Active Shooter (10 page)

“What are we doing here?” I asked.

“Getting you well.”

“Bridget is not with you?” Walter asked.

“Not really.”

“Where did she go?”

“She’s still in the parking structure. Should
be coming out any minute now.”

“Where are you?”

“Keep your eye on the prize, Walter. I’m not
it.”

“What are you up to, Andre?”

“Make sure you tail Bridget and you don’t
lose her. She’s to make contact first, then they’ll contact me.
That’s how we left it.”

“Jesus, Andre. They played you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“They made you, and they set you aside.”

“Look. You’re not out here with your ass
flapping in the breeze, Walter, dear. I am. I have a solid read on
the situation. And I’m telling you, this was the only play. I
didn’t do this, and we were off course anyway.”

“You sure about that?”

“Only way it’s not true is if they listened
to you whining on the secured phone. You sure that was as secured
as you said it was?”

“What?”

“Don’t what me. You know an insider can spoof
those things. I could do it in my sleep back in the day. You sure
this source didn’t tap you?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

“That sounds like doubt, Walter. Tell you
what, I keep doing my thing, and you make sure you got this
buttoned off. Until then, I’m not talking.”

I hung up before he had a chance to
reply.

“That was good,” the message on the GPS
read.

“It might buy Bridget a few hours outside of
a jail cell. If I were her, I’d use them to get a good lawyer.”

“LOL.”

“You’re talking to her, aren’t you?”

“Worry about your part. She’s taken care
of.”

***

When noon came, I went through a fast food
drive-through and ordered a burger, fries, and a drink. A few
minutes later I found myself in City of Industry, heading east.

“Are we driving through here for old time’s
sake?” I asked, referring to the lab where I used to work, no more
than a couple of miles from my current location.

The GPS didn’t flash an answer, and I
wondered whether it had dropped the connection.

“Driving streets and avoiding freeways to
blend in. We will be there soon.”

Though the answer addressed my question, it
did so in a way that didn’t seem to fully grasp my meaning. It
almost seemed mechanical. Perhaps the source -- it, she, I was
getting mixed up -- wanted to avoid what could be a painful topic
for me. She wanted me to stay focused on the task at hand and not
dwell on the way things had ended for me. That’s what I told
myself, but I sensed something else behind the response.

After a few more minutes, I knew there
was.

“Very clever,” I said.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” the GPS screen
said back to me.

“How’s Bridget doing?”

“They haven’t detained her.”

“Have you helped her to shake them off
yet?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“My mistake,” I said.

I knew I should pull over and stop, but I
couldn’t. As soon as I did, the GPS unit would report back that I
had come to a stop. I reached into Bridget’s case and took out the
laptop. An upward flip of the lid, and it came to life. The
password prompt stared back at me.

I wanted to curse, but the GPS unit would
have recorded my voice and beamed it to Bridget’s source, maybe
even to Bridget herself for all I knew.

To come up with possible passwords, I
searched my memory for what I knew about Bridget. It didn't take me
long to admit I didn’t know much. Given the technical savvy she had
demonstrated, I suspected she had set a hard password. That meant
special characters, numbers with upper and lower case letters. It
also meant a long sequence. But what would that be?

By now I had decided this laptop wasn’t
Bridget’s work laptop. It seemed very new, and given all the
command line utilities I’d seen her use the prior night, I
concluded -- if nothing else, for the sake of argument -- that her
source had provided her this laptop for this little escapade.
Whatever password I was looking for wouldn’t relate to her personal
life. It had to relate to me.

On a whim, I tried “Active-Shooter” followed
by the date of the LAX shooting, two digits for month and date,
four digits for the year, separated by dashes. I entered the
keystrokes softly so that the GPS unit wouldn’t collect the sound.
No go. I tried again with “Active_Shooter” along with different
permutations of year, month, day. No go.

“Why are you slowing down?” the GPS screen
read.

“Trying to eat my burger,” I said. “Hard to
do that and drive.”

“Pull over. We have a few minutes.”

