by Ryan Schow
Two days later Brayden and the Cyber Action Team sat in the briefing room along with local law enforcement and members of SWAT (based on the seriousness of the hack and their physical attack on Brayden). An hour after that, they went to serve warrants.
Nearly everyone but Brayden.
He wasn’t allowed to go because even though he was the one who was able to gather the evidence necessary for warrants and most likely a conviction, he wasn’t a real member of the FBI.
He was just a tourist.
A criminal.
So with a couple of other members of the team left behind to man the office, Brayden worked at a fever pitch doing exactly what he’d planned from the beginning.
Looking over his shoulder, he kept tabs on the remaining two agents. One was on Facebook, the other was playing Clash of Clans. In other words, the coast was clear.
Brayden logged onto Tor, dipped below the Clearnet, then used the dark net for cover while he emptied DeepBallin’s bank accounts into a dummy account of his own offshore. He used this account to hide his profits from his fart app, but he’d need to siphon the money off soon. He’d have to bounce the balance through a dozen accounts around the world before professionally washing it and collecting the cashier’s check.
Then he could breathe.
When he was done with that money transfer—seventy-eight thousand and change—he took a deep breath, got a donut that was getting a bit stale but wasn’t so bad he couldn’t enjoy it, then he went back to the bull pen.
Agent Facebook and Agent Clash of Clans were busy, but still had eyes on the raid.
“Status?” Brayden asked Facebook.
“Still waiting.”
“Okay,” Brayden said.
Agent Clash of Clans never even looked up, and Agent Facebook went back to mindlessly scanning her news feed. Brayden took that opportunity to completely end Agent Bartholomew Charles. Bart the fart. The guy who’d made his life here hell. The asshole who cranked his handcuffs on day one; the agent who hit him in the head so hard he saw stars; the agent who thought it would be so fun to poke the bear, even though the bear looked like a kid serving his community service hours as a child among giants.
Nope.
Not so much.
Within thirty minutes, Agent Charles was ninety days late on his mortgage, maxed out on his credit cards and carrying less than a zero balance in his checking account. He had overdraft protection linked to his savings account, but the sixty-two thousand dollars that was in there a half an hour ago was no where to be found. And his 401K? Down from just under a hundred thousand to forty-seven cents.
Brayden didn’t steal Agent Charles’s money, though. He just made it go away.
The raid eventually went off without a hitch, and all of DeepBallin’ found themselves in cuffs and federal custody being charged with a whole slew of felonies. As soon as Brayden heard everything went down without even a sideways hiccup, he made the call.
“Hello,” the voice said.
“It’s me.”
“What do you want?” the FBI contact said, harshly. He’d never been nice.
“My walking papers. The group responsible for the hacks is now in custody. This is the same group who hit Martin Federal Credit Union in Nevada a few years back. I’m told that with the info I provided, it’s an open and closed case. Which means I’ve fulfilled my end of my agreement, so it’s time for you to fulfill yours and wipe my record.”
“Have Agent Clark verify with me, then I’ll overnight your release.”
“Thank you.”
There was a lot of silence on the FBI man’s end, but he didn’t hang up.
“I’ll only say this only once,” he finally said. “You’re not done with us. The minute you fuck up, and I know with guys like you it’s just a matter of time, your daddy’s lawyer won’t get you an out. I just want you to know when that happens, I’m going to burrow into you like a tick. Then you’re going to go to jail where you’ll serve hard time with guys who like guys like you, if you catch my drift.”
“Loud and clear. Hacking equals jail, and that equals rape. Plus you’ll turn in to a tick. That about cover it?”
The agent laughed, and this time it wasn’t a forced thing. Then: “If you weren’t such a mischievous, smart mouthed little turd, I think I might like you.”
“Maybe,” Brayden said, amiably.
“Probably not, though.”
“Probably not,” he agreed with a quick laugh.
“But if you’ve turned a corner, if you’ve come to appreciate the rule of law and can adhere to it, then just call this number and maybe I can use you again, you know, for situations like this. It won’t pay much for a spoiled little shit like you, but its rewards are not as much monetary as they are morally based. You’d be doing good for this country you love.”
“I do love my country.”
“I’ll draw up the release, get it signed off. Just have Agent Clark call me.”
“When you’re done,” Brayden asked, “can you send the release papers to my father in Texas?”
“Will do.”
And that was it. He was free.
Well, almost. He stayed late and met Agent Clark and she was like, “Can I call him in the morning?” and he was like, “Um, no. Now is best.”
So she called while he stood there, confirmed for his contact that they successfully took down the hackers based on information Brayden provided, then hung up and said, “Happy?”
He took off his FBI badge and said, “Yes. Because this is my last day. My last minute. My contact is signing my release forms and I’m off like a prom dress.”
“Really?” she said, surprised.
“Well, I have to say, Whitney, it’s been real, and it’s been fun, but it hasn’t been real fun.”
