Terrorbyte (36 page)

I laughed to myself. “Nuts with guns, no less.”

“It's a scary job looking into the inner workings of agents' minds.”

“I bet.” I opened the door and stepped out into the quiet corridor. “Drop by my office later; we'll grab a coffee.”

She smiled. “Thanks, Ellie.”

“You're welcome. I was new once.” A thought popped into my head and before I could censor myself, it fell from my mouth, “Do you run?”

“Run?”

“Yes, run.”

I didn't know where I was going with the whole ‘do you run' thing, I just felt like I should be running.

“Not since I moved up here. I was thinking of making swimming part of my daily program, care to join me?”

I hesitated then shook my head. “I really wouldn't, but thank you. You're welcome to join me on a run any morning you like.”

I closed the door behind me and smiled.

Ahead of me stretched a long carpeted hallway with many doors. The one I needed to open was the one I'd recently closed.

I whispered to myself in the silent hallway. “Swim? No thanks; I don't like the smell of chlorine. I think I'll pass on adding swimming to my daily program. I won't have time anyway.”

My hushed words floated in the air then fell apart. Tiny butterflies erupted from the individual letters. They flittered in front of me on gossamer wings. I watched in awe as they gathered into a quivering mass of color. Oranges, browns, reds, and yellows jockeyed for position. I blinked, and then suspended in the air I saw an image of Mac. Seconds later, his likeness began to dissolve. One by one each butterfly fell into the blue carpet and vanished.

Yep, I'm perfectly sane.

I headed to the Director's office. I wanted back into Delta.

It's not over until the fat lady sings and I don't know any fat ladies; therefore it's not over.

I knocked on the outer office door, let myself in, then knocked on the Director's door.

“Come in, Ellie,” she called.

I smiled. I knew she monitored her outer office camera.

I opened the door to find Director O'Hare behind her desk. She looked up with a half a smile on her lips.

“You want me?”

I met her eyes and with as much control as I could muster said, “I want back in Delta.”

“You're sure?”

I nodded. She spun her monitor to face me. On the screen was an emailed copy of the psychologist's report. I skimmed it looking for the bit that said she thought I was uncommunicative and difficult. I couldn't stop the smirk that crept across my face when I found it. What surprised me was the final sentence. She'd signed me off. I didn't have to see her again.

“So I'm not nuts then?”

“She didn't go that far,” O'Hare said, with a smile.

O'Hare clicked another email and showed me the contents.

It was from my neurologist. He'd written a report on my head injury and the results of my MRI and head CT. It didn't say anything I didn't already know. It said Leon was correct in his initial diagnosis of benign paroxysmal positional vertigo. I'd undergone treatment in his office and now showed no symptoms at all. The blow to my head during the Hawk case didn't do any damage, other than a slight concussion. He mentioned concern about future head injuries but he'd cleared me for field duty.

“There's something else, Agent. I received a report from Special Agent Noel Gerrard at NCIS. A Navy Corpsman was reported UA after receiving treatment for a badly-cut right hand; this Corpsman served three tours in Afghanistan with a Marine deployment. This effectively makes him a Marine.”

Unauthorized Absence. Interesting.

“Does he have a name and did he travel much?”

“He is Hospital Corpsman First Class Brent Miller and frequently traveled to Germany with wounded military personnel.”

“Can they link him to any of the kidnappings?”

“His fingerprints were found in the building where you found the children.”

“That's a start. What was he doing at the Fort?”

“Working at the hospital with rehab patients.” She placed a photograph on the desk in front of me. I recognized him immediately.

“That's the Marine who helped kidnap me and then attacked me.”

She smiled. “They're working on trying to tie him to an army doctor who recently specialized in pediatrics, Captain James Chadwick. Gerrard would like you to look at this photograph and identify him if you can.”

She slid a photograph over the desk to me. I spun it with a finger and came face to face with the man in the black trousers. It felt like an empty victory.

“That's him – the man who kidnapped me and stabbed me in the back. Our female victims were drugged with Thorazine; can you ask NCIS to dig into that? The doctor here may have something to do with it.”

