Three Vlog Night

by Z. A. Maxfield

  “You gave her your name and now this happens?” Bartosz shouted. “I’m sick of these so-called coincidences. It’s obvious what has happened here. The little shit is stirring the pot.”

  “No way.” Ajax rose, gripping Dmytro’s jacket with both hands. “No way have I done that. How could I? We’re miles away from St. Nacho’s. I have no idea where we are. I have no phone. No computer. Like it or not, this is on Iphicles, not me. You need to check your hardware and your people, because this is an inside job.”

  “You’re mad.” Bartosz got out his phone. “I’m calling Zhenya.”

  “Anyway, as you pointed out,” Ajax reminded them, “whoever fired on us was trying to miss us.”

  “You don’t know that,” Bartosz argued.

  Ajax gave an eye roll. “Duh. Of course they were.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Oh, believe me, I know angles,” Ajax said testily. “Whoever fired those shots could have hit any one of us. We were sitting ducks. But he missed. Deliberately.”

  Dmytro finally spoke up. “You can’t know for sure they weren’t aiming at us, Ajax. Perhaps they were simply a poor shot? Or shooting from a boat on the water, which moved unexpectedly?”

  Cautiously, Ajax led them into the dining room, where the three of them glanced up again. “They fired three single rounds. For a poor shot on a rocky boat, that’s an awesome grouping, don’t you think?” Sure enough, three neat holes formed a tight pattern that would make any sniper proud.

  Dmytro shared a look with Bartosz.

  “I may not speak your language, but you have very expressive eyes, Dmytro. You think I have no clue what’s happening here, but I know anxiety when I see it.”

  That took Dmytro by surprise. “I—”

  “Yes, Dmytro of the expressive eyes.” Bartosz jumped right on that. “I was watching the boats. There was nothing. Ajax is right. A child could not have missed those shots.”

  “We didn’t follow the first plan.” Ajax pursued it. “We switched cars. We’ve done the unexpected everywhere we’ve been. We’re missing something. I just don’t know what it is.”

  “Come. You’re tired.” Dmytro took Ajax by the arm and led him back to one of the chairs. “You can nap as soon as Zhenya tells us to board the boat.”

  Oh God, the boat. “I won’t sleep.”

  “You must. Even if only briefly. You’re obviously exhausted, and we’re going to need your help later. Peter thinks if Ajax Freedom goes back online, the person who sends his regards with such—” Dmytro pursed his lips as if something tasted foul. “—specificity will be compelled to act.”

  “Ajax Freedom is over. He’s done. That ship has sailed.”

  “We have more than one ship,” Dmytro promised. “Iphicles has an armada.”

  DMYTRO SEEMED furious when Peter, the Iphicles point man, took charge of their operation. He and several other burly men in black Iphicles polo shirts and black jeans descended on the docks to discuss the attack at great length with the police, who seemed equally unhappy to have them there. Everyone checked the trajectory of the bullets. They searched unsuccessfully for shell casings.

  Dmytro, Bartosz, and Ajax gave answers to their questions and asked their own.

  Now they were in a holding pattern, trying to decide what to do about the things they’d learned.

  “We should go back to LA and start over.” Bartosz was adamantly, vocally opposed to staying one minute longer. “Perhaps they’re not trying to kill you. Perhaps someone is trying to squeeze you into a kidnap and ransom scenario. The more they narrow our options, the more I think—”

  “You really think that’s what’s going on here?” Ajax asked. “It’s all about cash?”

  After the shooting, Dmytro had convinced him to wear a bullet-resistant vest. They kept him in the shadows, under the protection of Iphicles men, 100 percent of the time now.

  Bartosz nodded slowly. “It’s a strong possibility.”

  Dmytro had been listening without speaking for a while. Now he said, “If they want only to take you, then the coincidences make more sense. They’ll assume we’ll be rattled. Without resources.”

  Ajax didn’t buy it. “But anyone can see we have resources everywhere.”

  “Even so, our options are being taken away one by one.” Bartosz ran a hand through his thick hair. “Don’t you see?”

  “He sees, Bartosz. Give it a rest.”

  Peter shot Ajax a pained glance. “I’m so sorry you had to go through this.”

