Dark Web (DARC Ops Book 2) (12 page)

It sat uselessly in the van, locked inside the glove compartment.

Shit.

She could only hope the mystery man would stay gone.

“
D
o
you still have your father’s gun?”

“Mom? What?”

“Is it on you? Do you still keep it on you?”

“Yeah, sometimes.” Carly looked around, making sure she was still alone. Thank God the man from their set hadn’t made a reappearance for the rest of the night. She’d been pacing back and forth in the club’s back room after the gig, alternating between tapping her fingers on her legs and biting her nails. She’d finally gotten up the courage to step outside and go get her gun when her phone had buzzed in her pocket.

Before the call, she had been doing some finances, crunching the numbers in her head, but it had been a struggle to stay focused, let alone positive. Instead of the thousands they could have made by selling honey to two real-estate moguls, The Dotties, after playing three sets at the Dolphin Club, ended up with $255 and a few free drinks. Had they at least broken even?

Or was it even worse?

“Why are you. . . ? What are you doing?” Carly asked her mother. “Isn’t it . . .  late?” Connecticut was only three hours ahead of the Pacific time zone, but Carly was too tired for the math. She only knew it was late, even in Nevada. And that her mom had somehow gotten ahold of a phone.

“I don’t care how late it is.” This was at least true for Carly’s mom, who had no problem demonstrating that fact all through her college days—nights, rather. At any odd hour. Always the questions, the worries. Even hypotheticals. Suffering from the occasional bout of paranoia, her mother was unhealthily curious about Carly’s life as it was. But once you added in any
actual
reasons for her to call. . . . “There’s no time too late for a mother to call her daughter. Especially if she thinks she’s in trouble.”

“What trouble?” asked Carly, grinding her teeth together as she tried to keep the irritation out of her voice.

“It’s in the news.”

“
What’s
on the news?”

“The man you used to work for, Mr. Johnson.”

It was bad enough having to hear about it from a two-bit journalist in Salt Lake City. Now her mother, of all people. . . .

“And this scandal I keep hearing about,” her mom continued, tutting in clear dismay. “It’s just terrible.”

“That’s old news, Mom. It’s all over with.”

“No. It’s back. I don’t know why, but it’s on my TV. Isn’t it on yours?”

“I don’t watch TV.”

“See? That’s your problem, Carly. You don’t pay enough attention. You need to stay ahead of the curve on this.”

“Okay. . . . You’re right.” Sometimes it was just easier to let the storm blow over. To let her mom be right.

“Now are you going to tell me what’s happening, or do I have to learn about it from all my girl friends who can also afford TVs?”

“Mom, I can afford a TV.”

“
Carly
,” she said sternly. “Be straight with me. What’s going on?”

“I really have no idea. I’m on the road. I’m in Nevada.”

“Nevada? What?”

“I’m on tour. Remember? With the band?”

“Well, you never told
me
anything about that. Jesus. You never tell me anything about anything.”

Carly
had
told her. But sometimes it was just easier to apologize and move to the next stumbling block.

“Well, you might want to check on things,” her mother said. “And get in touch with Jerry, because it sounds like you’ll need a lawyer.”

Carly tilted her head up and sighed into the night sky. Like usual in Nevada, it had been a clear night. Which meant extra visibility for stargazers and extra cold for young women alone and miserable in a parking lot.

“Carly? Do you know anything about a computer?”

“What? What computer?”

“They found a computer or something, and there might be evidence.” Her mother took a deep breath, and then asked angrily, “What did you
do
for that man?”

“Mom, I just worked for him.”

“But what did you
do
?”

“Nothing!”

Carly was walking faster now, taking hard, angry steps without purpose or direction. It was her only means of burning off the stirred-up adrenaline, other than running her mouth at her sick mother. It was the usual cycle—a revolving door of guilt and anger. The emotions washed over her every time, no matter how determined she was to not let her mother get to her. It was as if the process was hardwired into her body and she was powerless to circumvent it.

