Return to Dead Horse Canyon: Grandfather Spirits

She connected to Wi-Fi. As Firefox loaded Will's stiff posture reeked one final statement of disapproval. They held hands a moment, said a silent prayer. When she opened her eyes, it felt as if the coffee shop's new-age logo were leering at her from the opposing wall.

Her hands trembled as she typed in the WikiLeaks URL. The page loaded. The link for submissions beckoned. She entered the necessary information, then selected the huge file from the hard drive. She paused a single heartbeat, held her breath then clicked Send.

Even as a zip file it took a few minutes to upload. She bit her lip, eyes locked on the progress bar. Submission Accepted popped up on the screen.

After sharing a collective sigh, they raised their drinks in a solemn toast. Paper cups touched amid expressions saturated with unknowns.

As Sara drained her Cappuccino she noticed a thirty-something man with brown curly hair and a neatly trimmed beard watching from a single's table near the front.

He looked vaguely familiar.

Someone from Bryan's work perhaps?

"I think we're being watched," she whispered.

"Was he here when we arrived?" Will asked.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"You need to start paying attention to things like that, Sara. Let's go. See if anyone follows us."

"Why would he? There's not much he can do about it now."

"You'd be surprised."

As they pushed open the door and exited Connie said in a low voice, "Why don't I drive the Benz and you go with Sara?"

"Good plan. I'll help her go through the condo for any new listening devices. Meet us there. Keep a close eye on the rearview mirror."

*

Even before he recognized the brunette at the back table, NSA IT specialist Jason LaGrange's Spidey-sense told him that trio was up to no good.

In spite of the afternoon glare from the window beside her, when she'd glanced in his direction he remembered.

That picture. The one in Reynolds's personal belongings. In the box he picked up at the credit union.

That was her.

Apparently oblivious to his scrutiny, he casually picked up his iPhone, zoomed in, and snapped a surreptitious photo while they got settled at the table.

She opened a laptop.

What the hell were they doing holding hands? Praying?

Instincts fired.

Already into the establishment's Wi-Fi, a few keystrokes networked her computer to his own.

Firefox appeared.

She typed a URL.

Or tried to, correcting a few typos before getting it right.

When the website came up a bitter cocktail of emotions sailed through him.

This was exactly what that Cracker Jack ops team was supposed to prevent.

He hit Cancel too late to stop the file transfer, but snagged a copy, its size identical to the one on the thumb-drive recovered from Reynolds's place of employment.

He ground his teeth.

That incompetent bunch of wannabes had done nothing but screw up since Day One.

He texted Keller.

Heads-up. Target female just uploaded huge file to WikiLeaks.

The response was instantaneous.

WTF? Last report showed no movement or audio activity for several hours.

LaGrange attached the photo.

Then explain this.