The Trigger Read online

  On the way downtown, Dallas picked up two prepaid phones. Her personal cell would go with her so she would have all her contact information, but she would keep it hidden and unused most of the time. Her FBI work phone would also stay out of sight when she wasn’t using it to contact her UC team. In the car, she keyed her new ID into one of the burner phones. The second prepaid was just for backup. Dallas made a quick stop at the bank for cash, most of which would be stashed in hidden compartments. Her monthly bills were paid automatically, so she had no worries about finances while she was on assignment.

  Stacie’s Glamourama, a name Dallas hated, was in a strip mall off Indian School Road. She pulled in and parked in the last available space. She would miss her RAV4 while she was gone, but at least this time her background ID was that of a wealthy person, so the bureau would have to lease her something decent, unlike the time her cover had required her to drive an old piece-of-crap Volkswagen bug.

  Stacie was with a client, so Dallas sat and read more about Spencer and Randall Clayton. Before he was thirty, Randall had been elected mayor of Santa Carmichael, a small mid-California city, then had run for Congress and lost. He and his brother had started building the community outside of Redding two years later. The 9/11 attacks had happened in between, and that could have been the driving influence. Dallas also wondered if the political defeat had undermined the younger brother’s confidence and sent him into hiding.

  After a few minutes, Stacie called her over, gave her a fleshy, perfumed hug, then stroked Dallas’ long blond hair. “I can’t believe you want to cut this off. Most women would kill for your hair.”

  “It’ll be a nice break from the maintenance.” Dallas took a seat in the beauty chair, feeling a flutter of apprehension. She’d been thinking about making the change for a while, but it would still be an adjustment. “I get more respect when I go brunette, and I think less hair will have the same effect. So what the hell.”

  Stacie, who changed her hair color every month, laughed. “With your cheekbones and luminescent blue eyes, you’d still be gorgeous if you shaved your head.” Her friend grabbed a plastic drape and tied it around Dallas’ neck. “How short and what color?”

  She pulled out the picture of Lisa Clayton. “Like this.”

  Stacie’s eyes widened. “She looks like you, only older. Are you going to impersonate her?”

  “No. And if I was, I couldn’t tell you. Let’s do this. I still have a lot of packing.”

  While Stacie cut and colored her hair, they talked about the recent mass shooting in Glendale, and Dallas hoped her friend wouldn’t ask if her new assignment was dangerous. She didn’t. They both knew Dallas would lie anyway.

  When her hair was finally blow-dried, Dallas decided she liked it. Not as sexy but more trustworthy. Stacie made a whistling noise. “Very nice. Trevor will be quite surprised.”

  “Thanks. I love it.” Dallas stood and reached for her purse.

  Stacie shook her head. “You are going to see Trevor and tell him you’re leaving, right?”

  “I thought I would text him.”

  Her friend rolled her eyes. “You’re ending it?”

  “I have to. I’ll be gone for at least a month, probably more, and we’re not that serious.”

  “Whatever.” Stacie knew better than to argue. They’d had this conversation before. She hugged her tightly. “Be safe.”

  Dallas stopped at the Motor Vehicle Division, bypassed the long line, and went straight back to the FBI liaison. She’d been through the process a few times, so twenty minutes later she had a new driver’s license issued to Sonja Barnes. When she returned to Phoenix, she would trade it in and get her original back. Time to head home and pack.

  The process was both an art and a science, and Dallas had perfected it. While she carefully crammed her life into two large suitcases and a carry-on bag, she called the property manager of her condo complex, then composed a text to Trevor in her head. When she was packed, she keyed in: I’m leaving town for a month or so and won’t be able to contact you. I can’t expect you to wait, so feel free to start dating someone new. It’s been fun. JD

  She hoped Trevor would take it well.