She clamped her lips shut tight, waiting for the anger to pass. Looking up, she found herself walking behind a row of big-rig trucks. How the hell had she gotten here, clear across the lot? The trucks were parked at the edge of the lot, all dark except for the moonlight gleaming off bits of chrome. Maybe there were drivers inside, sleeping after a long day’s drive. Carly had once heard a story about why truckers left their running lights on overnight. She was glad to see none of them had their lights left on.

“So, then. . . .” her mom began, but then trailed off soon after. She sounded tired, unfocused, like she’d been up all night worrying. “So you have nothing to worry about, then?”

“No, Mom. I didn’t do anything.”

“I know you wouldn’t do anything, Sweetie. I’m just . . . I’m just scared.”

“Don’t be. Everything’s fine. How are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” It didn’t sound too convincing.

“You sure?” asked Carly. “Do you feel okay, health-wise?”

“Yes.”

“And does Robin still come around? Does she take you out and everything?” Carly normally tried very hard to block out the mental image of her mom wasting away in a bed, her confusion, her mind deteriorating further and further into dementia. But even when she managed not to consciously think of her mother’s accumulating and worsening conditions, there was always a constant, low ache of shame. It followed her everywhere in the background, teaming with her other worries.

“I’m scared, Carly.”

“Why? What are you scared of?” She heard nothing but her mother’s soft breathing. “And why did you ask about my gun? What’s going on?”

“I’m scared they’re coming after you.”

It should have been more of a shock, especially after the day’s events. But when it came to her mother, at least, Carly was used to that one. The increasing paranoia was all part of her condition, and it wasn’t the first time her mother had warned Carly about someone “coming after her.” It wouldn’t be the last, either, not by a long shot.

“Carly, what about that woman? Don’t you know about her? Joan? Don’t you know they came after Joan? They found her and they killed her.”

“
No
,” Carly said. She forced herself to relax and took a deep breath in an attempt to fight off her anger, even as her hands trembled. Guilt and anger were common emotions when talking to her mother, and this time Carly was shaking with both. “No they didn’t, Mom.
No one
came after her. Okay?”

“They came after her and—”

“It was a suicide! No one did anything but her.
She
did it.”

“I’m just worried—”

“Well, don’t be. I’m fine.”

“Do you have your gun?”

“Yes, Mom. I have my gun. I’m safe. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now listen. . . . You need to get some sleep, okay, Mom? Please?”

Carly ended the call after talking her mother down from her hysteria, trying her best to soothe and placate her, relaxing her, reaffirming that her daughter was safe and that she was indeed carrying a handgun. This time had been a little more dramatic than usual, but it still came from a familiar script.

There was, however, one potential cause for worry—her mother’s interpretation of Joan’s death. Had the news really been saying she was murdered?

Trying to quell her anxiety with a deep breath, she looked back up at the stars. They shone brilliantly, some twinkling in the cool desert night. Behind her, she could hear the soothing washing sound of interstate traffic. And in the distance was the rumble of an approaching train. A major rail line had followed the interstate, and thus followed The Dotties’ tour all the way from Wyoming. It was the country’s first East-to-West route, the Intercontinental Railroad, and it bordered the far end of the Dolphin Club’s back lot.

Carly walked around the back end of a truck, scanning down the rail line until she saw a small speck of light. It grew larger and brighter as the train approached. And then came the blasts of its horn, two long, one short, and then another long, its brassy howls piercing the night air. It sent goose bumps along her skin, the loneliest sound she’d ever heard.

She really should go back to the bar, get back inside, and hang out with her friends. Maybe she could skip tonight’s hacking work and just have fun for once, as a group. Just the three of them, bonding. Maybe she could even boost morale from their low point earlier in the van.

It excited her to think of the possibility of what had almost felt like a new, novel idea—just having fun. Why couldn’t they? What was so hard about enjoying each other’s company? So far, it had seemed so much like “work”, like they hadn’t been friends for years before playing together.

Empowered by her strategy for dealing with their tour’s current misery, Carly quickened her pace around the long trailer of a truck. She couldn’t wait to get back to her friends, to just smile at them. God. It didn’t have to be such a funeral all the time.

