Fatal Code (The SNAP Agency Book #2)

Natalie Walters

• Publisher: Revell
• Year: 2022
• eBook ISBN:
  9781493436316
• Print ISBN:
  9780800739799

In 1964, a group of scientists called the Los Alamos Five came close to finishing a nuclear energy project for the United States government when they were abruptly disbanded. Now the granddaughter of one of those five scientists, aerospace engineer Elinor Mitchell, discovers that she has highly sensitive information on the project in her possession--and a target on her back.

SNAP agent and former Navy cryptologist Kekoa Young is tasked with monitoring Elinor. This is both convenient since she's his neighbor in Washington, DC, and decidedly inconvenient because . . . well, he kind of likes her.

As Elinor follows the clues her grandfather left behind to a top-secret nuclear project, Kekoa has no choice but to step in. When Elinor learns he has been spying on her, she's crushed. But with danger closing in on all sides, she'll have to trust him to ensure her discoveries stay out of enemy hands.

Natalie Walters sucks you into the global race for space domination in this perfectly paced second installment of her SNAP Agency romantic suspense series.

***

"Readers who enjoy a slow-building blend of faith elements, romantic suspense, and history will find much to love here."--Booklist

"Fatal Code by Natalie Walters is a wonderful example of the romantic suspense genre. Dramatic and multifaceted, yet also humorous and gratifying."--Life Is Story

1

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.

2

Washington, DC

“Is there anything more beautiful than a hamburger patty smothered in gravy tucked onto a bed of rice and a fried egg?” Kekoa Young lifted the Styrofoam container to his nose and inhaled. “Ono, eh?”

Mixed expressions met him from those sitting around the large island in the SNAP Agency’s kitchen.

Disgust from Garcia.

Suspicion from Lyla.

Indifference from Jack.

Appreciation from Brynn. “I knew that would bring you out of your cave.”

Kekoa wiggled his hips, working his way to the empty stool, and grabbed a fork. He closed his eyes after the first bite and allowed the savory flavor to take him home. His chest squeezed at the longing—as wistful as it was painful. Homesickness washed through him, making it hard to swallow the food down.

“That’s a heart attack on a plate.”

Kekoa opened his eyes to find Garcia eyeballing his plate lunch. No way was he going to let the team health fanatic spoil the moment. “Brah, you gotta live a little. This is local grindz.” He took another bite. “Tell him, sis.”

“It’s true. Loco mocos are a Hawaiian favorite.” Brynn grabbed hers. “And taste better than they look.”

“I’m going to go with Nicolás on this one,” Lyla said, cutting into a piece of teriyaki chicken. She wrinkled her petite nose and shook her head a few times, light-brown hair tinted dark pink at the edges swirling about her shoulders. “Gravy, eggs, and hamburger? You’d have to be pretty loco to eat it.” She waited half a beat before giggling at her lame joke. “Oh, come on, that was funny.”

Garcia rolled his eyes, but Kekoa caught the beginning of a smile—white teeth flashing against his tanned face—that he quickly hid behind a bite of chicken. Without teriyaki sauce. What is even the point?

“And on that humorous joke”—Brynn reached for her purse and started for the office door—“it’s time for me to get back to the office.”

“Thanks for the plate lunch, sis!” Kekoa said, scooping another bite into his mouth. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was or how fast the morning had passed since breakfast. The Lepley assignment was taking its toll.

“Anytime, Kekoa,” Brynn called over her shoulder as she and Jack stepped into the hallway outside of the office and let the door close behind them.

Kekoa admired Jack. He and Brynn Taylor had a long history together that came to a head during an assignment a few months ago. Witnessing the two of them work through their fears made Kekoa hopeful that happy endings did exist.

Lyla tipped her head to the flat screen television mounted on the wall across from them. “He knows we have cameras out there, right?”

“They just want a little privacy, Lyla.” Garcia finished the rest of his naked chicken and dumped his to-go dish into the trash can. “Jack said Brynn’s headed overseas for a few weeks. Not sure when she leaves exactly.”

“Ouch.” Lyla wrinkled her nose. “Didn’t she just get back?”

Garcia washed his hands and dried them with a towel. “A week ago.”

Kekoa peeked at Jack and Brynn outside in the hallway. Working for the Strategic Neutralization and Protection Agency kept all of them busy, but especially Jack. And with Brynn’s career in the CIA, the couple had to work to keep their relationship a priority. He admired their commitment and let it give him relationship goals to aim for . . . one day.

