himself.
Only after he’d completed the worm, the product of three days’ straight work, his weary body fueled by caffeine and alcohol, had he realized just what he’d created. And it was horrible.
His handlers at the CIA had dubbed his latest work Project: Cold Earth. It was a benign name for a malignant computer worm capable of shutting down the cooling systems for nuclear reactors. It was, for all intents and purposes, a digital gateway into hell. It was his, and he couldn’t wait to be free of it.
Unfortunately he wasn’t sure when that moment might come. Once he created one of these little beauties, he then had the unenviable task of reverse engineering them, tearing them apart and creating defenses for them. He had created the disease and it was up to him to find the cure. And until then, he’d stay locked away in this mountain chalet with Agent Tight Ass and his posse of paramilitary robots, having them try to control his every move and him having to score little victories, like figuring out how to bypass the alarm and open a window.
It was just like reform school, where he’d first shown an aptitude for computers, not only as a programmer and repairman, but also as a practitioner of the dark arts, particularly hacking and authoring malignant code. Except now the government gave him a security clearance, a paycheck and at least feigned respect for him.
Scanning his surroundings again, taking in the stone fireplace, the mahogany furniture and fully stocked bar, he grinned tightly. At least now when they jailed him, they did it in style.
He set to work at the computer once again, his thoughts and fingers greased by the whiskey, and began to analyze the code for Cold Earth. In theory, anyway, it should have been easy for him to backtrack and write security patches capable of stopping the malignant program from harming anything. In theory. The reality was that without Maria, who’d helped him write the program, he was having to learn its every nuance before he could create a good defense.
An image of her—strawberry-blond hair, golden eyes, cheeks colored by a perpetual blush—flitted across his mind. Grief squeezed his heart followed by a dull ache in his throat. He doused both with another swallow of whiskey, replacing the sensations first with rage, followed by the gray numbness he’d blanketed himself with for the past few days, ever since his world had been turned upside down back in Langley, Virginia.
Forget about it, he told himself. So, after a third drink, he did. Enjoying the light-headedness, he immersed himself into his work, his fingers gliding over the keyboard as he worked on the code. The technicians back at Langley had yanked the modem card from the computer, which also lacked wireless capability. They wanted to keep him incommunicado, in part to protect his location but also to make sure he didn’t ship Cold Earth—either accidentally or on purpose—out into the world over the Internet.
Rage seared his insides as he considered the notion. His creation had already cost him the only thing in life that he’d ever valued. Selling it for a few bucks or to save his own miserable skin was unfathomable to him. Given a choice, he’d just as soon walk away from all of it. Forget about the Company, about Cold Earth, about Maria. Say to hell with it and drink himself into an early grave.
In spite of the whiskey, a chill passed through him, causing him to shudder. He stood and moved to the fireplace. With the flip of a switch, gas burners ignited to life and the warmth began to cut through the chill. He returned to his desk and resumed his work, another twenty minutes racing by before something from below caught his attention.
Quiet. Or, more precisely, less noise. Just a few moments ago the chatter of sportscasters, the occasional cheer of excited fans, wafted through the floor, accompanied by talking or laughter from the off-duty guards. Two more guards had stood at the bottom of the stairwell, discussing how they’d rather be hunting or trout fishing than be stuck inside, as one of them put it, “playing Babysit the Geek.” He’d smiled at that one. The feeling’s mutual, buddy.
All that had changed. The television continued to pump out what amounted to little more than white noise. But all human noises had ceased. The realization caused a chill to race down his spine even as he rocketed out of his chair and headed for the door.
Grasping the knob, he twisted it, pulled open the door. Glancing through the space between the door and the jamb, he saw one of the guards, a blond woman in a black, pin-striped pantsuit, climbing the stairs. She clutched a submachine gun, a sound suppressor threaded into the muzzle in her right hand. He opened his mouth to speak.
Placing a finger to her lips, she motioned for him to be quiet. When he noticed the shiny smears on her blouse and jacket, her pretty features flecked with crimson, the words died in his throat. His heart began to slam in his chest as he recognized the small splotches for what they were—blood. Putting a hand to his chest, she shoved him back through the doorway. The alcohol coursing through his system had left him unsteady and her strong shove sent him hurtling backward. Shooting him a disgusted look, she closed the door behind her and locked it.
Even as he tried to right himself, she glided past him and took up a position next to the window.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked.
“Someone bypassed the alarms, cut through the exterior fence,” she said without looking at him. “We’re getting hit from all sides.”
When he spoke, it came out louder than he’d expected. “Hit? By whom? Tell me what’s going on.”
She glared at him over her shoulder. “Shut up.”
“The hell I will.”
She whipped around and centered the SMG’s muzzle on his torso.
“Look, I’m taking you and that computer out of here. Now shut the hell up. Or else.”
He ground his teeth as he stared at the woman’s back and tried to determine his next move. A fireball of anger engulfed his insides as he realized he had been set up again. He was once again a pawn, a prize to be grabbed and handed over to the highest bidder. It was that sort of mind-set, that single-minded greed that had cost his wife her life. And now it was happening all over again.
With speed that belied his bulk, Fox grabbed the laptop and crossed the distance between himself and the woman. When he got to within a few feet of her, she sensed his approach, turned to him. He grabbed her shooting hand, squeezed so hard he swore he could feel bones grinding together. Breath exploded from between the woman’s clenched teeth. Her other hand darted out in a knife-hand strike that caught Fox in his soft middle. He gasped, and she pulled her hand back for another blow.
Raising the laptop, he swung it around in a punishing arc. A corner of the machine caught her in the chin, knocking her head violently to one side. Her fingers went limp and her weapon fell to the floor. She turned to him, wild-eyed, blood streaming from her mouth. She tried to kick him, but was too off balance to put any steam behind it. Fox reached down and struck her in the head with his own forehead. The woman groaned and fell unconscious.
Moving quickly, he packed his laptop into its carrying case, grabbed the woman’s weapon and moved to the window. Forcing his big frame through the opening, he shoved himself away from the window. He hit the ground, bent at the knees and rolled onto his back.
He rose and trotted around the side of the house, heading for the driveway. He saw a pair of black SUVs parked there, a man standing between them, watching the road. Overloaded with terror and adrenaline, Fox found himself struggling for breath. He held the gun in close to his leg, keeping it out of sight. The guy, hearing him approach, spun to meet him.
“I’m going with you