She picked up her phone and made a quick call.

“Agent Gerrard, this is Director O'Hare. Agent Conway has identified the photograph of Captain Chadwick as the abductor and as the man who caused the stab wounds in her back. She has also identified Corpsman Miller as his accomplice and her attacker. I'll be sending a report. There's a drug supply issue regarding Thorazine that your doctor might be able to help us with.”

She hung up and removed the photographs, placing them carefully back in a file. O'Hare smiled and leaned back in her chair.

“This is two-part good news, the second part is; you can rejoin Delta Team A as a Supervising Special Agent whenever you are ready.”

“Now's good.”

 

The Butterfly Song

In a glade where butterflies sing

A silver brook babbles

Oak trees grow in dappled light

Tiny acorns sprout

My prince came in chain mail armor

His arrow whistles true

In his heart the butterfly song

A dream upon a wing

Melting smiles in fading light

Drawing from butterflies within

He sets the scene in motion

The world begins to spin.

Butterfly feathers gracefully fall

Carpeting the glade in color

Fairies peek from under leaves;

Listening to the song.

In a blink my prince is gone.

Alone I am left to wonder

Why butterflies sing.

 

We hope you enjoyed
Terrorbyte
by Cat Connor. Please turn the page for a preview of the next exciting installment in the byte series:
Exacerbyte
.

Cat Connor

Chapter One

Every Intention

My phone chirped like a demented cricket. It was the second call in two minutes. Demented crickets are never good. I pulled over to the shoulder and stopped. Cars whizzed by me. The phone chirped again.

“SSA Conway.”

“Ellie, Chrissy here. Just reminding you about the high school visit.”

“I hadn't forgotten – there's plenty of time yet.” I checked the time on my watch just to be sure. “I'm dropping by Cassie's then I have a few things to do. I don't have to be at the school until later this afternoon.”

“Tell her she's invited to my place next weekend. My turn to cook for us all.”

“I'll pass it along.”

I dropped my phone on the passenger seat and pulled back into the traffic.

Ten minutes later, I parked in the driveway behind Cassie's Subaru. Icy rain splattered from the gray sky as I cleared some mail I noticed poking from the mailbox. Clutching a few letters, I wrapped my jacket tighter against the cold wind and hurried to the front door.

I knocked and waited, shuffling from foot to foot to keep warm. I knocked again. There were no signs of life beyond the stained-glass inset in the door.

“Cassie!” I called.

No reply.

I walked along the porch. The curtains were open. It was difficult to see into the room; even weak winter light caused too much glare. I cupped one hand against the window and placed my eye up to it. No one moved within. I knocked on the window as I peered. For a second I thought I saw something moving by the living room door. “Cassie!”

There was a skittering of paws on wood. Suddenly Roscoe's face appeared, pressed against the window, his huge paws on the windowsill. Tongue lolling.

“Roscoe! Sit!” The large dog dropped to his hairy backside, tongue still hanging from his open mouth. He wasn't the brightest of dogs but he was sweet.

He'd left a large reddish smear across the glass. I craned my neck to see if the dog was bleeding but couldn't see anything. I jogged around the back of the house, letting myself in the back gate. Still no sign of human life.

I pulled out my cell phone and called Cassie's cell. From where I stood, I heard it ring. It had to be in the kitchen. I hung up before it went to voicemail and hammered on the solid back door. The only noise beyond was the dog tearing across the house and sliding into the kitchen cabinets.

It just wasn't right. Cassie never left without her cell. Her car was there. Roscoe was in the house, not in his centrally-heated dog run. I counted rocks in the garden beside the back porch until I found the hollow one and the back door key. I knocked, turned the key and handle and then called out as the door swung open.

Roscoe hit me like a freight train, knocking me back. I scrambled to my feet and wiped my slimy hands down my jeans. “Damn drooling dog.”

Roscoe bounced around me, slobber flying.

“Sit!”

He plopped like a stone sending a cloud of fluff into the air. His yellow fur was stained red in patches. His large hairy feet were matted and messy.

