn’t flat, and the trees were too bare to conceal anyone this time of year.

  Crouched low, the agent jerked back with a cry and gripped his shoulder.

  “Valerie!” A man called from the sniper’s roost, his voice loud and distorted, coming through a bullhorn. “Run.”

  Christ, no. “Not now,” Scott said under his breath. “He’s trying to draw you out.” His heart pounded wildly as he pumped his arms. Shit, shit, shit. His side started to cramp, his progress far too slow even though he ran flat out.

  In the distance, sirens wailed. Valerie kneeled next to the downed agent, placing herself firmly in the sniper’s crosshairs.

  But he didn’t fire.

  The still-conscious fed rolled onto his side to reach into his pocket, then handed something to Valerie. A few seconds later she had her wrists free. She lifted the injured man to a sitting position against the pillar and pressed her palms to his wounded shoulder.

  “Run,” the sniper said again, clearly using a bullhorn so she could hear him. “Get out of here before the police arrive. I won’t be able to hold them off too.”

  She sent a puzzled look toward the disembodied voice, but held firm.

  What the hell was going on?

  The agent jerked and slumped to the ground, followed by an immediate boom. Valerie screamed and dove out of the line of fire.

  Goddammit.

  When Scott was fifty yards out, Valerie spotted him racing along the grass that lined the side of the parking lot. With a final glance toward the sniper’s hideout, she snagged her bag and sprinted toward her car.