Cyber Warfare: INTERCEPT: A Jack Coyote Thriller, #2

By J. S. Chapman

CYBER WARFARE is the second book of the action-packed political thriller series Intercept: A Jack Coyote Thriller.

 

If you enjoy reading novels filled with intrigue, conspiracies, espionage, and action around every corner, you'll become addicted to Intercept and the adventures of Jack Coyote.

 

Once an unapologetic hacker who sold his talents to the highest bidder, Jack signed on with a secret government agency to counteract terrorism. It was a boring desk job. At first.

 

When he intercepted a top-secret communiqué, everything changed. He was targeted for elimination. Not with a bullet or a poison-tipped umbrella but with a crime he did not commit.

 

Labeled killer, traitor, and spy, he's now a marked man. A man alone. A man on the run. A man targeted for what he knows.

 

Chasing down the truth can get him and anybody around him killed. When friends turn into casualties, it becomes personal for Jack. Extremely personal. His future looks bleak. More than bleak. The end of the line.

 

With his back pushed against the wall, Jack does the only thing he can do. He makes a run for it. It's up to Jack — and Jack alone — to hunt down the black ops team who set him up and expose a world-shaking plot.

 

The risks are many and the rewards are few. For Jack, it's a race against time, but a race he must win at any cost. Getting at the truth is the easy part. Getting out alive is hell.

 

A shadow government agency. A secret spy program. A chance 'intercept'. A nation under attack. America needs Jack Coyote. He just wants revenge.

 

Jack Coyote is out for blood in this action-packed series spanning the globe.

 

Pick up your copy of CYBER WARFARE right now and follow Jack Coyote on his pursuit of justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Weatherly Books
• Release date: Jul 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781393701309

J. S. Chapman

J. S. Chapman is a paperback writer, recovering screenwriter, genre shifter, and research glutton. She writes thrillers, mysteries, historical fiction, romantic comedies, and nonfiction. You can take the girl out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the girl. Born and raised in Chicago USA, she may be a suburban transplant but her heart still lives in the Windy City, where she learned her street smarts the hard way. After earning her degree from Northwestern University, she briefly taught in the Chicago Public School system before signing on with the corporate sector. It was in a dreary cubicle around the corner from executive row where she dared to dream and began writing nights and weekends. A little bit crazy and a little bit rock ‘n’ roll.

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Cyber Warfare

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I N T E R C E P T

A Jack Coyote Thriller

Season 2

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J. S. Chapman

Cyber Warfare

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I N T E R C E P T

A Jack Coyote Thriller

Season 2

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J. S. Chapman

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Copyright © 2018 by J. S. Chapman

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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Weatherly Books

Chicago, IL, USA

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This book is licensed for your personal reading enjoyment and may not be resold or given away to others. Reproduction in whole or part of this book without the express written consent of the author and/or publisher is strictly prohibited and protected by copyright law. Short excerpts used for the purposes of critical reviews is permitted. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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From the Author

If you are far from the enemy, make him believe you are near.

«»

Sun Tzu

The Art of War

1 

Washington D. C.

Friday, July 25

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A MAN ON the run usually has nowhere to go.

Oh sure, he can break out of jail. Enlist the help of a gullible guard or brainless girlfriend. Escape in a getaway car. Hop on a freight train. Swim across a muddy river. Hike through a burning desert. Hide in a friendless city. Hole up in a dinky town. Live off the land ... out of sight ... and off the grid. But he can never escape from himself. Or stop from looking over his shoulder.

After boarding the Blue Line train at the Federal Center Station and taking it to the Metro Center hub, Jack Coyote tricked Sergeant Jaime Benedicto of the Severn County Sheriff’s Office by first hopping onto a departing train about to close its doors, waiting for the detective to follow his lead, and hopping off just as the doors snapped closed. Trapped behind impregnable steel as the train pulled out of the station, Benedicto watched helplessly as his prisoner ambled along the platform and made good his escape, waving goodbye as he went. Any schoolgirl could have told the good sergeant it was the oldest trick in the book. He had fallen for it, ego blocking reason. A man who holds a grudge never acts rationally.

