Race Against Time: A Novel Read online

  I shook my head, trying to bring myself back to the present. It was as if the scene was echoing, if that were even possible. It replayed. And replayed.

  Stay in reality, Zoya!

  Our gazes collided.

  Go away, go away, go away . . .

  Andie couldn’t help me. She couldn’t feel what I was feeling, see what I saw, or hear what I’d heard. She wouldn’t understand. Nobody would.

  Not ever.

  My eyes closed. “Leave me alone.” I could feel my heart beating.

  Pump-pump. Pump-pump. Pump-pump.

  “Zoya, plea—”

  “Just go away, Andie!”

  I was losing my best friend. And it was my fault.

  No. It was God’s.

  My eyes popped open.

  I could see Andie’s jaw tightening. She stormed inside.

  The door slammed.

  Like a hammer on a nail. And like that nail, I was stuck in a stud.

  With no hope of ever getting out.

  The dogs were soon taken care of and the harnesses put away. I moved around snail-like. Not wanting anyone to notice me.

  Thoughts of my dad came rushing in. His picture, the only one I’d ever seen, flashed in my mind. Why couldn’t I have known him? Why did he have to die? Why was God doing this to me? My shoulders slumped as I sat down on a log bench in the shed.

  My Bewe and Andie’s Danler stood side by side. Hadn’t we done that not more than two weeks ago? We stood side by side for pictures, stood side by side in a line waiting for dinner, sat side by side on the couch watching a movie . . .

  Then God had to go and ruin everything.

  I glanced around at all of our equipment. Not a soul in sight. Good. Maybe the quiet would help me sort out my jumbled thoughts and gain some sanity.

  If that was possible.

  I doubted it. Just like I doubted everything. I rubbed my temple. When had I started doubting?

  When God destroyed my life.

  Or was I the one that destroyed it?

  My brow furrowed. No. It was His fault. He could have prevented that murder. And I was the one paying for it.

  “Thanks a lot.” Sarcasm oozed out of the words, but I didn’t care. I wanted to strangle someone. Even if it was me.

  This is all His fault . . .

  “Zoya?” Auntie Jenna opened the creaky door and walked in. “There you are. Mind if I sit with you?”

  I looked down and shook my head. I knew what was coming. The lecture. Like always. Oh, great. Not you too . . . please. Just go away.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Wow. Wasn’t she the observant one.

  “No.” I looked up and stared at the wall. She could talk if she wanted. But I wasn’t going to listen.

  “Yes, there is.”

  “Nope.” I was not going to spill my feelings. Lay them down for everyone to see. They were mine, and they belonged inside. Just like always. No one had ever seen how I felt about my dad’s death, no one had seen how I was angry at God for that. And I wasn’t going to let them start seeing now.

  “Zoya, look at me.”

  I shook my head, then regretted it. Now she’ll know something’s wrong. But I looked at her anyway. Her face showed concern.

  I didn’t need to be worried over. Just left alone so I could collect my thoughts.

  “Auntie Jenna, I’m fine. Just a little tired.” That wasn’t a lie. I was exhausted. Maybe I should take a nap.

  “So you and Andie had a fight because you were tired? That doesn’t sound like you. Andie’s the grumpy one.” She laughed. “And I know where it comes from.”

  So true . . .

  “So why did you guys fight?”

  I frowned again. Pushy. “Just ’cause.” I fiddled with my hands. This conversation was getting tiresome.

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?” She sat down and patted my knee.

  Sympathy. I didn’t need sympathy. I needed quiet.

  “Zoya, ever since the shooting you haven’t been yourself. What’s going on? You can talk to Andie, me, Cole, or your mom. You should know that.”

  I did.

  But I didn’t want to. Why couldn’t they see that? I didn’t want to do anything. Just sit and not feel a thing. Sit and not have to talk to anyone. Sit and be alone. Sit and not relive that scene . . .

  “Andie said you blamed yourself for what happened.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Does that mean you do or don’t?”

  “That means I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I didn’t mean to hurt her, just wanted to get off that subject. But that was all anyone wanted to talk about. I blinked back the tears. It was a wonder I had any tears left to shed. “Sorry. I want to be left alone.” I stood.

  She looked like she wanted to say something, anything, to make me feel better.

  I walked out the door.

  It was too late for comfort.

  I was on a sinking ship.

  And I hoped it went down soon.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  RICK

  January 15

  Anchorage, Alaska

  7:14 p.m.

  Quiet ruled his enormous house. He’d long since sent Margaret, his housekeeper, home. Sometimes he preferred being alone.

  The sky had been dark for hours. That’s what happened in winter in Alaska. Dark late into the morning. Dark early in the afternoon. But he didn’t mind. Gotten used to it after all these years.

  Winter did hold something on him, though. It always made him think. A little too much.

  Walking through the living room, he pondered the situation with Zoya. He’d never been there for her. And in that, he’d failed his brother. But hadn’t he kept watch from afar? That had to count for something.

