by Theo Cage
They had eliminated them as well. All the Pips. A clean sweep.
“You need to do the same,” said Hunter.
“Copy.” No extraction or surveillance. This was an elimination, a kill order. Coming from a scientist who wrote books on butterflies and schooling fish.
“It’ll be solo, sorry. You’re on your own,” added Hunter.
“Sure. Except for my tour guide.”
“Exactly. And you remember who was behind Gladys Knight?”
How could Rice forget. Evelyn Bosch was part of an organization of criminals and terrorists known as Nzambi. Ghost in Swahili. Organized crime had adopted twenty-first century methods and technology. They shared information, capitalized each other, held international conventions where they made plans for world domination.
Gangsters with PowerPoint.
“How’s—you know—” Rice wanted an update on Britt without saying her name. A name can trigger a search algorithm.
“Health is good. She’s excellent. Especially now that we know you’re okay.”
“Give her my love.”
“I will.”
“And don’t let her out of your sight, Hunter.”
“She’s safe here.”
“No, I mean never let her out of your sight. For any reason.” Rice waited for a response. He wanted to be sure that the enormity of the danger sank into the massive Hunter cranium. If the Chinese government could listen in on his unborn child’s heartbeat, they could gain access to any kind of information: security codes for the front gates in Fountain Hills, guard schedules, identities of key personnel, access to power, water. Rice was keenly aware that Yang and Nzambi were capable of anything.
“I have questions,” added Hunter. “So many questions.”
“I know. I’ll paint you an answer.” Hunter didn’t respond. He was probably already thinking of a way to get more data to Rice.
Rice passed the phone back to Ki who looked him right in the eyes.
“Everything good, Mr. Rice?”
“Always. Everything is locked and loaded.” Ki didn’t look convinced.
“Where are we going?” asked Rice.
“I have the coordinates. I would normally put them into the GPS. But then if the car is confiscated, someone could just look them up. Or follow us.”
“Sure, but does our destination have a name?”
“It does, Mr. Rice, but we don’t have access to that information.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The place we are going to is a ghost city.”
“Ghost city?”
“It’s an entire city. Brand new. Roads, downtown, suburbs, shopping malls, everything. But it’s empty.”
“Why?”
“The Chinese government builds these to create jobs and pump up the country’s economy. But no one has moved in yet. And the government hasn’t named this city yet officially. So, it’s just a ghost city.”
Rice shrugged. Nothing in China surprised him anymore. He was about to climb into Ki’s SUV when he saw Lui hanging back by his hut. Rice knew he would never see the man again, a simple farmer who had saved his life, gave him shelter, fed him from his own meagre rations. Rice made his way up the path, holding out his hand.
“Thank you, my friend. For everything.”
Lui grinned a mostly toothless smile. They shook hands, Rice marveling again at the callused dark skin of the farmer’s hands—a man who truly worked for a living.
As he turned away, Lui laughed. “You Americans are not as bad as I thought. But we will still win one day. It’s inevitable.”
Rice waved as he made his way back to the car. “Be careful what you wish for, Lui. It might just come true.”
吹管
BLOW TORCH
RICE HQ
THERE WERE FOUR OF THEM out on the lower deck of the three-story house, next to the four-car garage. Hunter was standing in the driveway, supported by the graphite frame of his tracker, wearing a new pair of sunglasses one of the attendants had bought for him recently.
Grace dropped Britt off, then parked the black F-150 in the garage. Before she could catch up, despite Britt’s lumbering gate, Rice’s partner was already into a heated argument with the scientist.
“I don’t understand,” said Britt.
“I spoke to him fifteen minutes ago. He’s healthy and alive,” said Hunter, standing his ground.
“You couldn’t have called me? Let me talk to him?”
“It’s too dangerous,” answered Hunter, his voice now cold and mechanical.
“What?” Britt screamed.
“The Chinese Army is watching this situation like hawks. A wrong word from any of us and we endanger him. He’s behind enemy lines, a fugitive from a prison—"
“A prison?”
“He was held there. That’s why he couldn’t communicate with us. He says he’s fine.”
“He would say that,” she said, looking worried. “When will he be home?”
Hunter hesitated. “He’s not coming back right away. President King has asked him to look into something for her—”
“Hunter! Rice is not the look-into-it type,” exclaimed Britt. “He’s not an insurance adjuster. He spent time in a Chinese prison. What else do we expect from him?”
Grace stepped up behind Hunter and put her hand on the roll bar that protected him if his tracker lost balance.
“Britt, you know there’s only so much we can tell you.”
“No, I don’t know. Rice is my partner. And if you haven’t been introduced yet, this is his child,” she rubbed her belly in a slow circle with her right hand. “You need to tell me why he isn’t on the next flight to Phoenix.”
Hunter hesitated again. Anytime he didn’t respond in a fraction of a second, Britt knew he was weighing the options carefully. But this was more than just a tough algebra question.
“Britt, you know about the F35 fighter jet that crashed in Florida? The President thinks that China was responsible.” Britt looked from Hunter to Grace.
“That’s a problem. But what does that have to do with Rice?”