Jack considered himself lucky to have gotten away so easily. But luck has a way of turning on a man just when he feels complacent. Since he had never been a complacent guy, he wasn’t going to leave anything to chance. After laughing himself silly at the joke he played on the good sergeant, he instantly sobered up. Using a rapid succession of darting eyes and rubbernecking surveillances, he made sure no one had the mildest interest in a jailbird slinging a backpack over his shoulder. Luck was still with him. Odds were, it wouldn’t last.

Thinking Benedicto would call in reinforcements—his two deputies came to mind—Jack crossed to the Red Line, took the westbound train to Dupont Circle, transferred to the southbound train tracks, traveled to Fort Totten, and strode over to the Yellow Line, hands in pockets, reconnoitering passenger cars, platforms, stairways, and escalators for anyone remotely suspicious. Still not convinced, he went over to the Green Line, again scanning passengers and ruling out plainclothes cops, transit security, and bird-dogs who might be on his tail. He crossed back to the Red Line, took it to Union Station, rode the escalators up and then down, dodging around commuters, stanchions, and columns. He vaulted back upstairs, bypassed flower kiosks and booksellers and food hawkers, and glanced behind and ahead to ferret out any slithering eyes or curious stares.

He noticed a woman staring intently at him, her back pressed against the wall. An Asian woman. Uncharacteristically tall for her ethnicity. Bare-armed and long-legged and bronze-haired. An inquisitive smile arose on her lips. She tapped a finger on those smiling lips, the tip of her tongue licking the sculpted fingernail as if tasting something delicious, something like a man’s cock. Disappointed with his response, she frowned. She put a foot forward, briefly hesitated to give him a second chance, and flounced away. The last he saw of her was a glimpse of the silk scarf tied around her slim throat, fluttering in the air currents.

He sped downstairs, arriving just as a train burrowed into the station. He watched who boarded, who had appointments and destinations, who lingered behind, and who was looking for trouble. He took the train to the end of the line, eyeing passengers as they entered and exited, and crossing from car to car to draw out anyone suspicious. No one seemed to be following him, not even stereotypical men wearing trench coats.

When he reached Shady Grove, he left the station and ordered coffee at a café, continuing to keep a lookout for anyone out of the ordinary. A half-hour later, he returned to the city, exiting at Chinatown. A stranger getting off at the same time pushed his belly into Jack’s spine, shoving him rudely forward.

Jack instinctively threw out an arm and lurched to the side. What’s your problem, man?

The burly guy backed off, pushing out placating hands. He wore a porkpie hat over a narrow brow, a black t-shirt with the sleeves cut out, baggy pants, a loop earring in his left ear, and prison tats on his neck and arms. Take it easy man. Didn’t mean nothing by it. He continued backing away, skittish and suspicious, then hustled toward the exit, shaking his head as he went. It was the comic relief. Jack had to laugh when an ex-con was afraid of a harmless guy like him. Then again, they were both ex-cons. He laughed again, hilariously this time, mostly at himself and partly at the madness of his situation. Wary passengers made wide circles around him. He didn’t blame them.

He re-shouldered the backpack and shuffled along, casting his eyes downward, avoiding eye contact while shifting his vision left and right, constantly on guard.

A tall woman in a business suit passed him on the left, eyeing him appreciatively before beaming. Some people, huh? she said, referring to the tatted guy. After checking her cell phone, she strode purposefully forward. She was in a hurry.

Everyone was in a hurry to get to their destinations. Except for Jack. He had no destination. Only survival was on his mind, that and clearing his name. Running wasn’t on the agenda. Finding the people who set him up for the fall was. And they were located here, in this city.