  He flicked a switch for one of the gas fireplaces. Flames flickered to life and warmth began to fill the area around the hearth.

  His grandfather had been an elder for his tribe. And very superstitious. The man lived to the ripe old age of 102 and had groused at him every minute of those last years. Warned him of the great spirits of his ancestors and what they would do to him if he didn’t protect his family. Rick gave those superstitions no weight, but still . . . what if they were true?

  His grandfather had been livid with him most of his life. For ignoring his heritage. Ignoring his instruction. Ignoring his family.

  As he gripped the photo of Zoya, he contemplated the outcome of his actions. Could it be his fault? She never should have been there. Never should have seen that murder. And now . . .

  Now they were after her.

  His gaze rested on the fire licking at the permanent logs behind the glass. Shapes took form in the flames, and his grandfather’s voice echoed through him . . .

  “You will burn . . .”

  * * *

  COLE

  January 15

  Fort Greely, Alaska

  7:34 p.m.

  The frigid air froze Cole’s lungs as he drew a long breath in through his nose. But he didn’t care. At least he was finally out of the secure facility. Days like this made him long to leave military service behind. Days of no windows. No fresh air. And too many problems.

  Problems that risked national security.

  What had he missed? Marc’s notes spelled out everything to the letter. No detail hidden. So how could he figure out the encryption? Obviously Marc added it as an extra security measure against Viper, but wouldn’t Marc have left Cole a clue? Somewhere? Or maybe Marc would rather his invention be destroyed. So no one could use it.

  The numbing cold forced him to move forward and pull on his gloves. He yanked keys out of his pocket and headed to his truck. The dri
ve home would be long enough. Maybe he’d come up with something after he talked it over with Jenna.

  But there was no mistaking the frustration in AMI ops. They needed answers. And soon.

  A shadow moved by his truck, and he tensed—then recognition eased the rigid set of his jaw. “Grant?”

  “Major Maddox.” They shook hands. “Good to see you.”

  Cole nodded. “So, Agent Philips”—Grant arched a brow at the formal address—“seeing as it’s thirty below, I’m assuming you’re not here on a social call.”

  The FBI agent crossed his arms over his chest. “Correct. Let’s talk in the truck.”

  Cole pressed the automatic starter on his key chain and unlocked the doors. His lungs burned from inhaling the arctic air, so he took short breaths through his mouth.

  Grant locked the doors and checked behind the seats. “We’ve got a problem.”

  “Oh?”

  “Involving AMI.”

  Not good. The FBI had handed control of AMI back over to the military once their investigation finished. “All right. I’m listening.”

  “It’s being stolen.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Actually, no it’s not. And there’s more. We’ve had a guy on the case for weeks . . .” Grant rubbed his head. Lack of sleep showed around his eyes. In that moment he looked ten years Cole’s senior. And they were the same age.

  “The goal was . . . is to bring down an arms dealer ring we’ve had on our radar for years. The opportunity finally presented itself. An opportunity involving AMI.”

  “Why wasn’t I told about this? Don’t you think I needed to know this kind of information?”

  Grant held up a hand. “Sorry, Cole. My hands were tied.”

  Cole banged his fist on the steering wheel. “Great. Just great.” He turned to his friend. His expression went blank. Something was off. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “We need someone on the inside.”

  “What about your guy?”

  “Missing.”

  Cole closed his eyes. It was much worse. His gut told him. “And?”

  Grant hesitated. “You know—better than anyone—the security measures surrounding AMI’s programming. No more than eight megabytes of any given file can be copied at one time in that facility. The program is more than three thousand gigabytes. We thought we had plenty of time to find out the top guy’s identity.”

  “Cut to the chase, Grant!” Cole slammed his hand on the dashboard. Couldn’t believe his ears.

  “Our guy . . . we’re pretty certain he’s dead.” Grant pulled in a deep breath. “But the buyers needed proof that they were getting the real thing . . . we allowed part of AMI’s programming to be stolen. Eight megabytes at a time. On macrochips. But only part of it. Our man assured us that the rest of it was dummy files.”

  “What?”

  “It was the one way to reel them in. But now we’ve lost all contact. We don’t know how much they have, or where they have it.” He leveled a grim look at Cole. “Basically, we don’t know much of anything.”

  * * *

  ZOYA

  January 16

  Naltsiine Kennels

  2:37 a.m.

  My body shuddered. Sickening clashes of lightning flashed across the sky. Bolts jumped from cloud to cloud with unimaginable speed.

  Everything went pitch black.

  Something like icy fingers crept up my back. Then down again.

  The mountains trembled and rumbled. Trees shook, snow fell. The wind whipped across my face, crashing thick slates of ice against my cold skin.

  I took a weak step forward. Then another. My hands stayed out in front of me, feeling for something. Anything. My calves burned, my cheeks stung. The bare skin on my arms tingled, then lost all feeling.

