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Then there was Lisa. She was normal at least. Stryker was inclined to like her, if for no better reason than she reminded him of his third wife. Brunette, big eyes, big hips. She was his kind of girl. Young, though. Lately they’d all started looking too young. He was getting old.

Chaz adjusted the dials on his scanning equipment and listened intently through his too-large headphones. He looked ridiculous in those things. “I don’t know, sir,” he said. “I’m getting a lot of crosstalk. Somebody set off a fire alarm.”

“Shit. That was Murphy.”

“How do you know?” said Lisa.

“Because I know her. Did you kids even read her file? She was a valedictorian. She earned a scholarship that covered everything but toothpaste. She had job offers from a dozen law firms before she even graduated.”

“None of that should matter,” said Chaz. “She was under PHS. She was a highly reliable subject.”

PHS stood for post-hypnotic suggestion. It was a very effective process for molding the psyche of a person like Sara Murphy. Chaz used the term loosely, though. In this case, it meant the sum of the techniques that had gone into Sara’s programming, including hypnosis, psychotropic drugs, torture, and repetitious suggestion. The programming was supposed to make her into a killer, but something had happened. Something had gone wrong.

“You think I don’t know Murphy was a reliable subject?” Stryker crinkled his forehead. “I’m the one that chose her, remember? Sara Murphy’s programming was intact. We tested her just today. The fact that she was there on the roof proves it. There was something else, something we missed.”

“Like what?” said Lisa.

Stryker folded his arms, his massive biceps flexing under his black t-shirt. Even at fifty, he was still hard as a rock. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter at this point. She’s thinking now. She was never supposed to start thinking. We can’t let this one escape, kids. I want her in custody ten minutes ago. Better yet, dead.”

Chaz shook his head as he monitored the scanners. “The cops haven’t seen anything. The whole building’s almost evacuated.”

Stryker pursed his lips and ran a hand through his crew cut. “Okay… she’s either hiding in the building or she’s outside. Smart as she is, I’m thinking outside. Murphy wouldn’t just wait for us to come find her. Pull her driver’s license photo and make sure everyone gets a copy.”

“Sir, I have something!” Lisa said.

“What is it?”

“Sara’s using her phone. Hold on a sec, I’m triangulating… She’s headed west on Geary.”

Stryker muttered a string of curses that made Chaz and Lisa both blush. “She’s in the crowd,” he said. He drew a deep breath. Stryker couldn’t sit back and play management anymore. It was bad enough pushing pencils all day long, he sure as hell wasn’t going to do it while a fugitive got away.

“Keep circling,” he told the driver as he crawled into the passenger seat and stepped through the door. “Lisa, keep scanning that cell phone. Track Murphy’s every move. If she stops moving or if she leaves the area, I want you to call her and patch me through.”

“You want to call
her
?” Chaz said, perplexed. “What for?”

“Because she’s going to come to us.”

Chapter 11

Special Agent in Charge Ben Ashcroft’s office door was open when Brandy arrived. He was at the desk, working on his computer. Brandy stood there a moment, waiting for him to notice her. When he didn’t, she knocked quietly on the doorframe. He raised his eyes.

“Special Agent Jackson,” Ashcroft said. He nodded in her direction and gestured at the seat across his desk. “Please, sit.”

Brandy smiled as she settled into the chair. Ashcroft didn’t smile back. He was an intimidating man. He was tall, with dark hair and dark eyes. He always wore a dour, almost angry expression. It didn’t help that Brandy was young and new to the Bureau. Since she’d been assigned to the San Francisco branch, Brandy had been working under the supervision of senior agents, helping with miscellaneous cases. She’d seen the SAC a few times in the halls, but they’d never been introduced and he had never so much as acknowledged her presence until today.

She couldn’t help but notice that Ashcroft had paged her during lunch hour. She had been at her desk, working. She hoped that counted for something. After her conversation with Agent Smith that morning, Brandy had been on pins and needles all day. Now that the moment had arrived, Brandy was crawling out of her skin. Was this it? Was this the meeting where Ashcroft would hand Brandy her last paycheck and say, “Your services are no longer required?”

