Dangerous Code Read online

  Dangerous Code

  By Stella Marie Alden

  Copyright (C) 2017 Stella Marie Alden

  Cover design by Reddhott Covers

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

  [email protected]

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 1

  I dash out of the Port Authority and claim the last handhold on the downtown bus. The brakes hiss, we lurch forward, and suddenly my headset mutes. Instead of Blake Shelton, the male voice of my artificial intelligence barges in.

  “Terrorist alert.”

  Don’t freak out, Jones. It’s probably just a bug.

  Shaking, I let go of the metal loop and pull out my iPhone. On the screen, my AI application flashes bright letters on a black background.

  Red Alert

  Bomb in canvas bag

  Vicinity < 25 feet

  Accuracy Assessment is 85%

  With the bus hitting every pothole, it takes a few tries for my thumb to find the dropdown. Then a license of a clean-cut brown man pops up. I think I saw him sitting in the back. To be sure, I use the handholds like monkey bars and jostle to the rear. My fellow commuters give way begrudgingly.

  There he is. And he’s got a green gym bag at his feet.

  Oh my God. I’m on a bus with a friggin’ terrorist.

  Taking a deep breath, I stream video to Jason’s downtown servers. I have to alert New York’s Terrorism Task Force, but must do so without revealing Jason. He’s not ready.

  Jenna: Call JTTF, explain what’s happening. Do not reveal your identity.

  Jason: Done.

  In the bus’s side window, my wide-eyed reflection gawks back, pale Irish skin tinted green. And instead of a successful entrepreneur, I see a woman biting down on her lower lip like a scared teenager. Yeah, I want off this death trap. Who wouldn’t? One small push on the stop bar and I’d be free. But I can’t just leave a bus filled with innocent people. I have to try something.

  My fists clench and newly manicured nails dig into my palms. What should I do? It’s one thing to test out a program while sitting in my office, it’s another to use it for real. I’m not even sure how this beta version works outside the simulated environment.

  As our bus rumbles down Eighth Avenue, sunshine breaks through the clouds, and storefronts glow amber. New Yorkers hurry along the sidewalk with coffee cups in one hand and large bags slung over their shoulders. What would they do if they knew a bomb was driving by?

  Run. Just like you should be doing.

  Suddenly, I have an idea.

  Jenna: Execute 911.sh

  Jason: Done.

  Jenna: Execute NYCTraffic.sh

  Instructions = Force all traffic signals on Eighth Avenue to stop both directions

  Duration = 5 minutes

  Jason: Done.

  I have lots of scripts pre-written in case of emergency but I always pictured a war room filled with monitors, cops and analysts. These programs were never supposed to be executed by me. Chills run up and down my spine as I hold my breath, waiting and watching out the window.

  Finally we slow and then stop. Thank God. Maybe I’ve bought us some time. While I hesitate, one of New York’s finest blasts a whistle, another shouts angry expletives, and yet another directs a white Cadillac out of the intersection.

  And we’re off.

  The best gridlock ever, gone in an instant.

  Dammit. The bus engine grumbles, the vehicle jerks, and again I’m forced to grab onto the metal loop to keep from tumbling.

  Now what? Exhaling, I play out a couple scenarios in my head but none end well.

  Jason: JTTF is advising you to stand by.

  As I wonder how much Jason revealed, a sip from my water bottle chases down the bile in the back of my throat. If the wrong people find out about Jason, I am so screwed.

  Then we stop so two guys can get on. One’s in peach and the other wears a beige polo shirt. Carrying Nordstrom bags, they hold hands as they walk to the back of the bus and head right for where my suspect is sitting. I push to warn them off but no way can I get to them in time.

  Standing on my toes, my mouth drops open. This can’t be happening.

  Beige-shirt motions that he wants bomber-guy to slide over, arguing over a nonexistent seat. There really isn’t any space to sit down and of all people, why choose him? Moaning, I scrunch my eyes shut when the suspect stands and his green canvas bag falls off his lap in slo-mo.

  I brace for the searing blast wondering if there really is a heavenly doorway with brilliant white light.

  There’s a clunk. I wait. Then nothing.

  Finally a male voice shouts from up front, “NYPD. Everyone remain seated!”

  I peek one eye open, stunned to be alive. Behind me, beige-shirt digs his knee into the center of the suspect’s back and cuffs him. Then peach shirt joins him and pushes the would-be bomber out the back door. A third officer, dressed like an alien bug in thick black armor enters, grabs the green bag, and disappears.

  Game over. The crowd applauds.

  “Please. Screeeeeej… yeeeeechchch… seats.” The front cop blares inarticulate instructions over the bus’s intercom.

  Right. Will do. No problemo.

  Seconds later, emergency vehicles scream down the street. Rotating lights flash around the bus’s interior creating a disco-effect. Eventually we’re allowed out and that’s good because I really have to pee.