  Feeling logistically ready, Dallas reached for her laptop, prepared to make contact. She opened the Clayton brothers’ blog/website, called Uncertain Future. It covered subjects from how to grow vegetables in the winter to how to put on a gas mask in case of sarin poisoning. Dallas read Spencer’s latest post about buying gold and silver and keeping it in a safe at home as a protection against the coming economic collapse when bank accounts and credit cards would be worthless. After registering as Sonja Barnes, she left a comment about how she’d been using her trust fund to buy gold for years and was pleased to find likeminded thinking on the subject. She perused a few more posts, then found the link labeled Destiny. She started to scoff at the name again, then caught herself. It was time to become Sonja, a pampered young woman who didn’t trust the future… and was looking for a more natural life.

  The website was a work of art: uncluttered, bold fonts, clear subcategories, and compelling photos. Its creator was an experienced designer, and she wondered about the tech level of the community, and the brothers in particular. Dallas clicked another link called Joining Destiny. The page outlined the process, which involved filling out an application, writing an essay, and meeting with the founders. The essay part irritated her, so she filled out the application first, referring to the background dossier the bureau had sent her.

  A section near the top asked her to list her skills, and Dallas realized they might be critical to admission. To survive after the apocalypse, the community would need a diverse group of people with high-demand expertise. After ten years, Dallas assumed they’d found the basics such as doctors and scientists, so she listed marksmanship, outdoor survival, herbal knowledge, and multilingual. Most of it was true, and she could learn enough about herbs to fake that part. She spoke Spanish and could read and write simple French. Speaking the damn language was not something she’d ever mastered. She was slowly learning Arabic too, with the idea that she might someday work for the CIA.

  Halfway through writing the essay, her doorbell rang. Dallas hurried to answer it, thinking it was an FBI courier with her new paperwork. She checked the peephole. Trevor stood there, looking blond, handsome, and worried. Shit. Dallas pressed the intercom to tell him she was busy, then changed her mind and let him in. He was a sweet man and—what the hell?—she could use some breakup sex.

  “Whoa.” Trevor stared at her hair.

  Dallas reflexively reached for it and regretted letting him see her new look. “That’s why I texted instead of meeting you to say good-bye. I didn’t think you’d like it.”

  He pulled her in and held her tightly. “I don’t care about your hair. I care about you. Where are you going and why?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Is this about your government job?”

  “Yes.” She’d been vague, as usual, knowing the relationship wouldn’t last. “I’m sorry, but it has to be this way.” Dallas wondered if she’d ever have a long-term partner she could confide in.

  “You’re going undercover, aren’t you? Is it dangerous?”

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “When will you be back?” Brow crinkled, eyes misty, Trevor had never looked sexier.

  “Maybe a month or so. But we can’t contact each other, so let’s just say it’s over.”

  “No.” Trevor grabbed her shoulders and kissed her deeply. “I think I love you, and you’d better call me the minute you get back.”

  Love? Stunned, Dallas pulled away, no longer aroused. Even after years of therapy, she still had a central issue: She enjoyed sex with strangers and with men she’d dated briefly. But as soon as she felt emotionally connected, the sex lost its zing and the relationship fizzled. Apparently that applied if men felt overly attached too.

  “We barely know each other and you have to go.” She pushed
him toward the door. “Find someone else. You deserve a good relationship.”

  Trevor tried to kiss her again, but she turned away.

  “I’m not letting you go.” He stood near the door and locked eyes with her, but Dallas waved him off.

  He finally left, but instead of feeling relieved, Dallas felt lonely. She’d miss him and their art gallery visits, breakfasts at Chorios, and Jason Statham movie nights. She shook it off and went back to her laptop, where she clicked open a photo of the Clayton brothers. Spencer was in his early forties, lean and attractive with wide-spaced brown eyes, a classic nose, and perfect teeth. His brother, Randall, looked much like him, but was shorter and thinner-faced, with lighter hair. Something about the younger man’s smile seemed off, then Dallas remembered he’d been a politician.

  Around nine, a courier arrived with her packet of new ID. Dallas set her alarm and took a sleeping pill. When she woke in the morning, Sonja Barnes would take a cab to the airport and start a new life.