Her pocket suddenly vibrated with an incoming phone call. It was Megan, who began the conversation with a nervous, quivering question. “Where are you?”

“I’m out back,” said Carly. “I had a phone call.”

“Carly, there’s someone here looking for you.”

A shiver ran down Carly’s spine despite the warmth still pervading the evening air, and the back of her neck prickled.

“What? Who? That creep who kept staring at me? Sunglasses and the—”

“He’s from the FBI.”

The now-familiar knot in her stomach bound even tighter, the increasing pressure of a worry she’d been trying to ignore for days.

“Carly? Did you hear me?”

“Yeah,” she dropped her tone, almost whispering.

“He’s looking for you. Said he wants to talk about something.”

Carly could think of two reasons, two topics of conversation the FBI might want to have with her. Both requiring the presence of her lawyer.

“Carly!” her friend shouted into the silence. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Nothing. Where is he?”

“
Nothing
?” Megan asked incredulously.

“Where is he!?”

“I don’t know!”

Carly ended the call and rounded the back of the wall of trucks. The rear of the Dolphin Club came into view. But so did the large outline of a man walking toward her. He wore all black, and he moved with heavy, lumbering steps toward the row of parked rigs. It wasn’t the walk of a FBI agent. Perhaps he was a driver. Yeah, that was it, just a driver. Just a guy coming back to his truck.

But it didn’t stop her hands from shaking. Nor did the emptiness of her holster when she reached for her gun. Again, she’d forgotten it. Damn it! Getting her gun was the whole reason she’d stepped outside in the first place, but then her mom called, and—

“Wait,” the man called out as she ducked back behind a truck. Why was he saying anything to her? Why
wait
? Carly scooted along the edge of the lot, passing by the rear end of trailer after trailer. Maybe her fleeing would send the right message, that she wasn’t a hooker looking for work, or a statistic in the making. But he kept trying to say something again, his voice this time getting drowned out by the loud rumbling of the freight train. The locomotive blasted its horns again, its intense wail sounding mere feet away. It made her feel dizzy and she became disorientated, stumbling past what seemed like row after row of trucks. The train’s horn sounded again and she clamped her hands over her ears, her head moving wildly from side to side as she looked for her black-clad pursuer. Damn it! Where had he gone?

She turned to look behind her but saw nothing. The parking lot was empty, and Carly took in a deep breath, trying to dispel her growing dizziness. At least no one had been following her. She closed her eyes in relief, for just a second, when she felt a hard knock on the side of her throat. It buckled her knees. It made her gag and choke for air. And then someone’s arm—a man’s strong, muscular arm—wrapped around her neck and squeezed away whatever air she still clung to.

Carly swung her arms back, whipping them into her attacker, at his head, trying to reach and claw at his face. But he just squeezed harder. She switched to kicking back her legs, using her heel to bash into his knee. And after a few misses, she connected—but to no effect. She tried again, aiming higher for his groin. She knew that a well-placed shot there didn’t require much leverage. It was what they’d always drilled into her at the free self-defense seminar back at UC Denver. Go right for his fucking balls. And yell as loud as she—

Carly screamed as she wound her leg back, but it came out as nothing but a strangled whisper.

“No.”

As she went for the blow, her other leg was swept swiftly underneath her body. She crashed hard on the ground, with his full weight landing on top and grinding her bones into the hard, rocky ground.

“No!” she cried again, louder this time, but a weight on the back of her head smashed and smeared her mouth into the dirt. It felt like her teeth would break. Or at least pop through her lip. The taste of blood was already confirming some kind of damage. The man flipped her flailing body over and she then felt something worse, something much harder than the ground. A solid, heavy contact against the side of her face sent flashes of light across her eyes. Something hard slammed into her cheekbone, and then her nose. She turned her head to the other side, away from the object. But she couldn’t escape it. The object followed her exposed face, raining blows from the other angle, smashing at her face, her head, until everything went black.

In the darkness and under his crushing weight, she could still feel him working, still punching at her. But there was no feeling to any of it. There was no more pain. Just a thudding vibration with each blow. And a sound. A god-awful sound in the dark.