Smiling, maybe at what he said, or perhaps that he called her by her first name when she warned him to never do that again, she extended a hand to him, which he shook before saying, “If you don’t mind me saying, you’re far too beautiful to be this uptight. You should get laid. I think you deserve it after today’s takedown.”
Her eyes blazed, narrowing the tiniest bit before catching herself. Her jaw flicked, but the more she thought about it, the more everything softened again.
“As inappropriate and as rude as that was,” she said while only half grinding her molars, “I think you might be right.”
“I’m not offering,” he quickly added. He didn’t think she was as beautiful as he told her she was, but that was just him being him.
“Jesus Christ, kid,” she said, barely a trace of humor in her voice.
When he left, which was mere seconds from her calling security and throwing him out, as she so aptly said, it was without a single good-bye to anyone on the team other than his amazing good-bye to Whitney, the single woman who would go home and most certainly not take his advice.
3
Aniela wasn’t happy with him. He’d been seeing her outside the house most nights while Sabrina had been staying with him at the player pad. Aniela was officially jealous.
She should be.
Sabrina, however, was an absolute wreck. It seemed like everyone in Hollywood had been blowing up her phone. Garrison Rich’s call, however, was the worst. Even worse than the fiery swear-fest put on by the one and only Lennox Carlisle.
The first message from Lennox was bad. It was mean. Messages two and three were worse and included enough f-bombs to humble a trucker. Messages four, five and six were more f-bombs, then degradation, and finally threats. Threats he should never have made on a voicemail; threats he probably didn’t realize he was making because he was that drunk. Message seven was an apology followed by this: “You’ve ruined yourself, Sabrina. Ruined your career. Garrison said he won’t forget this. That he doesn’t forgive betrayals of this magnitude. By the way, you’re an ungrateful effing—” and then he said the c-word, which was perhaps the ugliest most hateful word humans ever invented.
It sounded even wors
e when said calmly and sober.
Then Garrison called. Left a message.
He said, “The people at the party are looking for you. You left a family heirloom by mistake, and because I know how important family is to you—how you’d just die without them—I insisted the people from the party hunt you down at all costs. To return it, of course. In my opinion, as a man who understands the importance of protecting your family, for you to so thoughtlessly betray them by acting as shameful as you have, is not only an embarrassment on your family, but unforgivable. We’re coming, Sabrina. To make this right. But rest assured, we will get you that heirloom, and then everything will be right again.”
When Brayden got home from the last day of work at the FBI, she was sobbing, a veritable mess, and holding the phone up at him.
“They’re coming to kill me, Brayden.”
Brayden listened to the message, then took the phone and said, “I’ll be right back.” He went downstairs, into the garage, broke out the hammer and the safety goggles and beat that Samsung of Sabrina’s into a heap of electronic ruin.
She came out in the garage, saw what he was doing, then said, “All my pictures.”
“What’s more important,” he asked, “your phone or your life?”
“Life,” she conceded.
“Well no need to thank me, but I’m saving yours.” He pulled off the goggles, set them and the hammer on the work bench, then said, “I’m saving both our lives. Go up stairs, pack your shit. We’re leaving in ten.”
Titan, Romeo and three girls were out back in the hot tub even though they paid a fortune to heat the pool in the winter, and Brayden didn’t know what to say, so he left a note on the table along with the names and numbers of his two pick-up artists who were starting with him next week. Those two guys would do just fine with Titan and Romeo. Outside, as he was walking to the car, which was parked street side against the curb, the hot neighbor drove up, slowed down and rolled down her window when she came to a stop. Her eyes were on Sabrina, then on him, then back on Sabrina.
“Is that Sabrina Baldridge?” she asked, like Sabrina wasn’t even there.
“It is.”
“Oh my God. Aren’t you supposed to be in rehab?”
“Listen, I’d love to stay and chat,” Brayden said, “but we sort of have to get somewhere…”
“It’s okay,” she said, looking at his luggage. “You look like you aren’t coming back.”
“You never know,” he said. When she furrowed her brow at the statement, he simply winked and said, “Laters baby,” just like on Fifty Shades of Grey, but much cooler.
It made her smile, but hesitantly. Okay, maybe it sounded lame, but maybe it sounded really cool, too.
“It’s a Fifty Shades reference,” he told her.
“I’ve seen the movie,” she replied.
“Of course you have,” he said with a lopsided grin.
That’s when he got in the car, started up the engine and he and Sabrina took off. “You sounded totally gay back there,” she said.
“Haven’t you heard?” he replied. “Gay’s the new straight.”
4
They were on the road out of town when he picked up his new phone and dialed the number. The man answered almost immediately.
“Hello?”
“It’s Brayden.”
“For the love of God,” he mumbled. “What do you want?”
“I’m coming into town. I’m just outside Vegas and heading straight to your lab.”
“That means shit to me.”
“Oh, yeah…there he is. The butthole I’ve come to know so well.”
Dr. Enzo Holland, formerly Dr. Wolfgang Gerhard, formerly a Nazi war criminal and mass murderer, said nothing. He just waited. Silently.
“So it’s time,” Brayden said.
“What do you mean it’s time?”
