They’d been working all day, trudging along the trail set by Carly’s militia contact, falling deeper into the rabbit hole of proxy servers masked by yet more proxy servers. The phone call had gone through a dozen different cell towers and ISPs across the country, bouncing from San Antonio to Rochester, to Stockton, to Minneapolis. . . .

And that was just the beginning.

The trail ran cold after that. But it was still early, and Tansy had given the team plenty of incentive to find the original location—a night off in Vegas. Although anywhere but The Silo would have probably been just as appealing.

But while his team was itching to leave the dungeon-like compound, Tansy was content with hunkering down with his work. He’d done enough traveling. He’d seen enough of the desert in his lifetime, and the novelty of it, just like that of Vegas, had faded. But this time it had disappeared under layers of worry. Even the memories of combat days, the desert’s comfort and nostalgia—if it could ever be called that—had worn off dramatically and been replaced with the all-too-familiar feeling of stale drudgery. That was what the desert really meant—misery.

Death.

“Tansy, you don’t sound too happy,” Jackson’s voice sounded down the phone line. “Don’t tell me you’ve got cabin fever already.”

“I got out,” Tansy said, stretching out over the sofa in the lounge room. “There’s been some outside developments.”

“One of them being, you’ve identified the freelancer?”

“She’s here.”

“Carly?”

“We got in late last night,” Tansy chose to skip over the details of her abduction and beating, and the police evasion. Better not to ruffle Jackson’s feathers too much. Best skip over the blackmail part, too. Since Tansy himself was unsure how he’d get out of this latest predicament, the less said, the better.

“Is she cooperating?” Jackson asked.

“Of course she is.” Tansy laughed at his own inside joke. “You think I threw her in the trunk and drove her out here?”

“You know what I meant. Can you two work together?”

“We’re on it,” Tansy wondered what Carly was up to at that moment. He’d walked her down to her room. She said she had some calls to make, some thinking to do. It was probably for the best that they had some time apart.

Some space.

The revelation that he’d helped her with Bryce Johnson with an illegal cover-up wasn’t exactly a shock to Tansy. Sure, he hadn’t known the exact details, but he’d known Carly—at least, he’d thought he had—and he wasn’t a complete idiot. She’d needed help, and he would be there for her. It was that simple. He hadn’t worried about it much back then, and he still would think nothing of it, if not for the surprise blackmail.

Thoughts of Carly clouded the conversation, so much so that he barely heard Jackson’s news about new evidence. Something about wanting Tansy to take a look at security footage of the militia hackers disabling a security system at a bank. “Maybe you can glean something off it,” Jackson said. “From how they work. Methods, techniques . . . Tansy?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m here. Yeah. You have a video for me?”

“So what are you doing right now, exactly?” Jackson asked. There was an odd hint of suspicion in his voice.

“Our first goal is to find the source. We’ve backtracked through a lot of masks so far, but that’s it.”

“Okay, so you’re still working on that. What’s your plan for when you find him?”

“We’re still working on that, too,” Tansy said. Silence from Jackson. “The situation is very fluid.”

“Fluid,” said Jackson. “You tend to use that word when you’re trying to cover your ass about something.”

“Like what?” Tansy could barely say it.

“That’s what I’m asking. This wouldn’t have anything to do with your friend’s predicament, would it?”

“Her legal predicament?” asked Tansy, wincing. God, he was glad Jackson didn’t insist on video calls.

“Is there any other kind for a freelance hacker?”

“She didn’t really mention it.” At least that was true.

“Listen, Tansy. We can help her get out of working for the militia. But anything else, like this stuff from her past, this investigation. She’s on her own with that.”

“Of course,” Tansy said.

What Jackson didn’t know, and all that.

* * *

After hours of digging, Tansy still hadn’t uncovered the needle in the haystack. He cracked himself a consolatory beer and returned to his workstation, looking over the useless information on his screen. It was maddening, that little plastic box of microchips and wires threatening to ruin Tansy’s life.