  “It’s no one’s fault.”

  “Except whoever’s doing this to you,” Dmytro muttered darkly. Ajax didn’t like that person’s chances if Dmytro ever caught up to them.

  Since the restaurant had closed its kitchen, their waiter, Jason, took pity on him. He’d concocted a smoothie while they waited for the police to finish taking statements.

  “You’ll like this,” he said. “Strawberry colada. Virgin so your boys there won’t blow a gasket.”

  “I could use a real drink,” Ajax whispered.

  “I hear you, baby. Done.” Jason waited until Bartosz and Dmytro shifted their attention elsewhere before bringing Ajax a half tumbler of vodka. Ajax discreetly slipped it into his drink.

  He drank the sweet, boozy slush gratefully. The only problem was dripping alcohol on his busted lip. The third time he dabbed at it gingerly with his napkin, Jason said, “Look at you, pretty boy. You got banged up good. Let me get you some ice in a paper towel.”

  When he came back with that, Ajax held it to his lip.

  Jason asked, “Are you okay? You got anything you want to tell me?”

  A little buzzed and unsure what he meant, Ajax nodded and lifted the ice pack to say, “This smoothie is very delicious. Thank you.”

  “I don’t want your gratitude.” Jason rolled his eyes. “Are you okay hanging around muscle like that? They hurt you? You got a choice? Or are they—”

  “No—yes—they’re not—” Ajax’s fresh grin hurt. “Ow. My parents hired them. It’s fine. They’re my security detail.”

  Jason nodded, but he didn’t look reassured. He leaned against the counter, arms folded. “They any good? ’Cause I gotta wonder, what’s with them bringing you here and getting the place all shot up.”

  “I’m sorry about that. No. They’re the good guys. This time the bad guys won a round, I guess.”

  Ajax couldn’t imagine how he’d make it up to the owners. He’d be the first to admit he’d done some stuff his parents had to throw money at. He’d had some fender-benders and was responsible for a memorable homemade slip-and-slide in the corridor of his dorm. Now he earned his keep and he paid his own way. He’d made good money doing the Freedom gig, and he’d spent very little of it. But someone’s restaurant had to close because of him. Someone had been hurt because of him.

  “Give me your phone.” Unblinking, Jason held his phone out, and Ajax typed his lawyer’s phone number in it. “Can you tell the owner to call this number? That’s my—that’s the number he should call to talk about reparations for all of this. Tell them when this is all over, I’ll make up for the business they lost because of me.”

  If he made amends, he could disappear aboard the Iphicles boat and lie low.

  Jason took his phone and squinted at it. “Owner’s name is Chance, and I’ll give this to him, but I’m sure his insurance will cover it. I’m just glad you’re okay. I came here from LA to get away from drive-by shootings.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ajax felt like the first rat off a ship carrying plague. “It won’t happen again. Get in touch. Seriously.”

  “You okay, Ajax?” By the time Dmytro stopped by with another Iphicles operative to talk to him, Ajax was a little looped.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Do you remember Peter?” Dmytro put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “You met him that first night at your place. He took point on setting up the decoy, and now he’ll help us rig the trap.”

  “I do. Pleasur
e.” Ajax held out his hand. They shook.

  In daylight, Peter’s wide brown eyes were remarkably intense. He wore his hair cut in a fade with a deep side part. Along with a thick, luxurious beard, he epitomized the modern male. Unlike the rest of his men, he wore a casual but business-friendly plaid shirt, fitted blue trousers, and hiking boots. He had gages.

  Were the men from Iphicles hired because they were hot?

  Ajax asked, “Can I go home now?”

  “Which home?” Peter winced. “Because your dad’s in Geneva at an oncology conference, and your mother’s in Luxembourg on business.”

  Ajax sighed. “Back to the motel, I mean. Or back to LA.”

  “No.”

  Ajax’s heart dropped. “Please?”

  “Nope. Your Uncle Zhenya wants you on that boat,” Peter said sternly. “From now on we’ll be moving you constantly. Let me just iron out a few details and we’ll make it happen. Bartosz says you like the coast, eh?”

  “The coast,” he admitted, “not the water.”