  Chapter 4

  Monday, May 6, 9:34 a.m.

  Spencer Clayton called the hacker he’d hired over the weekend, but the young man didn’t answer. Greg Rafferty, who liked to be called Raff, had arrived late the night before, but Spencer didn’t care. He’d sent him a ten thousand dollar advance to get him here and would pay him an additional ten grand when he completed the job. Spencer had tried and failed to breach Morgan Bank’s security, so he’d gone into the IRCs—the 90s chat rooms where hackers still hung out—and asked around for the best gray-hat hacker he could recruit. Rafferty had been recommended by several people and had contacted him within six hours.

  After a Google chat session, they’d finally spoken on the phone, with Raff calling him from a blocked number. With the promise of cash, Spencer had persuaded the hacker to come to Destiny and help “test the banking system.” Raff’s gray-hat status made Spencer a little nervous. White-hat hackers were the good guys, supposedly, who tried to keep the malicious attacks launched by the black hats from doing severe damage. Gray hats swung both ways, but they typically liked to test companies’ security by launching a benign assault, then telling the management how they’d taken advantage of their vulnerabilities. Raff was known for finding and testing security weaknesses and seemed perfect for the job. Spencer wouldn’t tell him what he really had in mind until the last moment, then Raff would have a choice to either stay in Destiny or take his chances out in the crashing world.

  Feeling wound up, Spencer pulled on running shoes, checked the temperature, and changed into a tank top. On his way out, he stopped in Lisa’s room. His wife was sleeping, her breath labored. She’d become so gaunt he hardly recognized her, and the high doses of morphine would soon kill her if the cancer didn’t. He’d been watching her die for so long, he’d learned to be in the room and not cry. But knowing she was only days away now made his heart ache. Still, her passing would be a relief—for both of them.

  Outside, the morning sun warmed the wet grass, and the smell of spring blossoms filled the air. Spencer jogged around the community, as he did every morning, just for the pleasure of seeing his creation. Seventeen homes, a new four-unit apartment complex, a community center that also served as a school and library, and a small medical clinic made up Destiny’s core at the end of Clayton Lane, a private drive off Bear Mountain Road. The residences were at the edge of the property and all that could be seen from the main road. Beyond the homes lay the fields and storage lockers that would sustain the members in the future.

  A car started and he waved at Marissa, their nurse, as she headed into town for a part-time shift at a clinic. About half the members still had jobs in nearby Redding, about twenty-three miles away. Others made money online or had telecommuter jobs. He’d been lucky and had earned a small fortune as a software engineer, investing it wisely. In 2002, after the earlier attack on America, he and Randall had purchased the fifty acres together and built homes with help from local contractors. Over time, they’d invited others to join them, and the community had grown. They also owned a restaurant/bar in Redding—which would become worthless after the meltdown—and they earned a steady income from a website business that sold survival kits and prepper gear. He didn’t like the term prepper and thought of himself and his members as futurists. Everyone in Destiny accepted that current environmental and financial practices were not sustainable and would eventually crumble, but only he and Randall knew of their plan to trigger the reset.

  After circling the housing area, Spencer jogged down a dirt road that cut through their property and led toward Honey Creek. The waterway curved around their acreage and had to be crossed a few miles outside of Destiny. That bridge provided the only public access to the community. The dirt road he jogged on had a well-hidden entry on the back side of the property. Spencer passed greenhouses, barns, giant gasoline tanks, and storage buildings. The previous owner had cleared the land long ago for farming, but the back half gave way to a gentle uphill slope dotted with oak, fir, and madrone trees. Beyond the acreage were miles and miles of forested land, and the dirt road he ran along eventually connected to Old Oregon Trail Road. Both routes to the property crossed waterways, and they had contingency plans to blow the bridges after the collapse—if they had to keep marauders from taking their supplies.

