Leverage. Janie Crouch

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СКАЧАТЬ that on her own.

      Sure that she had stumbled on to something potentially criminal at best, downright sinister at worst, Shelby had emailed her computer engineering friend from their college days at MIT, Dr. Megan Fuller.

      Except Megan was Dr. Megan Fuller-Branson now, and expecting a little baby Dr. Fuller-Branson in a couple of months.

      Shelby had explained the coding she’d found and what she suspected. Most others would’ve scoffed or accused Shelby of overdramatizing, but Megan and Shelby had developed a healthy respect for each other years ago at MIT. They may not be the type to chat with each other over coffee, but they took each other seriously.

      And it ended up that Megan was now working with her new husband at some sort of clandestine law enforcement agency that specialized in saving-the-world type of stuff. Quite convenient for the matter at hand. Especially since the codes had been planted by some terrorist group known as DS-13, who was evidently really bad news.

      Spotting the codes and realizing their nefarious purpose had been the easy part for Shelby. The hard part had come when Megan had asked Shelby to travel to Washington, DC.

      Shelby understood why Megan needed her to come in. The string of coding Shelby saw in the game had only come up for a moment before deleting itself. Very few people would’ve been looking at the game in its raw-data form, and nobody would’ve been able to catch the countdown codes and the coordinates embedded in it in the split second it was available.

      Unless you were Shelby, who was able to memorize thousands of numbers at once just by looking at them. A complete photographic memory when it came to numbers. And coding, whether it be as innocent as games, or as deadly as a potential terrorist attack, was essentially numbers.

      Shelby now had the numbers she saw permanently stuck in her head. She couldn’t get rid of them even if she wanted to. Megan had the decoding software that would help make sense of it all. They needed to put together Shelby’s brain and Megan’s computer. And fast. Because whatever the countdown was for was happening about sixty hours from now.

      Megan knew about Shelby’s dislike of being around people. Driving to DC from Knoxville was too far, so Megan had mentioned her brother-in-law’s charter airplane service. The way Shelby saw it, one person in a small airplane was much better than airports and large planes full of people. And it was Megan’s husband’s older brother. That shouldn’t be too bad.

      So here she was, pulling up to a restaurant based on a text message she’d received from somebody named Chantelle DiMuzio, personal assistant of Dennis Burgamy. The assistant had requested that Shelby call Burgamy, but Shelby couldn’t remember the last time she’d used her phone to talk into. Her outgoing voice-mail message pretty much summed up her opinion about phone conversations:

       Sorry, I can’t take your call. Please hang up and text me.

      Shelby could text much faster than she could talk. She could type twice as fast as that. She was off the charts on a numpad.

      Finally, the Chantelle lady had left a message that Mr. Burgamy had arranged for Dylan Branson, Megan’s brother-in-law, to meet her at the town’s only restaurant. Branson would fly her into DC tonight.

      Shelby put the car in Park. Okay. She could do this.

      She was already a little shaky from an incident about fifteen miles back when some moron had literally driven her off the road. That was the problem with driving in the mountains: if someone wasn’t paying attention—or worse, doing something stupid like texting and driving—and nearly hit you, then it was pretty much game over. These mountain roads with their sheer drops were pretty scary.

      It was only because of Shelby’s hypervigilance behind the wheel that she’d managed to stay on the road and not drive off the side of the mountain altogether. Shelby wasn’t 100 percent sure of her driving skills—she really didn’t drive terribly often, and never on roads like these—so she’d wanted to make sure she was paying extra-careful attention.

      And thank goodness, because that idiot hadn’t even seen her. Didn’t slow down, stop, give an “oops, I’m sorry” wave or anything. Shelby could’ve been flipped upside down at the bottom of the ravine right now and she doubted the other driver would’ve even noticed. He, or she, just sped on.

      So, all in all, not a great start to this adventure. And adventure was very much Megan’s word, not Shelby’s. Shelby’s idea of adventure was more along the lines of trying the new Thai place across town, or branching off in a new direction for a video game she was developing. This whole scenario was way beyond adventure in Shelby’s opinion.

      Shelby opened her car door and heard thunder cracking in the darkening sky. Great. More adventure to add to the adventure. Could small planes even take off in a thunderstorm?

      Shelby walked to the door of the diner and entered. How would she know who Dylan Branson was? Inside she looked around. There were a couple of middle-aged guys and a woman at the counter, an older lady at the cash register and a teenage waitress carrying food to a couple at a table near the door. Some dark-haired Calvin Klein–looking model sat back in the corner booth—yeah, Shelby wished she could be that lucky—and a shorter, stockier man in khakis and a pretty bad polo shirt sat at a table near him.

      Nobody was wearing a Trust Me, I’m the Pilot T-shirt or held a sign with her name. So evidently Shelby wasn’t going to be able to slip in without having to talk to anyone except Megan’s brother-in-law.

      Shelby approached the lady at the cash register. “Hi, excuse me—”

      “Oh, my goodness. Honey, you’re not from around here. I would remember that hair anywhere.” The woman’s voice wasn’t unkind, but it was loud, drawing the attention of pretty much everyone at the diner.

      Shelby sighed. Remarks about her hair weren’t uncommon. It was red. Not a sweet, gentle auburn, but full-on red: garnet, poppies, wisps-of-fire red—Shelby had heard all the analogies. If she’d been born a few centuries earlier, she would’ve been burned at the stake as a witch just for her coloring.

      Shelby tended to forget how much it grabbed people’s attention when they first met her. “Um, yeah. It’s really red, I know. I was wondering—”

      “You couldn’t get that color out of a bottle, I imagine. Especially not with your skin coloring. Your hair must be natural.”

      See? This was case and point why Shelby tended not to want to talk to people. Because really, did she have to go into her natural coloring with someone she’d known for less than ten seconds? Shelby didn’t want to be rude, but neither did she want to talk about which side of the family her coloring was from.

      And Shelby was sure that question, or something very similar, would be the next inquiry from the cash register lady.

      “Yeah.” Shelby remained noncommittal about the hair. “I’m looking for somebody. A pilot. His name is Dylan Branson. He was supposed to meet me here.”

      “Oh, yeah, honey, he’s right over there.” The lady gestured toward the corner, and Shelby looked over. Great, it was the balding guy in the bad polo shirt. Shelby thanked her and headed that way before the woman could ask any more questions about her hair.

      Dylan Branson was eating what looked like meat loaf at his table and had just put a huge forkful into his mouth when Shelby walked up to him.

      “Hi, СКАЧАТЬ