  “The boat’s not a safe house, per se, but Iphicles will be watching from land, sea, and air. Until we find out more about the most recent emails—”

  “What emails?” Ajax asked. “I’m on enforced digital detox.”

  “He doesn’t know?” Peter glanced to Dmytro, who shrugged. “We cloned your phone before we took it away from you. Whatever threatening messages you’ve received since we came on board are part of a database we’re using to find the assholes who are sending them. Under these new circumstances, the police, maybe even the FBI, will be taking over the investigation. In the meantime, you’re going to go for a cruise and Iphicles will try to smoke your bad guy out.”

  Ajax shook his head. “That sounds like a terrible idea.”

  “You got a better one?”

  Even if he’d planned to answer, Peter didn’t give him the chance. He was one of those guys with energy to burn, and Ajax had to practically sprint to keep up with him.

  “I’ll have the IT guys tell you what we need from you once you board. We can get started tonight. The gist is: Ajax Freedom rides again.”

  He said the words like that was a good thing, which—Ajax narrowed his eyes. “You know that was all fake, right? The Ajax Freedom persona got blown, and not in the fun and spanky way. He can’t come back.”

  “Aw… I know. But”—Peter smiled brightly—“we’re betting at least some people in the angry mob don’t care about that. We’re betting that we can engage your stalker because he wants to punish you for telling lies. He’s furious. He feels betrayed. He’s going to want to air his grievances against you, and we’ll be right there, monitoring your feed, when he does.”

  Ajax agreed, in theory, that it could work. “I’m told I can make anyone angry, if that’s what you want.”

  “Oh, I got the memo on that too.” Peter shot Dmytro a fond look. “Zhenya wants you to go live as if Ajax Freedom never left. We’re set up to route you through the safehouse servers. When you’re done being obnoxious, you’re free to knock off. Let us monitor the stream. You don’t need the aggravation, all right?”

  “Um. Yeah. Okay. If you think a good hacker won’t be able to see through a basic reroute—”

  “Iphicles is the best, Ajax,” Peter said. “Trust me.”

  Ajax didn’t. And he resented being coddled. “I’m not exactly shabby at this technical shit either. Whoever is doing this has chops. I disabled anonymous comments, so they started using burner accounts.”

  Peter shrugged. “Of course they did. Might as well throw rocks at the moon.”

  “Yeah. Well. I wrote a pretty efficient patch to filter for dubious accounts. Whoever this is, they got around it. I was running a Wireshark packet sniffer, though. If I could get my hands on my computer, I’m sure I could run down—”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Peter grinned like a wolf in a fairy tale. “We have some proprietary tricks up our sleeve, baby. I tell you what—if you can find this asshole before we do, we’ll hire you.”

  Peter’s words made him search out Dmytro’s gaze. Their eyes met for far too long. No man had ever looked at him like that. Was that only Dmytro’s protective instinct? Or was it more?

  “Challenge accepted. Happens I quit my day job recently. Get me a brand-new laptop. I’ll just need time to tear it apart, scrub it, and then we’ll see who gets there first.”

  He had to force himself to think about his Freedom persona. While he was rattled now, uncertain, afraid to take up the mic again and rant as he’d once done daily, he knew the second he started speaking on air, it would be effortless. One of his therapists told him Ajax Freedom wasn’t an outlet, it was a compulsion. Whatever the reason, things were different for him when he was able to channel his alter ego. He knew actors who got over crippling stage fright the moment they walked on stage. Maybe it was something like that?

  He could blink away nerves when Freedom was the center of attention. He was able to get a grip, not because he was fearless or confident, but because Ajax Freedom didn’t suffer the same fears he did.

  Peter apparently skippered the cruiser, and he introduced Ajax to Chet, his first mate. Chet ran a digital wand over everyone, looking for transmitters, before they climbed aboard.

  The crew—which included two well-armed, athletic women in Iphicles gear—made their final preparations.

  Dmytro found him later to slap a scopolamine patch on him. They stood on deck together, watching water foam against the bow. Dmytro dug through his pockets. “Here’s your watch. You left it behind in the restaurant.”

