A dragon to slay: Part two

DELETE
David Fry

Mara fumed behind smoky glass. The ebony Suburban with government plates might as well have been a mobile magnet. Outside the beltway, such transport was sure to garner unwanted attention. Nothing screamed Fed louder, except maybe donning a black windbreaker emblazoned with a choice acronym. Mara’s superior insisted on this mode of transport. It was a natural force field, keeping local authorities at bay. That much Mara welcomed. But she needed to stay outside Derek’s shadow. Shades had a way of drawing meddlesome glances.

[The last two sentences don’t seem connected to the rest of the paragraph. I guess by “stay outside Derek’s shadow” you mean she didn’t want to attract Derek’s attention. But then the sentence about shades throws me. Do you mean the tinted windows of the car? Or the sunglasses she’s wearing? If it’s the former, the paragraph already does a good job of setting up the fact that the Suburban will draw attention.]

Mental note. Get a rental.

Her eyes floated to the USPS drop box across the street. It wavered, a mirage on sweltering asphalt, daring to wink out at a moment’s notice. [I really like the image of the mailbox wavering in the heat waves. But I think the second part is carrying the mirage thing out too far.] It wasn’t so much that she didn’t trust the veracity of the postal service motto: through rain, sleet, or snow. It was simply the thrill of watching her production play itself out. Fifteen minutes earlier, Derek’s first class invitation had been deposited for pickup. It absolutely, positively, had to be postmarked today.

Mara played with natural crumples in her dress, smooth fabric to placate a chafing mood. She was engrossed with a particular thread when a loud rap at the driver window snapped her to attention. An egghead kid sporting a watermelon grin pressed his nose against the glass. His hair, shredded licorice, all but obscured brown eyes framed in coke bottle lenses. Tinted windows notwithstanding, Mara guessed the facial topping of the day to be anchovies. [From the rest of the description, I take it you mean his hair was greasy and stringy. But “shredded licorice” made me think dreadlocks. I read that part to my husband and asked him what image came. He said dreadlocks.] His bike must have slipped out from under him as he disappeared briefly. As thin as he was, Mara imagined his torso wedged between the spokes. A muffled yelp was followed by a dull clatter. Several seconds passed. A hand materialized, grasping at air, and then the melon smile reappeared. Rap-rap-rap! [The rest of the paragraph after my last comment might be a little much.]

Oh great. Boy wonder wants to earn a merit badge.

Mara tapped her shades so they dropped to her nose and she sat upright.

Might as well give him the full meal deal.

She cupped a hand to her right cheek, middle finger depressing the ear bud. Then she punched the window button with her left index finger.

A mere inch of daylight spilled in to Mara’s inner sanctum before the air filled with a gatling spray of yap.

“Dude. Check it out. What a setup. That laptop come with biometrics? Whoa, is that a portable RFID scanner? You must be FBI, CIA, or something. You scoping out Cyber Burger? I warned those guys. They’re wide open. Listed on the ‘Net as a free wi-fi hotspot. You gonna close it down? Name’s Keith, but my buds call me K’reith. Cool huh? Sounds like wraith, you know, like in Lord of the Rings. Okay, ok, [since this is repetition, it should be spelled the same way both times.] some say it rhymes with Keith, but anyway. Hey, you’re no dude. You’re a dude-ette! Get it? Heheheh. Dude-ette?”

“Brilliant deduction, Keith. And thanks for the tip on the café but its time to move on. As you can see, I’m pretty involved here. Official business, you understand.”

“Oh man, you are like – wow! I mean. X-files, ya know. Scully. Dana. She’s like a babe. You remember that episode? The one where The Lone Gunmen lure her to Vegas? Oh and the one where she and Mulder go see about the weird weather. That guy. Meteorologist dude. His emotions trigger crazy weather. Freaky. Is that the one where she … Did I mention she’s the bomb? You remind me of her, I mean, can I get your autograph?”

Mara couldn’t help but feel a smidgen of pity for the kid and on a good day she might have humored him. But a good day was yet to come.

“Listen, Keith. You are interfering with a government investigation. You ever hear of obstruction of justice? You are obstructing. It is time to go.”

“Oh that bites. Sorry dude. I mean, lady. Ms. Scully, or whatever. I’m outta here. Oh kewl antennas, you got like a sat link in there or what? Awesome GPS, can I see a map? My best friend lives over on Nantucket Court, got a pool, we could just zero in and …”

Mara turned and faced Keith dead-on. She sliced the air across her throat and held the gesture in dramatic pause.

Keith responded with the standard hands up procedure, for all of six-tenths of a second. He then clamped down on the window’s top edge, with both hands this time. What followed was a fetid cloud of caffeinated reek. Mara coughed. Apparently Keith was under the mistaken notion that a whisper involved heavy breathing. Enough to inflate one of those seasonal yard displays.

“Sorry, sorry. I get it, Secret Service kinda stuff, you’re like on official business.”

Mara lifted her arm up to the window’s edge hoping to equalize the air with a remnant of her noon hour cologne shower.

“Officially, yes.”

“Keith inhaled. Whoa! Nice bloom lady. What is that?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

Keith had that in common with Derek. A weakness for Megan’s perfume. His eyes bugged and Mara detected a reel in his posture but the splay of questions kept flowing.