  When my feet hit the sidewalk, I consider dropping to my knees and kissing the pavement but that would be weird, even for me. I can’t believe that I not only survived a would-be terrorist attack but my program saved all these people.

  Yay me!

  Then all of us passengers are ushered into a cliché of an Italian restaurant with wall-sized murals of the Coliseum. Another wall’s covered in four-by-six photos signed by movie-stars, most of whom I don’t recognize. Behind me and out the front window, two armored officers carry a big metal box toward a white truck with blue NYPD letters.

  That’s when my stomach turns traitor. Hot all over, I drop onto my knees with my forehead on the carpet. And I still got to pee.

  A concerned dark face with dread locks and high cheekbones squats to my level. “Hey lady, you okay?”

  I shake my head but that’s a lie. In reality, the awfulness of what could’ve just happened loops endlessly behind my eyelids. Instead of walking away without a scratch, searing heat burns my face and my skin boils black.

  It’s not pretty.

  “Right over d’ere, officer. Got off dee bu
s and den she just set down.” The Jamaican man sounds light-years away.

  When I open my eyes, I assume this is the afterlife, otherwise the chances of seeing Colin O’Brien are maybe a hundred zillion to one.

  When he squats with his nose inches away, it’s clear he doesn’t recognize me. That’s not all that weird considering the work I’ve had done. He however, hasn’t changed a bit. He’s still got those dreamy baby-blues and jet-black lashes.

  His dark brows crease as he hones in on me. “Miss? Should I call a medic?”

  “No. I’m fine. Just a headache.” That sounds a lot better than I’m about to have one seriously debilitating panic attack.

  Colin, the man who’s been my vibrator’s fantasy on occasion, holds out his hand. “Let’s see what I can do for that while we wait for a paramedic. Okay?”

  He applies pressure into the webbed area between my thumb and forefinger using some kind of acupressure. Then I close my eyes because I can’t handle his intense stare, his breath. Just his presence makes my panties melt. Yes, my panic is gone but only to be replaced by pure, unadulterated lust.

  “Better?” His headache cure is pretty near nirvana but when he helps me to stand, the room spins, and his large hands shoot to my waist.

  I swear to God electricity sparks and I squirm as liquid pools between my legs. That never happens.

  “Maybe you could walk me to the lady’s room?” Really? That’s it? Tell him who you are.

  I can’t. The reflection in the bathroom mirror serves to remind me that I lost sixty pounds, straightened my teeth, and bought a new nose since last we met. It’s not all that strange that he doesn’t recognize me and maybe it’s better this way. When I exit, I’m surprised to see him leaning against the wall, appraising me from head to toe.

  I’m pretty sure he likes what he sees. Now’s the time to tell him who I am so of course, I don’t. Do I really want him to connect me with that sad, ugly, fat girl?

  “Are you able to get in line now, miss?”

  “Sure. Ah… Thank you.”

  Colin turns on a dime and strides his way-too-fine-ass to the front of my queue. Then he fires off a short set of questions to each passenger which is good because I need time to rehearse. I’m in deep doo-doo. I’d just used my most guarded secret to hack into New York City’s network. Someone’s bound to notice.

  You think?

  One by one, each person is ushered out the door and onto an idling bus. Minutes tick by slowly into almost an hour. Dammit. I’m going to miss my first meeting. I text Jason to reschedule.

  Then it’s my turn. Steely-blues bore into my face and Colin’s espresso-breath warms my face. “Feeling better?”

  I nod.

  “State your name and address.”

  “Meh-uh, Jenna Jones.” I can’t believe my voice cracked and I almost gave him my given name. I haven’t gone by Megan McCarthy since I was eighteen.

  “Jones, you say?” With raised eyebrows, he scribbles on a small wire-bound pad that’s so low tech, I can’t help but smirk.

  He’s not smiling. “Address?”

  I rub the goose bumps off my arms. “Twenty-five South Maple, Ridgewood, New Jersey.”

  A drop of sweat drips down the side of my face and I swipe it away with the back of my hand. It’s really hot in here.

  “And did you call 911?” He leans in, staring without blinking.

  “No.” Hey, to be precise, Jason called. I just executed my program.

  His eyes narrow, the creases around his mouth deepen, and he shoots off a high pitched whistle.

  When another officer jumps to take his place, Colin walks me down a hallway, hand at my back. “Please, this way miss.”

  I’m up a creek without a rowboat.

  Chapter 2

  Megan McCarthy

  Fat Camp, 17 years ago.

  New England mornings are friggin’ cold, even in late August. Shivering like mad in the ugliest bathing suit on the face of the planet, I snap a picture of the long black snake held by a camp counselor. He pulled it out of what is loosely referred to as the swimming pool.

  I’m not going into that water. Not ever again. That thing could be a water moccasin. I could die.

  If that isn’t bad enough, the pine forest is filled with mosquitoes, bees, and poison ivy. And now, because of my behavior, I have to stand in front of everyone while Terry-the-Skinny-Bitch, lectures me on how swimming reduces weight.