  At the three-mile point, Spencer turned and headed home. His thoughts drifted toward Emma. Now that the FBI had questioned everyone about her disappearance—and hopefully moved on—he was acting quickly to implement their plans. He’d been a law-abiding software engineer for most of his life, and all of this was out of his comfort zone.

  After his run, Spencer fed Lisa chocolate pudding and hung a fresh IV. She tried to tell him something, but he couldn’t understand. The morphine made her incoherent sometimes, but without it, her pain was excruciating. The cancer had started in her liver, but after a round of radiation it had metastasized to her spine and lungs. A doctor had encouraged Lisa to enter a clinical trial in San Diego, but his wife had decided to stay in Destiny and die in her own bed. They both regretted that they’d ignored the pain in her side for too long, but neither had ever considered cancer until the radiologist said the word biopsy.

  Another regret overwhelmed him, and Spencer didn’t have the will to push it away. If only he’d gone to medical school like he’d wanted to. He should have borrowed the money and ignored his parents. He could have become a researcher and found a cure for cancer. Instead, he’d studied computer science and spent his career creating technology that would destroy the social fabric. He couldn’t go back and change that, so he was doing everything he could to correct it.

  Lisa drifted off, so Spencer left the house and hurried down the long cul-de-sac to the apartment complex near the gate. He pounded on the door of unit one, knowing Raff was likely still asleep. “It’s Spencer. I want to get started.”

  He could have called Raff —he had intermittent cell phone service—or sent an email through their satellite internet, but the only landline was in the community center and Spencer chose to live without electronic devices as much as possible. In the future they were preparing for, those luxuries might disappear, and in Destiny, they had little use for them.

  After a long wait, Raff came to the door. Pudgy, with shoulder-length hair and an ugly black neck tattoo, the hacker looked older than his twenty-three years.

  “What’s the deal? It’s not even ten yet.” Raff glanced off to the side, not making eye contact.

  Spencer had to step back from his lethal morning breath. “I thought I explained that I wanted to get this project done in the next few days. I need you to work ’round the clock until we’ve breached Morgan Bank.”

  “You never mentioned working 24/7.”

  “I described it as an intensive short-term job. Get dressed and come over.” Spencer noticed the defiant look on his face. “Please.”

  “I don’t want to work that hard. That’s why I’m a hacker.”

  “I’ll give you a five-thousand-dollar b
onus if you get everything done before Friday.” Money was always a great motivator. Spencer pointed back at his house. “The data center room is the green door on the side.”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” The hacker closed the door in his face.

  Spencer resisted the urge to push it open and remind Raff who owned the apartment and paid his salary. For now, he needed the kid’s talent, but he hoped the hacker would leave after he’d accomplished his mission. Raff was the first person to stay in the community who had not come out of concern for the future, and Spencer hated the thought of him stuck there after the collapse.

  He headed back to his own home, a ranch-style house bright with natural daylight, and entered the tech room. A few years ago, he’d built the addition, which could be accessed from the outside by others. The computers and hard drives didn’t take up much space, but this was where he, Randall, and their engineer brainstormed ideas, so the room also held a small fridge, a table and comfortable chairs. Spencer made a pot of coffee, opened the file list on his external hard drive, and savored his collection. Millions of email addresses, bank account numbers, and other personal data. He’d never used, let alone abused, any of it.

  Yet.

  He’d been collecting the data since his job at CyberSecure. The first batch had come from a security breach at an investment bank, and he’d accessed it inadvertently while trying to patch the flaw in their system. Once he’d realized he could download and keep the account information, the temptation had been overwhelming. It was never about money. He had plenty and wasn’t a thief. But the potential power of all that data had been intoxicating, and he’d downloaded it to a portable hard drive and taken it home. For years, Spencer hadn’t told anyone, but possessing the data had given him such pleasure—and peace of mind—that it had changed him. Everyday anxiety and job pressure had become inconsequential. He’d stopped working so hard and had started studying medicine on his own. He’d become a better husband and had finally agreed to have a child, but they hadn’t been blessed with one.