 “You’re twenty-eight,” Ashcroft said, tapping his keyboard. He didn’t look up.

“Yes, sir.” Brandy mumbled.

“You joined the Army after High School. You served four years overseas and received an honorable discharge. Then you went to Sonoma State University, where you graduated at the top of your class. Says you turned down a scholarship to Berkeley?” He raised his eyes expectantly, and Brandy’s mouth went dry. If nothing else, Ashcroft was thorough.

“It’s not that there’s anything wrong with Berkeley,” she said. “I met with them. They were nice.”

“So what was the problem?”

Brandy shrugged. “They said they didn’t have enough applicants from certain ethnic groups. I’m a black female. They had a quota to fill, so they wanted me.”

“This scholarship was almost a free ride,” the Director said. “You spent your own money to get a degree from a less respected institution because you didn’t want to be part of a quota system?”

Brandy’s heart sank. She couldn’t read Ashcroft. His eyes were hard and unblinking, his body language rigid. She could only judge his thoughts based on his questions. She got the feeling that he didn’t approve of her. “I didn’t want to be a statistic,” Brandy said. “If it was all handed to me, I couldn’t be proud of that. I never would have known if I earned it or not.”

Ashcroft’s eyes went back to the screen. “Says here you turned down the CIA. Was that a quota too?”

“There was a quota,” Brandy admitted, “but there was more to it. I did my time overseas. If I joined the CIA, I would have been right back there. I wanted to be home.”

“Yesterday you assisted Agent Smith with the murder-suicide on the Bay Bridge. Tell me about that investigation.”

Brandy shifted uncomfortably at the sudden leap in topics. She wasn’t quite sure where to start. “There were two bodies,” she said. “A cab driver named Bob Clarke –the killer- and the victim, a man named Michael Turner. Bob was an immigrant who moved back and forth between the U.S. and Jamaica for most of his life. His father was a drug smuggler who served twenty years for his involvement in a killing in Florida and then disappeared. Bob’s mother went to Jamaica and never returned.

“He’d been back in the states for three years as of last month. He spent the last nine months working as a driver for the Black & Yellow Cab Company. He lived a solitary life, had very few friends. His employer said his behavior had become increasingly antisocial, but that he was a hard worker and hadn’t had any customer complaints.”

“You’ve got a mind for details,” Ashcroft said. “I see why the CIA wanted you. What about the victim?”

“Turner was a liberal activist. He was an active member of Greenpeace, Human Rights Watch and most of the other big ones. He worked in politics occasionally, mostly with the Green Party and the Libertarians. He was also a documentary filmmaker, but hadn’t produced anything in a few years.

“We interviewed some of his associates and family members. None of them knew what he was doing in China, or why someone would have killed him. The briefcase raises other questions as well.”

Ashcroft raised an eyebrow. “What briefcase?”

“Turner left SFO with two bags: a carry-on suitcase and a leather briefcase. Witnesses at the crime scene recounted seeing a man on a motorcycle drive by and steal the briefcase after the suicide. Turner’s suitcase was still in the cab.”

“That might not mean anything,” Ashcroft said. “Random crimes of opportunity happen all day long in this city.”

“I would have thought that too,” Brandy said, “except for one fact: The witnesses saw Michael leave the cab
with
the briefcase, before he was killed. Bob Clarke chased him down and killed him, and then brought the briefcase back to the car.”

“Interesting,” said Ashcroft. “What do you suppose was in it?”

“No idea, sir. We still don’t know what he was doing in China in the first place. One possible theory is that Turner was involved in some sort of smuggling operation. It makes sense because he was just returning from a foreign country. There’s no telling if he spent his entire trip in China or if he used the country as an entry point. Obviously, there is still the issue of the cab driver’s suicide. If Bob Clarke had been part of the smuggling operation, he might have had motive to kill Michael Turner. The suicide just doesn’t make any sense at this point.”

Ashcroft leaned back in his chair and pinched his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Agent Smith has been impressed with your work,” he said absently.

“Thank you, sir. That means a lot to me.”

“It should. Smith is one of my best field agents.” Ashcroft pulled a file out of his top drawer and tossed it across the desk. “You’re taking over this case. You’ll be working in cooperation with the SFPD. Your contact is Chief Inspector Lee, with the Special Investigations Unit.”