  “Thanks.” Had he? Ajax frowned at his watch. He was glad to have it back. If he’d lost it, he’d have had to buy another for scuba diving, which reminded him. Sport was the only reason he ever got on boats. The Iphicles boat was well maintained. She carried the clean scent of teakwood, but also engine oil and the inevitable aroma of mildew, in the cabins. She was seaworthy, probably.

  He hoped he wasn’t making the worst mistake of his life, getting on this one.

  He missed his parents. He was afraid he’d never see them again.

  Why, oh why, had he agreed to go along again?

  “You all right?” Dmytro already wore his own patch, but he looked as green as Ajax felt.

  “I’m hanging in there so far.”

  “Don’t you start,” Dmytro warned. “I will get sick if you get sick.”

  He gave Dmytro’s beefy arm a slap. “Don’t you start either.”

  Dmytro’s gaze fell on him and warmed. Not all the way to blue, precisely, but they weren’t the winter gray of disapproval either.

  In light of the teasing, fond look Dmytro shot him, all the reasons he should not be there were gone, and in their place Dmytro’s words: I will be sad should anything happen to you… I will protect you… trust me.

  He would trust Dmytro. He believed Dmytro had his best interest at heart.

  HOURS LATER they got him set up to stream. They gave him a brand-new computer and headset. Just like old times.

  He’d grown up on the internet. Started as a lonely adolescent creating podcasts, telling jokes and stories. He’d had an enormous amount of money to pursue his projects and produce his internet radio shows. Through hard work and sheer audacity, he’d achieved whatever audience and merchandising goals he set for himself year after year, becoming a big celebrity in a short amount of time.

  Sponsorships and fundraising opportunities made it very rewarding. Cash poured in. But as high as he flew, it only took one scathing, drunken rant, livestreamed on YouTube, to bring him to earth with a thud. His sponsors fled. Charities distanced themselves. It had been his choice, but still. It hurt.

  When he started, he’d seen the Ajax Freedom persona as entertainment. As satire. He was a modern-day Jonathan Swift, and Ajax Freedom was his “A Modest Proposal.” It wasn’t until he realized his arrogance and entitlement gave others license to say things—to do the very things he wanted to shine a spotlight on—that he shut it all down.


  Now he never wanted to see a microphone or video camera again.

  “Hello once again from America,” he began as he often did: stiffly. “The land of the greedy and the home of the craven. This is Ajax Freedom, and just when you thought it was safe”—he smiled at the camera—“he’s baaaaaaack.”

  He’d left his hair curly and wild. Donned the black plastic nerd glasses and button-down plaid shirt he’d chosen for Ajax Freedom’s persona. He looked like a super-rich nerd, the kind of computer guy who sells his first app for a billion dollars and settles down to a life of playing air guitar and dating supermodels.

  The direction he’d decided to take with his rant felt easy as soon as he got started. He heaped abuse on people who once believed in him. He accused them of spending all their time listening to him rather than getting actual jobs or dating real live people. He told them to grow a pair and make something happen in their own lives instead of listening to assholes like him.

  As the boat rocked, the alcohol he’d had earlier and the motion sickness patch made him drowsy and relieved him of inhibitions. He gained traction, disappearing into the vitriolic headspace that was Ajax Freedom’s alone.

  He could no longer pretend he was bisexual but mostly into women, but he told his old crowd he planned to head up the new gay army. He blasted trend followers, social media mavens, and Instagram It Kids like him. He blasted designers—even those who’d endorsed him—and told people to read a goddamn book for a change. To light up their lives, not just reflect light like so many empty moons.

  That fired up the comments like nothing ever had. Lots of anger, but a lot were… really positive. A lot of the comments were honestly… supportive. Maybe Ajax—even if he was acting more Fairchild than Freedom—had more traction than he thought?

  When he’d finally piled enough garbage onto his big shit sundae, he flung the cherry on top: “Aaaaaand guess what. Seems like somebody out there wants to kill me. They don’t like me. Can you believe this shit?

  “I got twelve million YouTube subscribers for being a privileged, entitled white dickwad, and someone wants to kill me for it. And maybe I suck, but what is the world coming to if people think they can just… weigh in with fists and guns and explosives if they don’t like how someone looks or what they have to say?