  I’d rather be dead.

  Suddenly, the dreamy lifeguard, Colin O’Brien, jumps off his chair, puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder and walks me away from the pool.

  A true gentleman, he holds open the gate for me, “Go. Tell the nurse you don’t feel so good. I’ll back you up.”

  Maybe I won’t die a virgin after all. I shoot him my best smile but he’s already climbing back up onto his chair, paying me no mind.

  Who’m I kidding?

  Wandering to the infirmary, I dig into my knapsack and retrieve my second-to-the-last Reese’s Cup. After that humiliation, I so deserve this but then, no more. All I’ll have left for the next two weeks are Snickers and Twix. Those I’ll try to eat more slowly.

  Miss Susan, the nurse, doesn’t give me any grief about my chocolate. She asks me about home but I don’t like to talk about my mom. Instead, I tell her about my latest computer program and even though she doesn’t understand a word, I feel a whole lot better.

  She listens and smiles when I try to explain stuff. Like for instance, how when I converse with kids my age they stare like I’m speaking French, which I’m fluent in, but that’s beside the point. I’d much rather talk to adults. First of all, they generally don’t make fun of me. And secondly, any grown up that I bother with has a decent vocabulary.

  After swim class, Miss Susan sends me back to my cabin. Skinny-Bitch-Terry gives me a nasty look but shuts up. I hope she got in trouble for being so mean. The counselors aren’t supposed to make us feel uncomfortable about our bodies. I read it on their website. But then again, like the pool, nothing else here is true.

  Seventeen more days to go. I make an ‘X’ in my laptop’s calendar.

  We’re supposed to write emails home but I’d had mine saved onto my desktop months ago. I know what my mom wants to hear. Even if I told her how much I hate it here, she wouldn’t let me come home. She only cares that I lose weight. I’m an embarrassment. That’s what she told me before I left. That and how I need some self-control.

  If this place wasn’t such a rip-off, I could drop a few pounds. We’re supposed to be learning a healthy lifestyle but the meals are full of cheap starches which only make me hungrier. What they serve is no good for teens.

  I know what I’m supposed to eat. I just can’t do it here.

  I escape the claustrophobic room by telling Terry that I need to use the outhouse. Then I wander off to spy on the boys, especially Colin O’Brien. He’s so hot, it should be illegal. As I hide behind a huge oak, he leads the boys in some kind of martial arts.

  When a twig snaps under my foot, I try to run but he catches up with me. Rats. I’m going to be in big trouble again. My heart races.

  He squats so we can talk eye to eye. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  Another thing that I really like about him is that even all sweaty, he smells really good. That might explain why my brain freezes and I blurt out like a complete nerd, “Can I join you guys?”

  “Sure, if you want.” A dimple cuts into one side of his face and he cocks his head, trying to get into my thoughts.

  When a couple boys start to protest, he shoots them this severe frown. Then like magic, they all shut-up.

  “Umm. I really should go. Terry doesn’t know where I am.” There’s nothing more I want to do than spend time with Colin O’Brien but I’m already on probation.

  “Hold on. I’ll tell her you’re with us.” After a few moments on his phone, he smiles. “All set. Put your shoes over there and join us on the grass.”

  Now I’m sor
ry I didn’t stay with the girls because I don’t want the boys to notice I can barely reach my calves, let alone touch my toes. But once we start, they don’t pay me any mind. They’re worse than me. One boy shoots me a shy smile and I return it.

  After about an hour, I’m tired, but I feel different. “Can I come back? This sure beats Pilates.”

  “Sure.” Colin grins as he laces up his sneakers. “I’ll square it away for you.”

  I head back to my cabin knowing I’ll totally love him forever.

  Chapter 3

  Detective Colin O’Brien

  Present day

  I walk the pretty Miss Jones through the swinging doors and into the banquet room where giant baby-bottles float over pink linens. For a split second my thoughts wander to my ex-wife. I wish her the best with that jerk she screwed. Then I pull out a couple chairs reminding myself how good women are at lying and cheating.

  I point to where I want my suspect to sit.

  Ghostly pale, she perches on the edge of her seat, clutching it with white knuckles. This interrogation should be a piece of cake. She’s been squirming and sweating for over an hour. Good thing too, because I need to put this terrorist incident to bed.

  Sitting down in front of her, I scoot forward knee-to-knee and flash her a reassuring smile. “No need to worry, Miss Jones. Just explain to me in your own words what you saw.”

  Instead of spilling secrets, her eyes get glassy and her expression goes blank. Dammit. Did she swallow some kind of poison pill? She gave no outward signs of suicide. How did I miss that?

  I open her mouth and drag a finger around to make sure it’s empty. Narcolepsy? Then after feeling a strong pulse at her neck, I breathe easier. That is until I spy the small cord running from her glasses to an expensive earpiece.