The train pulled out of the station. Another train appeared at the end of the opposite tunnel, horn tooting its approach. Jack glanced back. A tall dude with blond hair was shadowing him, a student by the looks of him, wearing a windbreaker, a turned-around baseball cap, aviator glasses, and a backpack strapped across hunched shoulders, head bent down. He moseyed along, applying a halting gait. When he came within a few strides of Jack, he slowed to a smooth, unhurried step. He was tall and wiry, athletic in build but unintimidating. He strolled at a lackadaisical pace, trailing Jack at a measured distance, whistling a tuneless tune. Jack walked faster. The guy matched his speed, staying a constant two yards to the rear. A train lumbered into the station, cars barreling past, airstreams carrying that distinctive electrical smell of steel wheels meeting steel tracks accompanied by sparks of friction and shrieking metal. The dude drew alongside Jack and showed him a full set of teeth even if his mouth wasn’t smiling. The doors of the train yawned opened. Passengers spilled out. The dude moved harmlessly ahead, swallowed by a sea of bobbing heads and scurrying bodies.

Jack slowed his pace and steadied his breath. He was imagining things. Being paranoid. Seeing danger around every corner and imagining madmen everywhere. Off-boarding passengers streamed toward the escalators. The train crawled out of the station. The platform cleared. Jack debated his next move. He could exit the station and lose himself on the streets above. Take a different train. Or just hang around and see what developed.

Something developed.

The dude had pulled up dead center in the middle of the platform, his back turned to Jack, his pose outwardly thoughtful. After a count of four, he pirouetted like a ballerina, the effort deliberate and carefully staged, as if he had been waiting for the best moment to make his move. This moment.

Jack did not review the pages of his past or the mistakes he had made along the way. He was too busy evaluating this moment. And this mistake. How stupid, he thought, not to have recognized this strange man before, a man who now seemed as familiar to him as a reflection in a mirror.

He faced Jack, his eyes bright as high beams on a dark road, arms slack at his sides but the fingers of both hands twitching, flagging him forward, beckoning him, his body weaving from side to side. He was springy on his feet, grinning like a monkey, and daring him to a street fight with bare knuckles.

A man’s life is less random than we think. The path is laid out with stepping stones. First one. Then the next. Until we arrive at the appointed hour. Jack had met his destiny. What’s your problem, man? Jack called out. Just minutes before, he had used the same words with the tatted guy, and with the same inflection, but this man wasn’t apologetic. And he wasn’t backing off.

He lifted his chin, a sassy gesture, and slightly effeminate. I don’t like you.

Slowly treading forward, Jack spread out his arms and opened his hands, showing he wasn’t a threat. Do I know you?

The stranger’s mouth curled into an evil grin. No, but I know you. There was something wrong about the way he pronounced his words, as if he had rehearsed them in his head. No ... but ... I ... know ... you.

A chill breeze blew down the tunnel. Jack shivered. The dude kept grinning.

A woman brushed past Jack from the rear. She was thirtyish, casually dressed in a mid-length swing skirt and a flowery boatneck top, the clothing summery and cool. She carried a sweetness about her, an innocence, as if all were well with the world. She employed a long, purposeful stride, a briefcase slung over her shoulder and a cell phone clutched in her hand, her free arm swinging with ease. She was about to pass the dude on the left, an unthinking movement. He sidestepped and positioned himself directly in front of her, effortlessly blocking her way. Surprised to find herself standing toe-to-toe with him, she smiled and said, Excuse me. Ignoring the stranger’s smiley face and the ticking of a distant clock, she automatically swung to the right. He mirrored her movement, blocking her pathway yet again. She glanced up, her head tilting to the side, considering his actions, wondering what he wanted. Excuse me, she said again.

With a clownish grin, he said, "No. Excuse me."

She swung left again, but he blocked her a third time, his long arms outstretched and corralling her. She pulled up short, finally fearful.

Jack cautiously moved forward. He calculated twenty yards separated him from the dude. He had encountered jerks like this before. Mental cases looking for trouble, intent on doing harm just for the fun it. The kind of men who torture kittens for a lark and molest little children for the thrill. He had a sixth sense about guys like this. He could spot them out of a crowd while everyone else went about their merry ways, unaware danger was near. This time it was different. This time, the danger wasn’t only near but imminent.

