The Trap (Agent Dallas 3) (11 page)

At Abby’s door, she tried popping the latch with a credit card and it gave easily. This was an old house, and the locks had never been updated. Abby’s room was more cluttered than Luke’s, but she didn’t keep many knickknacks either. Because of her troubled past? Or did the inner circle live sparingly so they could move quickly if they needed to? That would be her strategy.

Abby’s computer was on her nightstand and already running, so Dallas was able to search her files. But all she found were blogs and poems Abby had written, a collection of photos, and some personal documents like an outdated resume. A glance through the browser history revealed an obsession with Pinterest, particularly jewelry and home furnishings. A look through Abby’s closet revealed a sexy pirate-style costume and a collection of ankle boots. Weird, but not useful.

Dallas opened the top drawer of the dresser and rummaged through socks to find the bottom corners. In the back, she found a two-inch baggie filled with white powder. Abby was using? Was it meth, coke, or heroin? Not that it mattered. Dallas searched the rest of the drawers but didn’t find any paraphernalia, like an addict would have.

She backtracked to the bed, lifted the top mattress, and discovered a handgun.
Well!
The weapon was a violation of the group’s supposed no-guns policy. Balancing the mattress, Dallas leaned in for a better look. A small Luger with the serial number filed off. Why would Abby need an untraceable gun? She was obviously keeping it hidden from her fellow activists. Is that why she kept her door locked?

The sound of an engine rumbled in the yard below.
Shit!
They were back already. Her pulse quickened, but Dallas didn’t panic. She dropped the mattress, smoothed out the blanket, and locked the door on her way out.

Monday, Oct. 6, 8:16 p.m.

Luke sat down at his desk, turned on his laptop, and waited for it to boot up. The dialogue box opened, and a notice flashed:
Files downloaded.

What files? Had someone accessed his computer? But how? He keyed in his password, a series of numbers that no one knew or would ever guess. Whoever it was hadn’t gotten in that way. Maybe it was nothing. He’d recently downloaded photos of their rock-swinging adventure to a thumb drive, and maybe this was just a delayed message. Or had Aaron done a remote access/download? He would ask.

Luke checked his email, a web-based account that he changed regularly. The first was from their anonymous donor:
I can’t fund your missions for a while. Maybe never again. I’m sorry. Best wishes. GJW

The news crushed him. How could they continue? They had enough money to last another month or so, if they cut all the side trips and skimped on groceries. Cree always had spending money, but it wasn’t enough to pay Hana’s mortgage, plus utilities, food, and gas. They would either have to move or get part-time jobs or find a new donor. Compelled to do something, Luke crafted a fundraising email, but didn’t know who to send it to. They had to be careful about letting people know about their missions. For now, the inner circle had to accelerate its activities and get as much accomplished as they could before the money ran out.

To distract himself, he searched for political news and got another jolt. The governor of Virginia was giving a speech in Richmond the next day, and he was expected to announce that the state would turn over another group of its prisons to a private company.
Oh hell no!
It was immoral. Luke had been incarcerated in a for-profit facility, and now he knew why those prisons filled up faster than the state-run lockups. They had to stop this. He began to strategize, taking notes as the ideas came to him.

First, he would ask the JRN organization to flood the governor’s email and phone lines with messages opposing the move. Then they would mobilize as many protestors as they could for the event tomorrow. A crowd of picketers would draw the media, and the public would learn what was happening. Luke wouldn’t speak publicly, of course—the risk was too great. But the inner circle could hijack the A/V system and broadcast their own message, like they had last time. They would inform the state lawmakers at the luncheon of the real facts: For-profit systems had fulfillment expectations built into the contracts. Typically ninety-five percent. If the state failed to keep the prison that full, it suffered financial penalties, which negated the savings of the private system. The end result was that the judicial system, driven by economics, pushed people into prison who didn’t belong there—people who otherwise would be put on probation, sent to rehab, or placed in a mental facility. It was wrong on so many levels.

Finished with his notes, Luke jumped up and rushed next door. “Abby!” He pounded on her door.

She peered out, her green eyes dull. “What’s up?”