For now, he’d keep his focus on his job. After leaving his career in the Navy as a cryptologist, he wasn’t sure what his future held. Faced with the possibility of returning home, he was grateful when Director Walsh hired him, giving him the out he needed. He had no idea how much he’d come to appreciate the job or the people he worked with. They had become more than colleagues in such a short time—they’d become family. Ohana.

“Oh my goodness, you guys are so annoying.” Lyla held up a plastic container full of raisins. She pressed her foot on the pedal of the trash can to lift the lid and dumped them into it. “You cannot pick all of the nuts and chocolate out of the trail mix and leave behind the raisins. It’s gross and unhygienic.”

“Raisins are gross.”

“Now, that I can agree with.” Kekoa fist-bumped Garcia. “Just buy chocolate, Ly.”

“Or the nuts,” Garcia said.

Lyla rolled her eyes. “I asked God for a sister—not three pesky brothers.”

Kekoa caught the flicker of resentment in Garcia’s eyes at the word brother. The man, whether he admitted it or not, carried some kind of flame for Lyla. He’d never acted on it, but Kekoa wasn’t sure if that was an integrity thing on Garcia’s part—not wanting to mix business with pleasure—or something deeper.

Kekoa believed it was a little of both. Nicolás Garcia had come to the team from Special Forces as an EOD specialist. His quiet, observant demeanor served him well as a bomb and weapons specialist, but it also kept people from engaging with him. Their loss. Garcia was loyal, purposeful, and generous, and he had an easygoing personality. Only one person had the ability to draw an immediate reaction from him.

Lyla Fox.

As the youngest member of the team, she came from a well-connected family with deep roots in politics and the tech industry. She brought a vast network of resources to her position with the agency, giving SNAP the kind of access it would have taken decades to build. She easily slipped into the role of little sister, reminding Kekoa of the ones he had back home in Hawaii. But that’s not how Garcia saw her, or wanted to see her.

Yep. Leaving the relationship stuff to everyone else seemed to be the smartest choice. The last thing Kekoa needed was the responsibility of a romantic entanglement. He ran his hand over the name tattooed on the inside of his left forearm.

Lyla tapped the wedding invitation stuck to the refrigerator. “How they’re going to manage being in the same country, much less the same church, on the same day for their wedding is going to be a miracle.”

“You’re telling me,” Jack said, agreeing with Lyla as he walked back in. A few inches shorter than Kekoa, Jack Hudson held a commanding presence fitting of his position as their team leader. His piercing gaze was eased by a wry smile. “So long as everyone behaves, there should be a wedding in six weeks.”

“Should we write up a memo for the terrorists and criminals?” Lyla finished her plate and stood, but Garcia was already there, taking it from her to put into the trash. “Let them know about your nuptials so they can plan accordingly?”

“If I thought it would work . . .” Jack shook his head. “Right now, just coordinating a cake tasting and catering options seems impossible.”

“Brah”—Kekoa patted Jack on the shoulder—“I’m your man. Tell me the time and place, and I’m there.” He glanced down at the remnants of his lunch. “As you know, I’ve got discerning taste.”

“Debatable.” Garcia laughed, taking Kekoa’s empty tray to the trash.

Kekoa walked to the fridge and grabbed a water bottle. “Do I mock you for eating minced vegetables?”

Garcia frowned. “Are you talking about cauliflower rice?”

“Brah”—Kekoa shook his head—“that’s not rice. A horse painted in stripes is still a horse.”

Lyla twisted her lips to the side, looking at Kekoa. “I don’t think I’ve heard a stranger phrase come from your lips, and yet it’s accurate.”

“What can I say?” Kekoa puffed his chest a bit. “I’m a man of many talents.”

“Speaking of talents, let’s get them back to work.” Jack started down the hallway, leading the team back to the nerve center of the agency. The fulcrum.

Consuming most of the eighth floor of the Acacia Building, the SNA...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Endorsements
• Half Title Page
• Books by Natalie Walters
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2
• Chapter 3
• Chapter 4
• Chapter 5
• Chapter 6
• Chapter 7
• Chapter 8
• Chapter 9
• Chapter 10
• Chapter 11
• Chapter 12
• Chapter 13
• Chapter 14
• Chapter 15
• Chapter 16
• Chapter 17
• Chapter 18
• Chapter 19
• Chapter 20
• Chapter 21
• Chapter 22
• Chapter 23
• Chapter 24
• Chapter 25
• Chapter 26
• Chapter 27
• Chapter 28
• Chapter 29
• Chapter 30
• Chapter 31
• Chapter 32
• Chapter 33
• Chapter 34
• Chapter 35
• Chapter 36
• Acknowledgments
• Sneak Peek at the Next SNAP Agency Adventure
• About the Author
• Back Ads
• Back Cover