For a sociopath, the solution would be easy. Collude with the militia so they could carry out their plan—whether or not it was blowing up a federal building—and then he and Carly would get the hard drive in return. Tansy could simply count the victims, and his own soul, as collateral damage. But even for a soldier like himself, the price was too steep.

He mulled over the real options, all of them slightly more nuanced than mass murder and explosives. The easiest solution would be to bargain with the FBI, to admit his and Carly’s guilt in the Bryce Johnson cover-up. Maybe he could negotiate immunity in return for their cooperation in taking down the militia. But immunity was by no means a guarantee when it came down to it. If the government wanted to get you, they would—one way or another. Neither was their taking down the militia a sure thing. Tansy resisted the urge to punch something and swung back to his keyboard. Their chances would go from slim to non-existent if he couldn’t find the origin of the damn call.

The crux of the problem was that damned hard drive. It could mean jail time, a looming sentence as long as that piece of evidence stayed in the equation. Tansy imagined it, that goddamned piece of plastic, how it was probably stored under lock and key in some shadowy militia liar.

Jesus Christ.

He ran both sets of fingers through his hair, rubbing his palms hard against his scalp. If there was only some way to get to his brain directly, to stimulate it enough, to massage out some flawless, unified master plan. If only he could think clearly. . . .

But it seemed like the only subject that he could think about with any real clarity was Carly. The thought that she was just one floor below him, physically here with him after all these years . . . it was doing his head in. Maybe that was the key all along? He’d been trying to solve this without her, take it off her hands and save her from any more involvement, anything more getting her hands dirty. Hours later, he was coming to realize that was a mistake.

He was good; he knew that. But so was she, and together they’d been amazing. The plan, if there would even be one, would ultimately start from his and Carly’s combined efforts. Tansy left the operations level, his pace speeding to a jog as he thundered down the stairs. He slowed only when he reached the sleeping quarters’ hallway, coming to a standstill a few feet from her closed door. Now it was his brain’s turn to accelerate, his thoughts racing frantically through the possibilities, from one opening line to another. The awkwardness of their last conversation put weight on such trivialities. It undoubtedly put extra weight on her already-burdened shoulders. He thought of that while softly knocking on her door, willing his knuckles to sound as unobtrusive as possible.

Carly greeted him through the door with a casual, “Come in.” Would she have been so welcoming if she knew it was him on the other side of the door?

He opened the door to see her sitting on the made bed, her back and head leaning against the wall. In her hand was a phone, its audio cable connected to the single ear bud that was tucked into her ear. She left it there when Tansy asked how she was. She nodded. She said something agreeable.

Everything was fine. Normal.

It was as if she was just another hacker in the compound, as if she’d been there for weeks. As if her vision was totally fine. As if she and Tansy were coworkers, not ex-friends involved in a whole new fucked-up situation.

“I know you’ve only got those clothes, so. . . .” His words came out awkwardly and hollow against the claustrophobic, white institutional walls of her sleeping quarters. Yet, he trudged on with his proposition. “If you ever want to do laundry, there’s a machine on the floor below.” Seriously? This is how he was going to ease back into talking with her, a discussion about laundry that could lull them both to sleep. Maybe he could at least leverage the boredom against the set of walls that seemed to be witnessing a renewed building spurt in the last several hours after several years of careful brick-laying. Hell, any walls he had in place himself were in danger of being jarred loose simply by the mental image of Carly sitting on top a humming washing machine.

Geez, could you possibly be any more of a perv?

“And sorry if this is a bit weird,” he said. “But, you can wear some of my clothes while you wait for yours to finish.”

Yep. He could.

She looked confused at the offer.

Or was it disgusted?

“Or not,” Tansy said. He hoped his voice would better pull off the smile his face was attempting. “I’m not trying to say that you smell.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, and then released it. “It would be kinda weird, wearing your . . . clothes?”

