Page 32 of Lock ’N’ Load

Fuck, but he hated being called Mattie.

“Ma’am?” Jaime to the rescue. “I would be honored to buy you a very large, very expensive cocktail. Something with a lot of rum and an umbrella perhaps?” Without waiting for a response, Jaime miraculously tugged Charlene off Matt and put his arm around her shoulders, guiding her to the bar with smooth finesse.

After shooting Jaime a grateful look, Matt answered the call. “Hold on.” Unable to hear with the loud music and chatter, he deftly deposited his mug of soda on a passing waitress’s tray and pushed open the front door. “What’s up, Jake?” The pounding from inside still beat in his ears, so he walked into the parking lot toward his truck.

“That bloody piece of clothing you gave me? We got a hit in CODIS.”

“And?” Matt snapped his head up. What Jake said next had him bolting to his truck, shouting, “Meet me at Trista’s house.”

With his heart pounding, he yanked open the door to his F-150, jumped in, and cranked over the engine. Every cop instinct he had told him this was bad. Really bad.

Luckily, no one had parked in front of him, so he slammed his foot on the accelerator. Tires squealing, he tore out of the lot onto the road and punched it.

He cued up Trista’s cell number, but it went directly to voicemail. After leaving a message, he tried her number again with the same result.

He’d always suspected something about Trista’s attack hadn’t been random. Now his gut told him it was true.

Chapter Nine

“Oh, sh—pooh.”

Trista rubbed her eyes, then stared at the computer screen. Since being relegated to the “rubber computer squad,” she’d been on the verge of inventing new curse words. “Shpooh,” a combination of “shit” and “pooh,” was her latest effort. Sadly, her mother still wouldn’t approve.

In the days since she’d been put on administrative leave, she’d managed to find Karakurt only once, in a sneaky chat room that was tough even for her to find. But as soon as she’d gotten in, he’d ended the chat. In between her Dark Curtain forays onto the black net, she’d taken a breather here and there to research the place referenced in Karakurt’s chat from Monday: Iqaluit.

Picking up one of the hundreds of sheets she’d printed, she began reading again. Though she’d never heard of Iqaluit, she’d quickly discovered it had been in the news quite a lot lately, with numerous domestic and international news sources referencing it.

Iqaluit was the capital city of Nunavut, a snow-capped Canadian territory situated opposite Greenland, and one of the northernmost populated areas in North America. From its strategic position on Baffin Island in Frobisher Bay, Iqaluit was poised to bear witness to major changes affecting the Northwest Passage, a shipping route connecting the Arctic regions and the Atlantic that was normally blocked by ice. She was surprised to learn that in the next two decades, the Northwest Passage was expected to open up year-round due to global warming.

Trista flipped to another article, noting that Iqaluit also had something few other locations in those parts had: an airport. One of the unidentified participants in Karakurt’s chat had said he was leaving for Iqaluit in an hour. Why?

Poofy burrowed his head against her leg, demanding his usual position of honor on her lap, which was currently filled with internet printouts. Reading on, she learned that for such a small town by global standards, and inhabited by less than eight thousand people, plus caribou and Arctic foxes, Iqaluit had grabbed more than its share of headlines over the past few years.

Canadian officials had met there on numerous occasions to discuss building a military base somewhere in the Northwest Passage in order to closely monitor Russian incursion into the Arctic.

Leaning back in her chair, she noted that Poofy had abandoned all hope of sitting on her lap and was now sitting three inches from the front door, staring at it intently like a dog waiting to be walked. Except that Poofy was an indoor cat. Absently, she thought the behavior odd, then selected another article.

Even though Canada was the second-largest territorial country in the world, its military power had weakened significantly over time as the country chose to invest in other aspects of its economy rather than national defense. Both Canada and Russia controlled thousands of miles of Arctic shoreline, but with all the recent Russian aggression around the world, Canadian officials worried Russia would take advantage of a weak Canadian military and assert its dominance to seize the Arctic’s vast energy resources.

Not being an exploratory scientist, Trista had no idea that as much as 25 percent of the world’s remaining oil, gas, and other natural resources were located on the Lomonosov undersea ridge in the Arctic. But with her knowledge of the current Russian regime’s political agenda, she did know that the Russian economy was based primarily on energy exportation. The Russians were constantly searching for untapped sources of energy, exploiting them with insufficient, and, at times, zero, regard to protecting the environment.

Reading on, she pursed her lips. A major power struggle was brewing in the Arctic. Other countries were also trying to lay claim to the Arctic’s untapped resources, but unlike those countries, Russia wasn’t a NATO member, and as such, did as it pleased without answering to anyone.

According to the last article she read, the Russians didn’t want any interference from Canada, but Russia was by far the biggest threat to—

A muffled thump from the back door made her jerk her head toward the kitchen, tensing. Then she let out a breath with a whoosh. It was probably just another tree limb.

The old oak tree in her backyard had been dropping branches lately. Having it pruned had been on her to-do list for quite some time, but she’d gotten so wrapped up with things at work, staying late many nights, that she still hadn’t gotten around to it.

She went to the door and flipped on the outside light. Her tiny backyard and the equally small back porch were illuminated by a single light, but she didn’t see anything. Not even a branch, although one could have fallen onto the edge of the decking and slipped to the ground where she couldn’t see it.

Padding back to her desk, she resumed her research. After reading a few more articles about these meetings in Iqaluit, it became screamingly obvious that unless the Canadians beefed up their military in the Arctic, a military confrontation with the Russians was looming. As such, the Canadian government had approached both presidential candidates for a major influx of American cash to fund new naval and military bases in the Arctic, and both Governor Hughes and Senator Ashburn had heartily agreed that if elected, they would lend financial assistance. Anything to prevent Russian dominance in such a vitally strategic part of the world.

The cell phone on the desk vibrated with yet another incoming message from her parents. Groaning, she looked at the image on the screen. It was the tenth photo in the last ten minutes, this one of them posing in front of the Sydney Opera House.

Five years ago, her mother and father—both retired computer experts—had sold their home and been traveling the world ever since. Based upon this latest selfie, she’d guess they were on the last leg of their Australian tour, about to head for one of the many isolated Indonesian islands. She appreciated them staying in touch, but if they pinged her with any more photos, she’d scream.

Another photo came through, and she slammed the phone onto the desk. “Enough already!” This was the reason she never slept with her cell phone by her bed at night anymore. Getting woken up by her parents’ three a.m. text messages got old real fast.