The woman’s phone dropped onto the platform, making a crunching sound on impact. She was paralyzed, afraid to move.

Oops, the dude said. He grinned gamely, lifting his arms in a shrugging gesture, palms faced upward in apology, assuring the woman he was truly harmless while keeping his eyes focused on Jack.

Cautiously she bent down and reached for the phone.

The dude bowed like a palace courtier, sweeping his arm around and clearing the path for her. The grin hadn’t left his face.

Jack warily closed the gap.

The dude looked up and winked at him, his eyes smiling before shifting hungrily toward the woman.

She took him up on his chivalrous offer and stepped forward, the cell phone once again clutched in her hand.

Quick as a crocodile, he grabbed her arm and used the leverage to spin her around. The phone fell again, this time skimming across the platform. He threw an arm across her throat and yanked her against his chest, at the same time backing away from Jack and dragging the woman with him, grinning as he went. She squirmed and lifted her elbows in a defensive maneuver. He shifted slightly and reinforced his hold, his elbow cinching tightly beneath her jawline. She yelped. Her briefcase slipped to the platform and toppled onto its side. He kicked it away. She reached for it, making a noise of protest as if the contents of that briefcase were more important than anything else in this world, more important than her life. She quickly forgot about the briefcase when the dude locked her into a stranglehold. Her yelps of fright were instantly cut off like an aria stuck in midtrack.

With only yards to close the gap, Jack darted forward.

The calculating grin never having left his face, the dude cautioned him with a clucking noise.

Jack froze.

Passengers descending the escalator and straggling into the station slowly became aware of the drama unfolding on the platform. A few formed a scattered semicircle, each wondering what was going on but staying well back. A woman pulled out her cell phone and thumbed 9-1-1. A man extended his arm and took a video. Others ran for help. The rest went about their daily routines as if things like this happened every day, inexplicable incidents having perfectly reasonable explanations, nothing to do with them. And anyway, they had schedules to keep, places to go, people to see, never mind a woman being strangled in front of their eyes.

The victim strained. Mewled. Tried to break away. Attempted to speak, to say something, one word would do.

The dude grinned at Jack. Your turn.

I don’t know what your beef is with me ... Edging forward, he patted the air with placating gestures. ... but don’t take it out on her, man.

The dude tilted his head as if he didn’t quite understand. Then he cautioned Jack with an, Uh-uh-uh, and reinforced his warning by squeezing the woman’s throat, her face already drained of blood, her limbs slack. He started to snigger. The snigger turned into a cackle. Beneath the unruly thatch of hair and dark glasses, a handsome face lurked. Granite chin, unbroken nose, wide brow. Yes, a handsome face, but also a face filled with intelligence ... together with insanity.

You know me, don’t you? Jack said. From where?

He upended his chin with an insolent gesture bordering on mischief. Guess.

Jack shook his head with deliberateness, still trying to place him. I can’t.

He leered. One day, you will remember. His speech was stilted. Mannered. Accented.

The woman was losing consciousness. The brown eyes beneath the fringe of bangs didn’t blink. Hanging like a marionette from her handler’s strings, her mouth moved but not a single sound escaped her throat.

Jack lowered his arms, a sign of surrender. Just let her go, okay?

You want her? Come and get her. He shifted his hold, permitting her to make a gurgling cough followed by a dispirited moan.

We can have it out, Jack said. Just you and me. How about it?

It was an enticing offer. The dude thought it over. His grasp of the woman relaxed. When she started to struggle, he tut-tutted, admonishing her with a stern shake of his head.

There was nothing Jack could do but talk him down, draw him out, strike a bargain in hell. Look, maybe we can talk.

The woman’s eyes locked onto Jack’s as a last reprieve. There was grief behind those eyes. Despair. Sadness. And finally, acceptance. She whimpered pitifully, realizing there was no rescue. The whimper rose in pitch, a shrill wail of hopelessness ringing against the girders. The thunder of steel heralding the arrival of a train muted her final gasping noises. She was buckling at the knees, fainting from terror and lack of oxygen.