“Just a t-shirt and shorts or something.” Damn, he was an idiot. She had a way of doing that to him, making him feel all foolish and flustered around her, among other things. Time for a subject change. “How are your eyes doing?”

“They’re still . . . okay.” She tugged on the headphone cord, causing the ear bud to come tumbling out of her head. Carly folded it around her phone. “Thanks for the offer, though. It’s weird, totally. But I think I’ll have to take you up on it.”

“When you’re ready, I can show you where it is and everything. How it works.”

She smirked at him. “I think I know how a washer and dryer works.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You can teach me, then.”

She laughed.

“Come on,” Tansy urged. “Explain the physics of it and everything.”

The smartass couldn’t explain it. But that was okay. It was just good to see her smiling again.

“The buttons don’t have any Braille, either,” he said, milking this little nonsense about the laundry as far as he could take it, as long as he could buffer it against any semblance of real talk. Neither of them was ready for that.

But then again, there was one form of real talk that might be helpful. Fortunately, she was the one to initiate it, asking him if he’d found the location of the hard drive. He was thankful, too, for her exaggerated relief when he brought up the subject of the militia’s real target. He was worried she wouldn’t take well the news of what they’d been using her to do, but she was still in the moment, still messing around with him. She even smiled. “Great. So we’ll just let them blow it all up, right?”

Or not.

“You’re joking.”

“Joking? What’s funny about killing hundreds of people?”

“Nothing. But it would be convenient. That’s what they’re hoping, I’m sure.”

“Yeah,” Carly replied. “If only we were also blood-thirsty terrorists. It would be so easy.”

“If only we weren’t involved in some political scandal.”

Shit. His remark might have stung more than he’d intended. Carly’s face went back to that dead, lifeless look. Like she really was waiting for laundry, or for something else to end.

“But it’s okay,” he said. “I get it. Shit happens.” Tansy knew, most certainly, that there was a limit to how much he could effectively poke the bear. A certain balance. He tried to make eye contact with her, hoping to see a hint of fire still within her, just a spark, enough to make something come alive again.

“Yes,” Carly said, her face twitching slightly. “Shit definitely fucking happens.”

“It’s nothing that we can’t fight our way out of, though. Okay?” After the fact, he’d realized that the phrasing was a little too similar to something else. . . . Something about a wet paper bag. In their case, the paper bag was the problems between them. Not the problems of the external world—the real problems, the militia and the subpoenas that were about to be slung like arrows over a battlefield. Those he could handle, probably even with his usual flair. But he had no idea of what to do with the silence that continually fell between them. What did they need in order to bust the paper bag? Counseling?

God, she looked so fucking pitiful.

“So,” he tried to inject as much energy into his voice as he could. Smile when you talk, they said, it’ll make your message sound better. Yeah, they were full of shit. “Do you have any better ideas, besides caving in and helping the militia?”

“Maybe we should just take what’s coming to us,” she said.

“And what’s that? A prison sentence?”

“Not if we can finagle our way out of it. We could strike a deal, like you said.”

She didn’t sound convinced, her face looking as defeated as her voice sounded.

“Don’t you think we can do better than that?” he said. “I know you can’t see so well. But you can still think. Let’s put our heads together.”

“My head isn’t in a good place right now.”

“It will be, when it’s together with mine.” He held himself back, trying hard not to put any more weight into that sentence.

“Yeah,” Carly replied. “Maybe I’ll think better after a shower and some fresh laundry.”

“Good,” he said with a smile. “I’ll show you how to work the machine.”

* * *

She was in better spirits after a shower and two beers, and after wearing fresh clothes. Tansy’s clothes. She was in even better spirits when they took their planning session outside, emerging from the Cold War sarcophagus to the humane shabbiness of the ranch house’s back deck. She sat reclined in an old rickety beach chair, relaxed, content, her bare legs crossed just under the hem of Tansy’s old marine silkies. Her fashion choice, and a good one, Tansy loved the way the shiny, silky green material looked against her creamy thighs. With her sight still blurred, Tansy could have picked any old pair for her. Instead, he’d let her rummage through his luggage bag, her hands stopping at the smooth material. “Oooh,” she’d said. “This feels good.” Her hands had run over the tiny shorts.

