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Chapter One of

Fatal Code

By Natalie Walters

Maple Valley, IA

“Death has no sting.”

He studied the pastor speaking from the stage, a giant cross hanging behind him, and smirked. Depends on how you kill someone. He glanced quickly at the cedar beams crisscrossing the white-­plaster barrel ceiling, half expecting lightning to strike him dead. But if God was going to punish him for his blasphemy, it would’ve happened the second he walked into the church.

The hard wood of the pew dug into his back, a painful reminder of his childhood, as was the nauseating citrus scent of the furniture polish. Stained glass windows lined the sides of the church just like in the one his mother used to drag him to when she’d pray to a God she assured him was good. He wasn’t more than six when he learned, thanks to the fists of a schoolyard bully, that whoever his mother prayed to didn’t care about him. A God who was good wouldn’t let bad things happen—­especially to children. And yet every day they were happening. The only escape from the bad . . . his eyes landed on the simple wooden urn. Death.

In the middle of two large vases of flowers and three floral wreaths was a photo of Arthur Conway. According to the small piece of cardstock in the man’s hand, Arthur was “eighty-­five, a loving grandfather, father, and husband. Theoretical physicist and retired professor from Iowa State, Arthur ‘Artie’ Conway played an integral role in the progress of science.”

The progress of science.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, covering the scoff before it could draw attention to him. An understatement if there ever was one. The modest oak box didn’t hold only the cremated remains of Arthur Conway. It held a piece of the puzzle in a decades-­old game of power.

As the pastor continued to offer platitudes of comfort to the family, the man scanned those in attendance. The church was fuller than he’d expected. He guessed friends, neighbors, maybe even a few colleagues from the university made up the crowd.

The pipe organ bellowed and the people rose to their feet. One man, a few rows back from the front, grabbed his attention. Besides the custom-­tailored suit, nothing stood out to him and yet . . .

Picking up a white book from the back of the pew, he carelessly flipped it open. His eyes drifted to the domed fixture in the upper corner of the church ceiling. A camera. There was another across from it and a few, he’d noticed, at the entrance of the church. It wouldn’t take much to hack into the system and download the footage. Find out who the man was and why it mattered.

But at the moment, the only one who truly interested him was the young woman in the front row standing next to her parents.

Elinor Mitchell. Twenty-­nine. Her shoulder-­length hair was twisted into an elegant knot at the base of her neck. Somewhere nearby, an air-­conditioning vent blew cool air, causing the loose strands of her chocolate-­brown hair to dance along her neckline. She wore a charcoal-­gray pencil skirt and a deep burgundy silk blouse instead of the traditional black attire. Smart choice. The jewel tone highlighted her creamy complexion and made the green in her hazel eyes sparkle like emeralds. Or was that the tears?

She shared in Arthur Conway’s brilliance. Graduating from Georgia Tech summa cum laude was enough to warrant the interest of major aerospace companies like Lockheed Martin and Raytheon, but in the end, she chose Lepley Dynamics.

And in the last few years, her work had secured several multi-­million-­dollar contracts that made her very valuable to the company . . . but would that keep her alive?

The music slowed to a stop, bringing everyone back to their seats. He gave his watch a subtle glance. They would be waiting for his call.

As the pastor invited friends up to speak about the departed, the man kept his ears attuned to anything that might be a clue. Unfortunately, when they were done, the only thing he’d learned was not to go fishing without a charged cell phone battery.

Agitation began to unfurl in his chest. Time was wasting and—

“Elinor”—­the pastor’s introduction interrupted his thoughts—“Arthur’s granddaughter, would like to say a few words.”

He sat up straighter. The polished wood beneath him creaked as he leaned forward, attention glued to the woman as she rose from her seat and walked to the podium next to the minister. It took her a moment to gather herself, which gave him the time to study her features. She favored her mother’s high cheekbones and almond-­shaped eyes, characteristics of their Korean ancestry passed on from Arthur’s wife. Something shifted in him, almost making him second-­guess his purpose here, and then he remembered the photo in his wallet.

Elinor smiled, looking timid. “On behalf of my family, we want to thank you all for coming today. My grandfather was a well-­lived man. He always told me that. Said that when his time came, he’d be ready. I didn’t realize I wouldn’t be.” She sniffled. “I took for granted the time I had with my grandfather, but every time I open up one of his notebooks, it feels like he’s right there with me, sparking my curiosity and teaching me. The gift of his words gives me comfort and is such a blessing.”

His attention snagged on Elinor’s words. Notebooks. There were more? His agitation swiftly morphed into anxious energy. He pressed his palm to his knee to keep it from bouncing.

Bzzt. Bzzt.

His cell phone vibrated in his coat pocket, and he pulled it out. The message was a photo of a fair-­skinned European man with thick black hair hanging low over his eyes. Four words were typed beneath it:

Dominic Kamenev is here.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket. It didn’t surprise him that Russia was now involved. It ticked him off. Another player joining the race. One more issue to take care of . . . one he might be able to make work for him.

He was already formulating a plan when his phone vibrated again. He pulled it out just enough to see the new message. It was a photo that made him bite down on his tongue to hold back the curse. Jaw clenching, he slid the phone back into his pocket and eyed his target.

Elinor finished speaking, and the pastor gave a concluding prayer. Her parents joined her at the front of the church as guests stood and began to form a line and offer their condolences.

He noticed the shadow beneath Elinor’s eyes. The brave attempt to smile and assure those talking with her about her grandfather that she would be okay. She had no idea she’d just become a pawn in a deadly game. A little pressure, a little discomfort, and people were quick to talk. Quick to reveal their deepest secrets. And if Elinor’s grandfather had left her one, he’d find out.

Click to read Chapter Two of Fatal Code