“She’s asked him to investigate. So, before he returns, he’s taking a short detour.” Britt shook her head and turned her back on Hunter.
“Grace, this is bull, and you know it.” She was putting the sniper in the crossfire. “We agreed he would stay out of the line of fire.”
“Britt, this came straight from POTUS. It was Rice's choice.”
Britt turned and stared at Hunter. His face was always unreadable but now with the shades she couldn’t see his eyes blink or know where he was looking.
“I need to talk to Burroughs.”
“We might be able to arrange that. In a few days.” answered Hunter.
“Might be able to?” she snapped.
“The last thing we want to do—the last thing you want to do—is give them clues to Rice’s location.”
“You can figure something out.” Britt let that challenge float in the heated air above the blacktop. Hunter turned, circling the two women in his tracker. Then he realized that might appear overall aggressive, so he stopped.
“By tonight, and no later,” Britt added, pointing a finger in his direction.
Hunter didn’t answer; he was already working out the problem in his head.
Grace moved up beside Britt and touched her shoulder. “He’ll figure something out,” she said.
“He better.” Britt nodded towards Hunter’s tracker. “Does he know I’m pretty handy with an acetylene torch?”
Grace lifted an eyebrow and winced. “I guess he does now.”
破产
T H E C R A S H
Enbraer Phenom 300E private jet
Somewhere over US airspace
ALL HER LIFE SHE POSSESSED ONE SKILL that made her stand out from the sheep and the wolves: numbers. She could multiply three digits times three digits in her head when she was seven. At ten, she could square five digits. There was nothing else for her: she w
asn’t beautiful, wasn’t tall, her hair was uncooperative, her nose too big, her breasts too small. She couldn’t sing, couldn’t dance, couldn’t play sports with any confidence. She was one of seven children, unremarkable and easily forgotten.
So why was she sitting in a soft leather recliner, in her private Embraer Phenom jet, a glass of Louis Roederer Cristal Brut in her hand, Jimmy Choos on her feet, the President of Venezuela sitting across from her and hanging on her every word?
Because she ruled the Sinaloa cartel, one of the largest criminal syndicates in the world—although she preferred the more common appellation: The Blood Alliance.
Years ago, the cartel was headed by ‘El Chapo’. Those were the good old days when her uncle ran the largest cocaine production and distribution network in the world: over twenty-five tons of blow every year. Now meth and fentanyl were the cash cows of the operation. More sophisticated production techniques were required; she hired scientists and chemists and engineers today; there was less focus on jungle operations and tonnage. The newer drugs were addictive and growing so quickly in use it was hard to keep up.
Her double degree in Chemical Engineering and a Harvard MBA served her well in this new world. And she was a pragmatist as well—cool headed, ruled by logic. She rarely expressed anger, preferred the Socratic method. You cheat or lie or steal or snitch— you die. There are no questions asked, no quarter given. She ruled the way algorithms ruled finance and investment: if x=y, then pull the trigger. Instant and emotionless. So efficient, so perfect in design.
Venezuela was ruled by a mob family called the Cartel of the Suns. They owned the sweaty politician sitting across from her, staining the imported leather back rest with his cheaply dyed hair.
“Concepcion …” he started, not sure where to put his hands. He had tried to kiss her on the cheek when they met on the tarmac and she had turned away from him. A disgusting habit, she mused. She didn’t need to touch business partners to engage in commerce. Besides, he was crude. His suit was bunched up at his shoulders which meant bad tailoring or poor breeding, or both. She understood the need to work through him—he was the President of the country, elected by a popular vote manipulated by the army, which was taking a significant cut of the profits from the Cartel of the Sun. He was a former General. And a pig farmer. Now he was rich and getting richer. If he could follow the most basic of orders.
“Sit back, Mr. Presidente. Enjoy a glass of wine. There will be time later to talk business.”
He frowned. She knew he wanted to negotiate a higher percentage for the Cartel. Meaning he would get a bigger payout. He wants to send his kid to Yale. That’s not cheap. Especially when your son has lousy grades and you know you need to build a new Economics wing at the college just to get him admitted.
Concepcion sniffed the air. Could she smell him? She wanted to gag. She sipped her champagne instead, tapping out the first dozen prime numbers with her fingers on the Govino stemless wine glass.
She guessed what he was thinking. You are so plain. Why don’t you have that nose fixed, your teeth straightened, your boobs enlarged. You have more money than the Pope. You can afford it.
He didn’t understand what was important. There was nothing she could say to him. He was blind in so many ways. But still useful.
A young man came up from behind before she could say more, dressed in a blue flight uniform complete with brass buttons, one of her attendants.
“Ms. Vargas? There is a call for you in the boardroom.” She excused herself, removed her high heels and padded down the aisle to section two, next to the private screening theatre. She closed the oak door. She had been expecting this communication.
“Marello, how is the weather in the Caribbean?” she asked.
“Blustery.” Like me, she thought.
“Have you spoken to Richard?” she meant Richard Yang.
“Just now.”
“Don’t make me wait.”
“Tomorrow morning,” was all he said. She controlled her voice despite a jolt of excitement that raced up her spine and along her shoulder blades. A delicious ripple chased up her thighs as well. She readjusted her chair.