“It’s time,” Brayden said. “As in when I get there—”
“Looks like you finally found your balls,” he said, interrupting.
Brayden looked over at Sabrina, who was watching the road, mesmerized, unblinking, her impossible past sitting in the storm clouds in her eyes.
“I’ve always known where my balls are,” he said. Then: “I have company.”
“Raven?” he asked.
“Raven’s a ghost. I doubt you’ll never see her again.”
“So if not her, then who?”
“Someone similar,” he said, looking back at Sabrina who turned to look at him.
“Girl or guy?”
“Girl,” he said, holding her eye. “Same age, modified.”
If she had any concern, Sabrina wasn’t showing it in her eyes, or her expression. The lights were on, but barely anyone was home. He didn’t blame her though. She had no idea what her life was looking like from one minute to the next.
Before now, all she knew was they were leaving Vegas. Now they were visiting some guy who didn’t seem to care much for Brayden. In between here and there they’d eat, she’d pee, sleep a bit, drive a bit, then not be in Nevada. But throughout it all, she would be on the run, her mother and brother were going to stay dead and her father was now going to get life in prison, or the death penalty. They’d make sure of that. Whomever it was pulling the strings.
Brayden started to say something to Holland, but then he frowned and said, “Hello?” Nothing. “Hello?!” Wow. Brayden looked down at the phone then hung it up and said, “Can’t believe that douchebag hung up on me.”
“Who was that?” Sabrina asked, her voice faraway, dazed sounding.
“This asshole we all know. But don’t worry about it. You want to listen to something? Music, I mean?”
“I just want to sit for a moment,” she said. Turning away from him, he felt her crying before he saw it. Reaching across the seat, he took her hand in his. She let him take it, held it, then looked at him with wet eyes and said, “Thank you.”
He nodded because looking at her seemed to break something in him, too. This life, he thought. My God, what a crazy, crazy life.
Dial a Friend
1
Dr. Enzo Holland picked up the phone, grimaced, then dialed the number. Before it could ring through, he hung up the phone, got himself a stiff drink, put the Vodka down fast. He never tired of the burn. Or how soothed he felt afterwards. He chased the drink with another, and then another, and then he picked up the phone and dialed the number again.
“Hello?” the girl said.
“Raven?”
“Holland,” she replied, the disappointment changing her voice a bit.
“The one and only.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Well I don’t want to talk to you either, you little shit, but as determined as I am to not give two damns about you, our time together has left a few cracks in my armor.”
“Quit waxing poetic and get to the point,” she said in a harsh whisper. “I’m with my family.”
“Brayden’s on his way here. He wants his treatment.”
“What?!”
“That’s right.”
He thought he heard that thing in her voice he hoped he wouldn’t hear. A deep concern for Brayden. Enzo just wanted to let her know so later she wouldn’t retaliate when the body of her best friend was no longer walking on this planet. The girl was a frightening, vindictive little thing. Best not to kick that bear. Yet he ran the risk of seeing her again. Crossing her.
“When?” she asked.
“He said he’s driving in from Vegas. That he’s got someone like you in tow.”
She gave a sharp, heavy sigh, then: “Why are you telling me this?”
“I’m wondering the same thing myself,” he said, pacing the kitchen of his San Francisco home. “Perhaps I’ve developed a soft spot for you, child. Or maybe I somehow turned into a bitch after this last transformation.”
“You’ve always been a bitch,” she joked, and he gave a reluctant laugh.
He tempered his mirth, however, because the
y weren’t girlfriends giggling at some slumber party. They were sometimes partners and sometimes enemies, and sometimes the line between the two was so blurred he wasn’t sure which way was up.
He closed his eyes, felt the strain working its way backwards, to his neck.
“Why do we always fight?” he asked, tired, the irritation lying naked in his voice.
“Because you’re a mass murderer, a torture artist and you killed half a million Jews a long time ago you sour fuck. That sort of puts a damper on things, don’t you think?”
“That was several variations of me ago,” he said, grinding his teeth. “Entire decades have past.”
“So you say.”
“You’re no saint, Raven,” he said. He didn’t lash out at as much as he simply sought to put them on even ground. “You said so yourself.”
“When you compare our atrocities, anyone in their right mind would tell you to get bent.”
“Suit yourself. He’ll be arriving early this morning. If you’re not at the lab by then, I’m putting him under and that’s that.”
At this point, he waited for her to stop his heart. His senses attuned to his body, especially the rhythm of his heart, he couldn’t help thinking of the last time she reached psychically into his chest and started to squeeze the organ. The heat started deep inside him. The nervousness. How he felt himself dying that day, he now anticipated the worst. He tried not to.
“I’m not going to kill you, Josef.”
“One can never be too sure with you, my dear,” he replied coolly, even though he felt the warmth gathering around his brow and collar.
“I’ll be there,” she said, resolute. “And thank you for the call.”
He started to speak, but the line went dead. Hanging up the phone, he brewed a fresh pot of coffee, filled his mug, then got in his Porsche and drove to the lab.