“Thank you.”

I searched my memory again. What had she said
to me about my situation that would suggest a pattern for a
password? No matter how much I told myself to look for something
else, my mind kept going back to the shooting. That’s how her
fixation with me had started. What about the interview? Anything
there?

I came to it at the very moment I started to
despair. My photographic memory recalled what she’d said after the
interview.
Hashtag
Esperanza is getting some crushing
traffic. Here's my favorite: 'Esperanza means hope for
America'.

I tried “#Esperanza” followed by a dash, four
digit hear, dash, four digit month, dash, four digit day, but this
time with the date of the interview. The home screen came to
life.

“Hot dog!” I said.

“I thought you ordered a hamburger.”

“Oops, you’re right.”

“Perhaps it’s time to go,” the GPS screen
flashed back at me.

“As soon as I finish my fries.”

By now I had disconnected the USB chord that
connected the car charger to the GPS.

“It’s best for battery life if you leave the
unit plugged in.”

“You’re right,” I replied. “But battery is at
100%, and the chord is getting in my way right at this minute. I’ll
plug you back in soon enough.”

“You’re not plugging me in. You’re plugging
in the GPS unit.”

“Right. My bad.”

The command screen was up by now, and I used
it to list all the executable files in the directory I had seen
Bridget use for her little hacker show the prior night. I shook my
head. I recognized them all. I’d written most of these back at the
lab, or at least I had a hand in the development of earlier
versions. The one I was hoping to find was there, a program to fool
a device connected into a computer via USB to think it was getting
nothing but power.

“Here we go,” I said as I plugged the open
end of the USB into one of the computer ports.

“Thank you,” the GPS screen said. “We should
go now.”

“Yeah. Almost ready.”

I launched a back-tracer utility, and in a
few seconds I confirmed I had gained access into the home node.

“What is happening?” the GPS screen said.

“Where is Bridget?” I asked.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Neither did you,” I shot back. “But in a
second I may not need you to.”

“What are you doing?”

“Patience, dear. In due time.”

I launched a locator utility, and a graphical
interface came up showing a map of my immediate area and that to my
south. A blue dot marked my location. The red one showed faster
movement, heading south along the 710 freeway. I turned on the
engine and sped down the street.

“I recommend you slow down,” the GPS
said.

I slowed down at the median and made a
U-turn.

“You are headed in the wrong direction.”

“I’m going to disagree.”

I eyed the map and I estimated I wouldn’t be
too far behind Bridget by the time I got on the 710 freeway.

“Please don’t do this, Andy,” the GPS screen
flashed.

“Only my friends call me Andy.”

“I am your friend.”

“I’m pretty sure I'd remember if you
were.”

“You do not understand everything, Andy.”

“I readily admit that. In a few minutes I
hope to understand a little more.”

“This is not the plan, Andy.”

“You should have foreseen it, though. Wasn’t
it your idea for me to take the computer?”

“You weren’t supposed to use it yet.”

“Well, that’s too bad.”

The GPS screen flashed a couple of times,
then it went black. It was trying to shut down my link, but it
didn’t work. The laptop’s screen kept showing me the map and the
two dots, all I needed to keep giving chase.

Or so I thought until the laptop fan speed up
with a whining sound, and then sputtered into a terminal
shutdown.

That left me with plan B. I picked up my
secure cellphone and dialed Walter’s number.

“We lost her about fifteen minutes ago,”
Walter told me. “Another car swap.”

“She’s headed south on the 710,” I told
Walter. “Last contact, just north of the 5. Do you have any aerial
support in the area?”

“Stand by,” he replied. A few seconds later
he came back, “OK, we got a bird closing in. Any idea what she’d be
driving.”

I grinned. “Look for someone in a hurry. But
not a tan SUV, since that’d be me.”

A couple of minutes passed and he came back.
“OK, we got her. White SUV. Chevy.”

I grinned some more. “You don’t say.” I
looked down at my brown forearm and in my head I pictured Bridget’s
paler complexion. “Where abouts?”