“You know him better than I, Marello. How certain is he?” She bit her lip, anxious.
“The New York exchanges will be down for three full business days. We will let them go live for no more than a few minutes on Thursday, then take them down again. We want to make it clear to everyone that we control all U.S. markets for as long as we want. Thursday, when the brokerages get back online, there will be panic selling. He believes the markets will drop more than twenty-five percent.”
Concepcion would agree. Maybe more. Maybe the panic will be so deep that the crash will be worse than 2008. A drop of fifty percent might be too much to hope for. No need to be greedy. But possible.
All legal profit, scrubbed clean through hundreds of investment accounts, selling the market short, profiting from the lost value. In a world distracted by a climactic financial upheaval engineered by Richard Yang’s army of hackers—and let’s not forget the thousands of integrated circuits making the Internet possible, all built with backdoor access to every major corporation on the planet.
If anything, the Chinese were patient. Yang had been building this technological Trojan horse for twenty years.
“This could be worth a trillion dollars,” Marello murmured. Concepcion allowed herself to smile. This was only the beginning, but so sweet to contemplate.
地震
E A R T H Q U A K E
Virtual Reality
HUNTER STEPPED INTO THE FRONT LOBBY of the hacker’s apartment block when he felt the ground shake. Another VR earthquake? Grace was beside him, crouching for balance. They were back in the virtual ghost city to confront the hacker team.
“Does this happen all the time here?” she asked.
“I don’t know. It could be some instability in the program. Or the quantum computer is making an adjustment and it manifests itself as a quake.” He shrugged his shoulders. He could see in Grace’s eyes she was amused. She had never seen that gesture from him before.
“Are we going to get swallowed up by the earth? Crushed by an office tower?” she asked.
“You sound uncharacteristically worried,” smirked Hunter.
“I’m a Marine. I’m just being careful. I want both of us to survive until dinner.”
Hunter reached out for the frame of the entrance door, surprised by the violence of the tremors as much as he marveled at the instant command of his arms. They stretched, opened, the hands grasping, the fingers flexing. Despite his death grip on the door, he still went down hard, his face striking the marble of the lobby floor. He felt a sharp pain in his cheek. Because he was jacked directly, his experience of the world was more profound than Grace’s, more concrete. But none of that superseded the joy of being able to control his body.
He rolled over on his back. The ceiling high above him rocked and vibrated. Three inset LED spots blinked out, a painting behind the wide front desk crashed to the floor, glass fragments spilling out across the lobby.
Grace reached down to pick him up. He could tell she was surprised by how easy it was to get him back on his feet. “In virtual reality you weigh about ten pounds,” she said. “How do I look?”
“I’m not falling for that trap.”
“What do you mean?”
“That old question? How do I look like in these jeans? You look terrific in everything you wear. Real or VR. It doesn’t matter.”
“Flatterer.”
Hunter stared up at the high ceiling, the rumbling beginning to subside. “These are not my program modifications. And I don’t think they’re defensive moves by the hacker team. That doesn’t feel right. Something is broken inside the machine.”
“What machine are you talking about?” Grace asked, touching the surface of a wall.
“This whole virtual world in the ghost city. There’s something off.”
“I know what’s not right. You
still haven’t given me a gun,” she said.
“You don’t need a gun, Grace. You can run faster than anyone here, jump higher, punch harder. If someone shows up with a virtual gun of some kind, which I doubt will happen, just dodge the bullets. Like in the movies. You’re the Black Widow for the next few hours.”
“I won’t last a few hours. Every time I turn my head, I feel like I’m going to lose my breakfast.”
Hunter stretched, feeling the muscles in his shoulders expand, filling him with a sense of power. Feeling any of his muscles was a remarkable experience, even if it was only in his mind.
“Let me just check our coordinates and then we’ll take the elevator,” said Hunter. “I don’t want any surprises.” He called up more information about the area, the apartment block and the local streets. He knew Rice was on his way. Ki estimated their arrival in about four hours. And the hackers would have no idea they were under threat. Hunter’s strategy was to distract them, pile on their issues, keep them busy until Rice got here.
Hunter was focused on the teen in the haptic suit. Maybe Hunter had scared him off, smashing him across the computer room, knocking over his precious equipment. But he knew how these hackers thought. It was all about the challenge. They were code breakers, lock pickers, door crashers. That was what gave them their buzz. The haptic kid might be sore, his ego bruised, but he still wanted to win. He’d be back.
The quality of the information he was getting surprised Hunter. He was used to Google maps, street photos of houses and buildings. Private mapping systems were far more detailed. He could read a newspaper lying in a gutter, find lost keys laying in the grass in a park, follow vehicles in real time. By marrying this data with the VR program, Hunter could walk the streets and sidewalks of the world anywhere. An hour before he had wandered the paths of Hyde Park and watched tourists feed the ducks in the Serpentine Lake. Moments later he stood beside the Vice President of the United States as he putted for bogie on the ninth hole at Burning Tree. Now he was back in the Ghost City, inside the lobby of the hacker’s apartment complex. His data feed indicated the building was empty except for one unit, the apartment housing the hackers.