“What's on you?” I held his collar and leaned down. There was no mistaking the smell. “Blood.”

I couldn't trust the dog to stay, so with a firm grip on his collar and my Glock in the other hand I started searching the house. We were in the laundry. I followed his dark footprints into the kitchen. My eyes scanned the immediate area. My nose prickled at the smell of fresh blood. On the corner of the kitchen counter, there was blood and long strands of dark hair. Blood dripped down the front of the cabinets. I held the dog tightly, stopping him from putting his hairy feet in any more evidence.

Above the dog's panting, I heard a click. I closed my eyes and concentrated. A door clicked shut. Someone was in the house. Dog, gun, no hands left for the phone. I crouched down next to the dog and pried my cell from my belt. This wasn't going to work. I stood up and put a leg over the dog, successfully trapping his head between my knees. I managed to send an emergency call to Delta A. An open line was all I needed. I slipped the phone into my shirt pocket.

“I hope you can hear me. I'm at Cassandra Smith's home in Reston. Possible home invasion. There is blood all over the floor. Can't find Cassie. I need back-up and paramedics.”

Voices jumbled in my pocket. Sam's overrode Lee and Chrissy's. “We're on our way Chicky Babe. Notifying local police.”

“Good to know.”

I adjusted my grip on the panting dog and wound my fingers tightly under his collar. With care I moved my leg, to stand next to him again. “Come on Roscoe let's find Cassie.”

We cleared the kitchen. I noted more blood splatter on the walls and smearing on the doorframe. Drag marks on the floor led down the hallway. The blood faded into the carpet fibers.

Another click.

The dog pulled. I pulled back and whispered, “No.”

My heart raced and stomach twisted. With trepidation, I opened the guest bathroom door. Nothing. I closed the door: if anyone was hiding, they couldn't use the rooms I'd cleared for cover without alerting me by opening doors.

My attention focused on the guest bedroom. Silently I opened the door. There was nothing obvious. I checked under the bed, in the closet, behind the curtains. No one. No sign that anyone had even been in the room.

Four more doors led from the hallway.

The dog whined softly as I swung open the next door. It was Cassie's home office. I breathed for a moment. The entire room was visible from the doorway. A desk, chair, overstuffed bookcases and her laptop.

Next was another bedroom, used as a storeroom by the look of it. Boxes piled high around the walls. Roscoe and I swept the room keeping an eye on the hallway the whole time. Only two rooms remained. One on the right and one on the left at the front door end of the hallway. One was the living room and one Cassie's bedroom.

The dog and I stepped carefully into the room on the right. The door was open. Nothing out of place at all. No one hiding under the sofas in the living room. No one behind the floor-length drapes.

The only place left was Cassie's room. It had a walk-in closet/dressing room and a separate bathroom. Two rooms within a room. Both with locks. Maybe she was in one of the rooms and was safe. Maybe it wasn't her blood all over the dog. I looked down at Roscoe. He was the dumbest and friendliest dog I'd ever met. This was not a guard dog; this was a seventy-pound lapdog. He was likely to lick someone to death or maybe trip him or her with his over-exuberance but otherwise, he'd never harm anyone. Roscoe whined and pulled me. He wanted to get into the bedroom.

A door slammed. It sounded close.

My stomach flip-flopped sending bile rushing toward my mouth.

I swallowed hard, took a deep breath, held tight to the dog and twisted the knob of Cassie's bedroom door. I pushed it so hard it hit the wall behind the door. The dog flinched.

Deep blue curtains billowed into the room. I checked behind them. The French doors were open; there was blood on the floor and bloody footprints outside on the porch. In the distance, sirens.

“Cassie!”

Nothing under the bed. I tried the dressing room door. Locked. I banged.

“Cassie!”

I let the dog go. Roscoe scratched at the door. Then ran to the bathroom door and scratched that.

“Cassie! It's Ellie.”

I listened. Roscoe scratched and whined. “Roscoe, shush.”

He looked at me with his head on one side, ears alert and goofy tongue falling out of his mouth. Then I heard her voice from the bathroom.