  Someone called out my name.

  No, I couldn’t answer.

  “Zoya!” Andie stood in front of me. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

  Over and over again those words repeated. Like malicious vultures they encircled my mind, grabbing it. They wouldn’t let go. Or was it the anger that wouldn’t let go?

  I wouldn’t let her stop me. I needed to do this . . .

  “Zoya, please. You’re worrying me.”

  Agitated screams tore out from the depths of my soul.

  What had God done to me?

  “Zoya, look out!”

  Tears that froze on my cheeks seemed to disappear as I looked up. The sun shone through as the clouds parted . . .

  A click.

  A scream.

  Andie’s body collided with mine, pushing me to the ground.

  A gunshot . . .

  I screamed and toppled off my bed onto the floor. Rasping wheezes came between sobs as I clutched the side table until my knuckles turned white. I stared at my hands.

  No. No. No!

  I could hear Mom running to my room. The handle rattled.

  “Zoya! Zoya, let me in! What’s going on?”

  I wanted to get up. To unlock the door. But my legs wouldn’t let me. I wanted her to hold me. But it wouldn’t help.

  I gritted my teeth. Eyes closed.

  No. It couldn’t be true.

  The end of the dream replayed . . .

  A gunshot.

  Andie’s body lay motionless on the ground.

  Blood spilled forth from a wound.

  A bullet wound.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SEAN

  January 16

  North Pole, Alaska

  6:21 a.m.

  Ringing. Somewhere.

  Another ring.

  Sean jolted awake and sat up in bed. The hotel phone. He reached for it. “Hello?”

  “Sean.”

  Any cobwebs left in his brain disappeared. He knew that voice. All too well.

  “What? Nothing to say to your old man?”

  Plenty. He simply chose not to say it. “How did you find me?”

  The condescending laugh was all too familiar . . . “You should know by now that you can’t escape my reach.” The tone turned to steel. “Ever.”

  “What do you want?”

  Curses poured through the phone wires. “You know what I want. Your place is here. Get back here. Now.”

  Sean leaned back against the headboard. “No.”

  “What exactly do you expect to accomplish with this? Your money will run out soon enough, and you’ll have to come crawling back.”

  Typical. All his father cared about was money. And control.

  “Ah, the silent treatment. Aren’t you a little old for that, son?”

  Sean kept his tone level, calm. “I’ve left. It’s permanent. Please, just let it go.”

  “Let it go?”

  He could picture his father, roaring into the phone, an enraged lion putting an upstart in its place.

  “You are my son, you insolent, ungrateful—”

  “Father—”

  “Don’t ‘Father’ me, Sean! I’ve invested my life in you—”

  “I’m hanging up now.” The soft click of the receiver in the cradle might as well have been the slamming of a door.

  He was done. With his father. With that life.

  Sean slid from the bed and walked to the window gazing into the black night. “God, show me Your will.”

  Honor your father and mother, Scripture said. He’d done his best. All his life. But what his father had become . . . what he’d wanted Sean to become . . .

  That he couldn’t honor.

  A ribbon of green caught his attention. He stared through the right-hand corner of his window as the ribbon was soon joined by a yellow gold streak, and then, in the seco
nds that passed, the two intertwined and shot across the sky. The Northern Lights. They took his breath away.

  As he watched the lights move and sway in their ribbons of magic, the stark reality hit him square in the face. It would never be over. He’d defied his father, and now he’d have to fight the battle for the rest of his life. It didn’t matter. It was the right thing. Even if it was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

  If only his mother and baby brother had lived. But would it have made any difference?

  His life would never be the same, but the correct path couldn’t be clearer. Every fiber of his being knew it.

  God never said this life on earth would be easy, but that He’d walk the path beside His children. Sean had his heavenly Father. And God’s words in Scripture. And other believers . . .

  Sean smacked his palm on his thigh. That’s what he needed. Church. Fellowship. He’d need them more than ever if he wanted to resist the pull of power and money. And his father.

  Heading to the shower, he whistled an old hymn. The hot water invigorated him as he wondered how long it would take him to find a church he liked. He’d better get moving. Needed time to shave and dress, make coffee, research churches and their locations on the Internet, and then—

  All thought left him and time stood still as he glanced at the steamed mirror. Someone had left him a message on the glass:

  Go home, Sean. No one wants you here.

  * * *

  DETECTIVE SHELDON

  January 16

  North Pole, Alaska

  10:15 a.m.

  “Sir? What do you make of this?”

  Dave looked up from the forensics report. “What exactly is it?”

  One of the new officers handed him a torn-up blue plastic bag. “Macrochips. One of the dogs dug it up about 100 yards from the murder site.”

  “Macrochips?”

  “Yeah, really small ones. Each one has a casing. Pretty high tech.”

  “I’m assuming you’ve already checked for prints?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And?”

  “The prints match the victim.” The officer smirked. “Captain knew you’d want to see it.”