Brandy picked up the file and thumbed through the first few pages. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Agent Smith said the interviews were all done. Do you think we missed something?”

“I seriously doubt that, Mrs. Jackson. However, something has happened that may shed some light on all of this. Have you ever heard of a man named Fortress?”

“Sure, he’s a musician. My husband loves his music.”

“He was just murdered. It happened thirty minutes ago in Union Square. If you’d been listening to the radio instead of working you’d already know.”

“Oh… I’m sorry?”

Ashcroft chuckled. It was a strange sound coming from him. A smile touched his lips and then vanished like a wisp of smoke in the wind. “According to our information, Fortress was a human rights activist. He may have been associated with Michael Turner. Homeland Security thinks it’s just a coincidence. They don’t believe either of these killings were politically motivated, or that they’re even related. This is probably in our best interest because otherwise we’d be calling this terrorism.”

“So we’re calling it homicide instead,” Brandy said.

“Exactly. Unlike Homeland, I do believe these cases are related. Right now it’s just a gut feeling, but I want you to run with it. The case is yours, Agent Jackson. As you know, Agent Smith will be out of the office for a few weeks, but he will be available if you need advice. He thinks you’re up to it. I trust his judgment. Don’t make me regret this decision.”

Brandy nodded.
No pressure there,
she thought. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Good. Get this case closed ASAP. We’re short on hands already, and our budget’s about to get cut again. The sooner this thing’s off the books, the better.”

“Yes, sir.”

Brandy had the sinking feeling as she left Ashcroft’s office that she’d just been told her job was hanging in the balance. A budget shortage, a case that needed to be closed fast, and Ashcroft had just dumped it all onto Brandy’s shoulders. Not to mention his stern assessment of her background, which left Brandy feeling more than a little vulnerable. Once again, she had that uncomfortable feeling that maybe she didn’t belong. She wondered if that was what Ashcroft had been implying.

She left the office determined to do whatever it took to close the case and prove Ashcroft wrong.

Chapter 12

Sara was dazed. She stumbled over to a shady area under a tree and stood there, staring numbly at the crowd. She dialed her home number twice more, with the same results. The line was disconnected, and Scott’s cell number now belonged to a Spanish-speaking woman.

Sara’s chest was tight. It was hard to breathe. She stared warily at the faces in the crowd. An insistent voice in the back of her mind urged her forward.
Don’t stand still. They’ll find you. They’ll send you to prison and you’ll never see Scott and Bree again.

She moved.

Sara lurched aimlessly from one end of the square to the other. Her heart hammered in her chest. She tried to focus but it was futile. Her thoughts were a blur of adrenaline-fueled panic. Sara’s one instinctual reaction was to run, to race home and find out what had happened to her family. It was the only destination that made sense, the only place she could possibly escape. Home.

What if they weren’t there?

Sara forced back the thought. They were fine. Nothing bad had happened to Scott and Bree. There was just something wrong with the phones…

Sara headed for the parking garage a block south of the square with no clear strategy in mind, other than to escape and find her family. If she could do that, everything would be okay. She was on the corner of Powell and Geary when her cell phone started to ring. She yanked it out of her pocket and looked at the screen. Caller ID simply said
unknown
. Sara put it to her ear.

“Hello?”

There was a static sound, and a strange low rumbling noise.

“I can’t hear you,” she said. “Who is this?”

“We know where you are, Sara.”

A chill crawled up her spine. There was something vaguely familiar about the voice. She searched her mind. Who was he? She didn’t know. Whoever he was, the man knew Sara by name. She turned in a slow circle, scanning the crowded square and the sidewalks. “Who is this?” she said again.

“A friend. I’m going to help you. Go to the back side of the stage and wait there.”

“Who are you? Did you put me on that roof?” There was a long pause.

“Sara you need to come to us. We can help you.”

“What are you trying to pull? Whatever you’re doing, it won’t work. If you’ve done something to my family, I’ll kill you.” Sara could hardly believe she’d said that. She’d never used those words in her life. Her emotions were getting the best of her. She could see it happening, but she couldn’t control it.