The dude stepped up the pressure, lifting her chin into a more excruciating angle that compelled her to stare straight up at the rafters. Her eyes fluttered. Spittle dribbled from the corners of her mouth. She was losing consciousness. The dude grinned again and applied a final savage twist. Then, as if she weighed no more than a child’s doll, he hurled her body laterally, flinging it straight toward the train tracks.

She flew like a seagull, arms catching the air, body rising on a graceful arc, head angled up. The crowd let out a collective gasp. Men shouted. Women screamed. Children wailed. Angels wept. The train crashed into the woman head-on. Her body went Splat! against the tonnage and catapulted away. Once more she flew like that seagull, this time maimed and wingless and suspended in midair. The engine struck her a second time. Her lifeless body tumbled onto the train tracks and disappeared beneath the dark belly of the beast.

"I am the resurrection and the life! The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die, sayeth the Lord!" The fiend—for he was a fiend and not a man—was well pleased.

Wheels squealed. The train braked to a stop but much too late. The station hushed on held breaths. Silence crept along the platform. Terror gave way to horror as witness after witness cried out. Two courageous onlookers rushed to the victim’s rescue—jumping onto the tracks and scrambling on their bellies to reach her—only to recoil by what they witnessed and getting sick.

The dude grinned.

Believing for one crazy instant he was some sort of superman, Jack charged him. He wasn’t thinking. He only wanted to get his hands on him, somehow take him down, beat the crap out of him, and squeeze the life out of him.

The killer pounced like a panther.

With a twist and a flip, Jack was tossed onto the flat of his back. He found himself gasping for air, eyes blinking up at the swirling coffered ceiling. After a count of five seconds, ten, fifteen, he inhaled a single straining breath. Then a second. And a third. He regained his bearings. Hoisted himself into a sitting position. And shook off faintness.

The dude was already strolling off, hands plunged into the pockets of his cargo pants as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He stepped on the escalator and rode it to the top, only once glancing back at Jack, a waggish expression on his face.

Jack pushed unsteadily to his feet, lightheaded, breaths arriving in heaving gulps. A kindhearted fool of a woman came to his assistance, asking if he was okay. He brushed her aside and gave chase, struggling to stay upright, undoubtedly looking like a drunkard on his last legs. He bolted up the stairs. Rummaged in his backpack. Put his hand on the semiautomatic. Gripped the handle. Lowered the weapon at his side. Crooked his finger around the trigger. By the time he reached the upper level, the killer was gone. Passengers were bustling back and forth, oblivious of the tragedy that happened down below. The throw of the dice had spared them. Not so for an unlucky woman minding her own business on a sweltering summer day in July.

He turned and fled, and burst onto the congested city street, sunlight blinding him. A quick reconnaissance revealed no sign of the killer. He had vanished like a specter. Jack hailed a taxi and breathlessly ordered the driver to take him to the Rosslyn station on the Orange Line.

The Red Line’s right behind you, buddy. You can transfer.

There’s been an accident. There won’t be any trains for a while.

The hack gave his fare an anxious look, nodded once, tripped the meter, and headed out.

After the cabbie dropped him off, Jack hiked over to the Blue Line and took it to the end of the line in Fairfax County, where he hailed another taxi and asked the driver to take him to the most popular trucker’s diner in town. He wasn’t hungry. In fact, he didn’t think he could stomach a thing. But where there was a good diner, there was bound to be a motel where anonymity would become his best friend.

When the cabdriver dropped him off, Jack waved pleasantly before crossing the highway and checking into the roadside motel.

2 

Vienna, Virginia

Friday, July 25

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THE FIFTEEN-MILE commute took Cordelia Burke from Georgetown to Spook City, otherwise known as Vienna, Virginia, and to a gleaming high-rise office building conveniently situated down the road from the CIA.

Rows of soft-sided cubicles were filled with formidable talents gathered from the IRS, FBI, DEA, INS, ICE, and AFT. Specialists from the Secret Service and U.S. Customs rounded out the government side. Hotshot cyber-nerds recruited from the