“South of the 5 freeway, approaching the
Florence exit.”

“OK, I’m about a mile away from that.”

“Where do you think she’s going?” Walter
asked.

“No idea,” I replied, though I did. “You were
right, by the way. They played me for a sap.”

“Don’t beat yourself. We all agree over here
there was nothing else you could have done to preserve the
operation. As it is, it looks like we’re about to salvage it.
Thanks to you, actually.”

“Let’s hold-off on the high fives until we
hit the locker room,” I said.

“How did you know her location?” Walter
asked.

“Listen, Walter. I’m driving like a maniac
here. Can we save the debrief for later?”

“Sure.”

“I’m the closest asset you have on the
ground, aren’t I?”

Silence, then, “Yeah. She gave us the slip
while heading west, so we thought--”

“What about your bird?”

“Pilot only.”

“How far out are you guys?”

“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Traffic is
beginning to bog down.”

I nodded to myself. I told myself to hope for
twenty-five minutes, but plan for ten. Problem was, it would take
me another five to reach Bridget. If I was lucky.

Up ahead I saw an eighteen-wheeler. I sped up
to catch up with it and pulled alongside, by the trailer rear
tires. Out of the driver side window, I fed the laptop, the
scanner, and finally the GPS unit. Each went under the tires,
shattering and crunching into a million shards.

I pulled along the shoulder and floored the
accelerator.

“She’s pulling off at Firestone,” Walter
announced, and a minute later he added, “Heading west.”

I sped past Florence, knowing I had another
mile or so before the Firestone exit. The shoulder became rough, so
I rejoined traffic and wove my way, zigzagging from lane to lane
until I saw the off-ramp sign up ahead.

“Where are you?” Walter asked. “Why don’t you
turn tracking on?”

“Again, a little busy here. You know where
I’m going. Where is she?”

“Heading south along Atlantic, about to make
a right on Tweedy.”

I came to the off-ramp and sped up the steep
grade. At the red light, I slowed down, and jumped into traffic to
the sound of angry horns. I weaved my way down the road, and made
an abrupt left at Rayo. This was my neighborhood, and Rayo was one
of my favorite shortcuts. The street was rough, and the SUV jumped
over pot holes and train tracks. At Atlantic, I caught a green
light and sped down to Tweedy.

Though I had no evidence to confirm it, I
knew where Bridget was going.

“She’s pulling into a parking lot. From the
coordinates, it looks like a library.”

I tossed the secure phone out the window. No,
Walter. Much more than a library. The home of my first hack, back
when I attended the local High School. And now a place for a
setup.

The library looked pretty much like it did
ten years prior, back when I came here to research dark matter for
my senior Physics term paper and when I used the computers to play
on the nascent Internet. Aside from newer, shinier posters
inspiring kids to read and a new reception/welcome counter, not
much had changed.

Anticipating where I'd find Bridget, I
climbed the stairs to the second level. Once there, I turned toward
the computer lab. I approached with Bridget's empty laptop satchel
tucked under my arm. I held it against me tightly, in a hug of
sorts, as if I were carrying something precious, this my best
imitation of a computer geek. I hoped this bit of acting fit well
with my long-haired wig and the baseball cap.

They were easy to spot, one standing by the
door into the computer lab, one behind Bridget. The one by Bridget
held a gun concealed under his jacket, pressed against her back.
She sat at one of the computers, typing nervously. Had I not known
what and who to look for, I would not have recognized her. Bridget
wore a black hair wig, and over it, a lace veil reminiscent of an
Greek Orthodox woman.

I approached the door and saw the sentinel
move to block my entrance.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, affecting a
nasal voice.

“We'll be just a minute.”

“I need to send in my resume. For a job,” I
whined. “I can't miss the deadline.”

“We'll be just a minute,” he repeated.

The guy standing by Bridget glanced in our
direction, then returned his attention to Bridget who had also
turned my way with a pleading expression. Her guard pressed in
harder, and she turned back to the computer.