Good God. . . .

His own shorts, the ones he was currently wearing, needed adjusting after that.

His dick had a similar reaction while they were sitting out on the deck. He watched the way her thighs moved against the material when she uncrossed and crossed her legs again. No panties. Just thigh, all the way up.

“You don’t mind?” she’d said when she’d chosen them an hour earlier.

What a question. . . .

When they finally got on to planning, she still carried that sexy lightness about her, easing them back into familiar territory, back into comfort. Thank goodness. During the last two days—at least—she’d been put through the wringer. Now, exhausted and empty, and perhaps half drunk, her mind finally seemed freed and flexible enough for laying the groundwork that might finally get them out of this mess.

And she was ready to start it up. But under one condition.

“I need you to be my eyes,” she said.

“Haven’t I been doing that already?”

“I mean, for the work. There’s a lot of work to do.”

“I’ll type for you.” He smiled. “If you have a plan.”

She smiled back and looked away, her mind clearly working. Good. It freed Tansy back up to admire her finely sculpted legs. The soft mounds of her breasts under his t-shirt, a faded memento from the 2013 Marine Corps Marathon.

“I figured that I owed it to you,” she said, caressing her wrist. “A plan.”

“You owe me a lot more than that.” Would she catch him, read between the lines?

“I know.”

His hard-on emboldened, Tansy shifted in his chair, trying to place it just so without having to. . . . But would she even notice his hand if he adjusted his boxers? Would she see him sneak his hand inside for just a quick touch? A squeeze, wrapping his hand around the swollen head of his cock. They could talk strategy. No big deal.

He felt flushed and dizzy. And hot.

Too hot to talk strategy.

“We should go for a little walk.”

She breathed out a little laugh. “You think I’m in any condition for a walk?”

“I’ll help you. I thought you wanted me to be your eyes.”

“I don’t know, Tansy.” She finished her beer and placed it on the deck with a quiet thud. “I think you should just say it.”

“Say what?”

She smiled. “Say you want to hold my hand.”

“You should tell me the real reason for going quiet on me back then,” he said, watching her smile quickly fade. “You had a boyfriend.”

“That’s right. I had a boyfriend.”

“So you couldn’t talk to me.”

“That’s right.” She rubbed her eyes, most likely in vain.

There was no need to take it any further. Tansy’s concern now was his reaction to her answer. Was it pathetic that it excited him? That it gave him . . . hope?

Yep, he was definitely pathetic, as was his apathy—and even pleasure—in all the little ways she’d made him pathetic over the years. He forgot it all in a moment when she smiled. No woman had ever touched him like that. But what the hell did that mean?

“Don’t you want to hear about my plan?” she asked.

Did it mean that he should stay away from her?

“Tansy?”

“Yes,” he said. “Tell me about your plan.”

“We’ll do what they want, crack some codes for whatever security system they want deactivated. But it’ll only be a temporary fix, just long enough for us to get the hard drive.”

“Won’t they be expecting that?”

“In case they are, you and your boys can follow me.”

It sounded too dangerous. Too risky. Especially for Carly.

“You can put one of those tracking devices on me, right?”

He forced himself to ponder the validity of her plan, to forget that the idea of her walking into any sort of danger was close to giving him a heart attack. But before he could offer a criticism, she interrupted him with her own caveat, that it was an admittedly crazy and desperate idea. But an idea nonetheless.

“That it is,” said Tansy. “An idea.”

“Maybe even a good one,” she added.

“We’ll see.” He stood and took a step toward Carly. He needed a walk. He needed something. He tapped her arm. “Come on. There’s something I want to show you.”