Had she been sleeping?
“I need your help. We have to gather everyone we can to protest at Governor Slaybaugh’s speech tomorrow.”

“What’s going on?”

“He’s proposing to turn over more state prisons to CSA.”

“Oh fuck. The asshole.” Abby gestured for Luke to come in. “JRN has been pushing him to take back control of the one that’s already private. What the hell happened?”

Luke stepped in, feeling strangely uncomfortable in her personal space. “The same thing that always happens. Someone offered him money to see things their way.”

“What a setback.” Abby shook her head. “Where is the speech? I’m not sure how many supporters we can round up on short notice.”

“It’s in Richmond, the capital, only a couple of hours drive.”

“Your plan is to disrupt his speech like we did at the fundraiser?

“Yes.”

“We have to stop him. It’s time to step up our tactics.”

Dread and rage fought for dominance. He’d never been a criminal and didn’t want to become one. But too many lives had been wasted and too many more were at stake. If he and the others weren’t willing to get radical, the cultural shift would be too slow, and a whole new generation of minority men could be lost. “Are you talking about framing the governor and giving him a taste of incarceration?”

“Yes. I’ve got the drugs.” She reached toward a drawer.

What?
“Why do you have them?”

“I wanted to be ready for this!” Abby’s tone was sharp. She held out a small plastic bag filled with white powder.

Most likely meth. Luke repressed a shudder. “It’s dangerous for you to even be around dope. Why take that risk?”

“I told you, I had an opportunity to acquire some, and I wanted us to be ready.”

She was right that they had to get more aggressive. But he was glad he’d taken a step back from her emotionally. “Okay. We’ll plant them in the governor’s car, then report his license plate later for reckless driving or something. But with your record, you can’t carry the drugs. You can’t risk a long sentence.”

“Tara should do it. She’s the most expendable.”

Reluctantly, he agreed. “I have some bad news. Our donor is cutting us off.”

“What the fuck?” Abby put both hands on her head and started to pace. “Why?”

“They didn’t say. But we have to act more quickly now. Once our money runs out, things could fall apart for us.”

“What about the money Aaron hopes to siphon from the campaign funds? We can use that.”

It was so tempting. “No. We’re not keeping it. We’re activists, not thieves.”

Abby spun toward him. “Stop being such a moralist. Politicians are thieves! And law enforcement is sometimes more criminal than the people they arrest. We have to meet fire with fire.”

Still torn, he wanted to postpone a decision. “Let’s focus on this new mission first, then we’ll all discuss funding as a group.”

Abby started to argue, then stopped and shook her head. “Send me a link with details, and I’ll contact the network.”

“I’ll do recon on the event building and get Cree going on a hack of the sound system. We’ll have Aaron record the voiceover.” Aaron had volunteered to make the last one. If anyone captured part of their message on a cell phone, and the FBI analyzed it or tapped their phones, it could lead the bureau to them. Because Aaron didn’t have a criminal record or much longer to live, he’d taken the risk. Luke hoped he would do so again.

He rushed back to his room, sat at his laptop, and crafted a message to JRN members, asking locals to protest at the governor’s speech. He sent the text to his friend Jason, asking him to relay the message as soon as possible. The last-minute notice would limit the number of people they could rally, but any amount of distraction would be helpful. Now he had to conduct the security recon.

A quick search produced photos of the Lee Plaza building, but not enough information to plan a sabotage. He sent the links to Aaron, who could find anything online, including blueprints. Once they knew the layout, they could determine where the VIPs parked and how to access the area. The dual mission made him nervous, so he mapped it out.

Cree and Tara could handle planting the drugs. Tara would pick the locks and gain access to the back of the building and the private garage, then Cree would hack into the computer on the governor’s car to digitally unlock it. That meant Aaron would have to take control of the A/V system. Aaron wasn’t really a hacker, only a search-and-analyze specialist, but with Cree’s guidance, the older man was picking it up quickly. They would have to get Aaron close enough to the system, then cause a distraction to send the security in the wrong direction while their message played. They could pull it off.