“Kewl. I’m like okay with that. My buds are gonna wig when they hear I ran into Scully. Can I see your badge? Take a quick pic for proof? WIB—women in black, this monumentally rocks. Hey, you’re wearing a dress, Scully doesn’t wear a dress, blouse and slacks maybe but …”

“I’m not Scully, K’reith. Now beat it kid.”

Mara punched the window button and watched Keith dweeb dance to the last instant before escaping a finger crunch. It was then that she caught the movement out of the corner of her eye. The clock display on the dash showed 4:05 p.m. On the dot, the mail truck rolled into the parking lot.

[She puts up with this kid way too long. I’m surprised she didn’t roll up the window much earlier. Also, I’m assuming this is the only appearance he’ll make in the book, so too much was made of him. Great characterization, but it seems wasted. Unless he’ll be a recurring character. In that case, good setup. J]

She gunned the engine. Keith pedaled away wobbling all over the sidewalk, craning his neck backwards in stupefied adoration.

The computer chimed just as Mara was ready to push the Suburban into gear. She abandoned the gas pedal. A blinking green LED, recessed in the laptop, indicated a solid internet connection.

Thank you, Cyber Burger.

Wireless networking was nearly ubiquitous these days, especially with the proliferation of coffee shops and cafes. And to think, data just floated freely on radio waves. Raw electronic fodder waiting to be pirated, sifted, or gleaned into meaningful information. She tilted the swivel arm in order to type on the keyboard.

The second part of Derek’s surprise hinged on her ability to direct a special delivery. From the estate of Auntie Jen, swapped through Ebay, and packaged for a sappy birthday. All that remained was tracking delivery through the UPS online website. The details of which should be confirmed shortly.

While waiting for the website to load, Mara noticed something else. An email message from Special Agent Dawkins. Not good. She didn’t even have to open it to make that assessment. The 4:00 p.m. deadline had come and gone. Her weekly reports to the operations wonk in Denver were nine minutes past due.

At the outset, the idea of working on a Department of Homeland Security project, seemed a terrific cover. An op within an op. Drew Dawkins had been instrumental in securing her role on this project. And Mara’s credentials had earned her access to data points that many in law enforcement only dreamed about. Instead of a storm chaser, she was a data chaser, even outfitted with a company car. And the Wichita assignment dropped her right into Derek’s backyard.

But then there was Driftwood Drew. Floating above the fray of ops, a harmless red-tape dispenser. Or so it seemed. He was more like an innocuous bug riding atop a river of data. He scavenged. Crawling all over the flotsam and jetsam of the online world, Driftwood floated.

Dawkins’ needle-nosed logistics and penchant for paper chasings were playing havoc with Mara’s surveillance of contestant Farhaun. Her reality show was being preempted by another reality. If only she could flick this bug off her shoulder. She managed to cartwheel Keith away a few moments earlier. It wasn’t so much the workload as it was the timing. Reality shows are all about things dire and timing. [Give this paragraph focus. It goes too many directions.]

Dawkins entertains[ed] dire scenarios 24/7. Seems some concern had been raised about the vulnerability of America’s breadbasket states. Thus, a feasibility study was commissioned to assess the heartland vector. Poison the food-chain, cripple a nation. It was his pet project, unfortunately, Mara was his pet.

Another chime broke her musings. Dawkins again. This time, an amber blinking dot beckoned. He was requesting chat, via secure instant messaging. Mara began typing. She used broken words and gibberish to feign a poor connection. She then turned her attention to UPS online. There it was. The package was en route, having just been scanned in Kansas City an hour previous. It would hit Wichita tomorrow, right on schedule and more importantly, right on target. Mara keyed in a new message to Dawkins that was more coherent.

“Conn sig is weak.” She lied. [already obvious]

“Scoping new site … standby.”

Mara knew Driftwood would harp on her about not using the GSM card in her laptop which allows for roaming internet connections, much like a cellular phone. He would insist that it provided for secure encrypted communications which is what they were all about. She would play the rural card, bemoaning spotty service on the plains. It was a tightrope she was walking and she knew it. Dawkins might be driftwood but he was no dimwit.

Mara lowered her gaze to the recycle bin that glowed on the laptop screen. The pedestrian user’s Plan B. Like the safety on a handgun to protect the inexperienced. How many people using Windows on their computers have been told not to worry if they delete something? Just restore it back from the recycle bin. Professionals require no such backup. Mara clicked on a recent surveillance photo of Derek. It showed him pushing Lydia, his youngest daughter, in a swing. They were playing at one of two parks the family frequented. Her index finger floated over the trigger. The delete key.

Tap.

Derek and Lydia disappeared.

And the question of ballistics? Best left for the authorities.

***

This ending is good. The Department of Homeland Security is investigating the area. She deletes a picture that could prove Derek’s whereabouts. That’s a good setup to make your readers want to see more.

You have a great opening line for the book. You start with this question of ballistics and end the chapter with it. The trouble is, there’s a scene break in between.

When she first thinks this thought, she has her fingers on the keyboard, but she doesn’t actually delete anything at the time, as far as I can see. She’s not working in cyberspace, she’s making a physical invitation.

Sorry to throw a wrench in the works, but that’s something you’ll have to think about.

http://www.frydwords.com/blog