The question for Luke, as always, was whether he should go in. The inner circle had agreed that he should hang back whenever possible, because he needed to continue the mission if everyone else was caught. But it never felt right. Yet, actively participating and risking incarceration again terrified him. Prison was so much worse than he’d ever imagined. The conditions varied from state to state, but in the south, they were often horrendous. He’d been beaten by the guards and sexually assaulted by other inmates. Almost everyone was. But solitary confinement had been the worst. Weeks, or sometimes months, with no human contact, very little food, and the stench of a leaking toilet that trickled sewer water down the concrete wall. He’d wanted to kill himself but hadn’t had the means in his tiny hole of a cell. If he ever faced prison again, he would find a way to commit suicide. Ten, twenty, or thirty years would all be the same—a death sentence. If necessary, he would trigger a cop or a guard to shoot him.

The irony of it gripped him. A thousand people every year—who wanted to live—died while incarcerated. A heinous memory surfaced and he tried to suppress it. But Charlie, the mentally ill man who’d shared his cell for three years, haunted him. The oddball had annoyed the hell out of him at first. But he’d grown on him, and the more he’d witnessed the guards abuse Charlie, the more he’d tried to intervene. Until that fateful day.

The sound of his cellmate talking to himself had woken Luke early. Not that he ever really slept. The prison was quieter at night, but the noise never stopped. Toilets flushing, overweight men snoring, cellmates arguing. And the constant hum of generators. They also often left the lights on at night to punish the cellblock for that day’s infractions. So true sleep was elusive. Just another form of the daily torture.

Charlie’s demons got the better of him, and his chatter morphed into a loud argument. An inmate down the hall shouted for him to shut up. Charlie picked up a book and started pounding the wall.

“Hey, Char, talk to me,” Luke said. “Tell me what’s happening.” Distracting him from the voice in his head sometimes worked to calm him down.

“The chip is signaling the enforcers again. He wants me to tear it out.” Charlie didn’t look at him. The man was thirty-six, or so he claimed, but he looked closer to fifty, with deep lines around his mouth. His eyes were gray and hazy and never quite focused directly on anyone.

“But you’re here, where they can’t get to you. Just ignore him.” They’d had a similar conversation before. Charlie’s morning dose of anti-psychotic medication usually arrived around ten. Hours away.

“The enforcers are everywhere!” Charlie started pounding again.

His cellmate’s mental health had deteriorated rapidly in the last year after back-to-back stints in solitary. Luke had seen plenty of that in the years he’d been inside. People who were borderline depressed or bipolar often plunged into full psychosis after being locked up for a while.

The screaming started next, and Luke was unable to calm Charlie. A few minutes later, three guards arrived, equipped for an extraction. Normally, extractions were for inmates who refused to leave their cells at all, but Charlie only fought the trips to solitary.

“He just needs his meds,” Luke said, risking punishment.

“Shut up and get out here,” the guard yelled through the bars.

The metal door opened and Luke stepped out.

“On the floor!”

He dropped down, knowing there was nothing he could do. They just wanted him out of the way. The cellblock went quiet, as the prisoners tuned in to the extraction. Luke kept his face down, but looked up with his eyes. The guards moved into the cell, single file, the first one with a riot shield. The second guard carried a taser. Both shouted at Charlie to come out of the corner with his hands on his head. Instead, he mumbled profanities, begging to be left alone. The second guard stepped to the side and fired the taser. Charlie cried out and went down to his knees. The first guard booted him in the back, shoving him to the floor. When the poor man was face down—and still cursing the enforcers—they cuffed his arms behind his back, shackled his legs together, and looped a cord between the two restraints. Once he was hog-tied, they beat and kicked him until he was quiet.

Luke cringed at every blow, willing himself to stay still. He’d learned the hard way he couldn’t help Charlie, only make things worse for himself.

Finally, two guards carried Charlie out, banging his head against the metal bars on the way. The third ordered Luke to return to his cell, then slammed the door.

A few inmates cheered as they took Charlie down the hall. Others expressed their disgust with the guards. Luke found some paper and with shaking hands, began a letter to the American Civil Liberties Union, asking them to intervene and get the mentally ill man transferred. The mail snipes would probably throw it away, but he had to try. His first attempt at activism.