Mission Mayhem

by Michael Cross

  “Okay, so, I know this is going to sound weird, but I set you up in a new life,” I start. “In this life. Right?”

  He nods, a look of confusion on his face. “Yeah. This is all you, man. You got me out of a bad situation.”

  “What were you running from?”

  He cocks his head again and stares at me. “What do you mean?”

  I sigh. I don’t want to tell him everything. I shouldn’t. But I need to tell him enough to get him talking.

  “I just—something happened, and I’m having some problems with my memory,” I admit. “I’m trying to put things together in my head on my own. But when I saw you, it triggered something, and I remembered. I’m just hoping you can fill in some of the blanks.”

  “Whoa. No shit?” he gasps.

  “Yeah. No shit.”

  He chuckles. “Occupational hazard, huh?” he asks. “Going undercover like—"

  “Yeah, yeah, something like that,” I cut him off. “I just need you to tell me how you came to be in my life. Tell me like this is the first time I’m hearing any of this.”

  Jafi clears his throat. “Okay, well, you were targeting my uncle. He runs with some bad people. Terrorist kinda people,” he says. “We met in Amman, and you convinced me to work for you. To use my skills to hack into my uncle’s computer to get the information you needed.”

  “So you’re a hacker?”

  A smug, satisfied smile crosses his face. “And a damn good one too.”

  I nod. Okay, so I recruited him to be an asset in Jordan. I guess that tracks. I don’t need the mission specifics right now. That’s extraneous detail. I gesture for him to keep talking.

  “Go on. What happened next?”

  “I got you the information, but then things went to shit when somebody dimed me out. One of my friends who wanted to get in good with my uncle’s group,” he says, his expression darkening. “So you arranged for it to look like I’d been murdered, and once those pictures went out, you got me a new life and had me moved here.”

  I look around. Of all the places I could have sent him to, Tucson shouldn’t have been my first choice. It almost seems cruel for a young guy like him. But then, he seems to have found his niche here. And maybe it’s the small size and relative anonymity of the place that made me choose it. It’s not exactly a terrorist hot spot, so Jafi can run around freely without having to worry about being recognized.

  “You and I—we were pretty tight during all of this, right?” I ask.

  He nods. “Yeah, I thought so, man. I mean, we weren’t lighting up all the time or anything,” he grins. “But I thought we were pretty tight, yeah.”

  “And Duncan’s the only name I ever gave you?” I ask.

  He nods. “Yeah. I mean, I figured it was fake. Undercover shit. I love spy movies.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, I guess they’re close enough,” I admit. “Anyway, did I ever tell you anything about my life? Was I married? Kids? Anything?”

  He looks long and hard at me. Even through his pot fueled haze, I can see the guy’s mind working. He’s sharp. It’s probably one reason I liked him to begin with. Unfortunately, it also leaves me a bit exposed at the moment.

  “Shit, you don’t remember anything?” he asks.

  I sigh. As I think about it further, there really isn’t any purpose to hold out on him. I mean, what’s he going to do with the information? I know he’s not working for the opposition, and he isn’t going to run and tell Delta. And even if he did, what would he say? That I confided in him that I lost my memory?

  “Not a damn thing,” I sigh. “It’s like my memory was wiped completely clean.”

  “Damn dude. That sucks,” he says. “What happened?”

  I shake my head. “Not really sure at this point,” I admit. “Was there anything I told you that could point me in the right direction? Anything at all?”

  He shakes his head. “No, man. I’m sorry. I wish you had,” he replies. “I wish I had something useful to tell you.”

  I feel that familiar sense of frustration welling up inside of me and grit my teeth. I feel like this is the first time I’ve had any sort of confirmation of that past life, but it remains just out of reach. The things I want to know remain behind an opaque window that I can neither see through nor break.

  I should have known this would be a dry hole. That I wouldn’t be able to get any personal information from Jafi about my personal life. I should have known that no matter how much I liked him, I still wouldn’t have confided my personal details. He’s an asset, after all, not my friend.

  I should have known better than to get my hopes up. And I really tried to control them and temper my expectations. But this is the first solid, real memory that’s come to me, and I guess I let myself get a little more excited than I should have. Rookie move. Dammit.

  I scrub my face with my hands, trying to think of something I can ask. Something that will help jar my memories. Anything. But I can’t think of anything. Still, maybe just being around him will tap into something deep in my head and will break something loose. Here’s hoping, anyway.

  Knowing I’m not going to get anything useful out of him, I get to my feet. Jafi watches me curiously. I can see him still trying to work it out in his head. Trying to come up with something useful for me. I can see he feels bad that he hasn’t been more helpful.

  “You’re a smart kid, Jafi,” I tell him. “You should clean this place up and put that brain of yours to some good use.”

  He waves me off and laughs. “I will, dude,” he says. “I will.”

  I nod, knowing that he won’t. “Alright, man. Anyway, I’m glad to know you’re safe.”

  “Yeah, you too, bro. It’s good seein’ you again,” he responds. “And good luck with your memory and all.”

  “Thanks.”

  I turn to go but then have a sudden thought. I turn back to him.

  “Hey, you said you’re a good hacker, right?” I ask.

  He nods. “Yeah man.”

  “How good are you?”

  “I’m the best, dude.”

  I ponder his words for a moment, wondering whether or not I should even be considering the thoughts rolling through my head. I mean, I know I shouldn’t be. But I’m well beyond curious about something at this point.

  “Think you can hack through an encrypted line?” I ask.

  “I’m sure I can,” he nods. “If it’s really good encryption, it just might take me a little longer.”

  “Excellent,” I say. “How would you like to earn some cash?”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Talk to me,” I answer the ring.

  Justice looks back at me from the other side of the screen and pointedly holds up a bowl of macaroni and cheese. She takes a big bite and moans indecently like she’s in culinary ecstasy.

  “Check it out,” she grins. “I made it myself. Here on this stove.”

  I laugh. “Macaroni and cheese? Really?”

  “What? I made it.”

  “Try making something that doesn’t come out of a box, and we’ll talk,” I fire back with a laugh.

  “My God, nothing makes you happy, does it?” she asks.

  “I’m sure some things do,” I shrug. “And when I remember what they are, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “You might want to start your search in a museum. Maybe they’ll have insight on fun things you’d have done back in the Stone Age.”

  “Ha ha,” I roll my eyes.

  She munches happily on her gourmet feast for a moment, and I’m forced to sit there and watch her eat that nuclear yellow garbage.

  “When I get fancy, I chop up some hot dogs and toss them in,” she says.

  “Yeah, real fancy,” I observe. “I think I’ve seen that exact dish on the menus of some of the finest restaurants in the country.”

  “If it isn’t, it should be.”

  I laugh and shake my head, patiently waiting for her to stop her grotesque display. She finally puts the bowl down and
looks at me, dabbing the corners of her mouth daintily with a napkin.

  “Okay, so I’m assuming you want an update?” she asks.

  “That’s a pretty safe assumption.”

  She laughs. “Well, I won’t overwhelm your frail old mind with the technical details, but I used my amazing and awe-inspiring technological powers to comb and sift through the Internet, searching the deepest and darkest recesses of cyberspace to find the information you requested.”

  “And I appreciate your diligence,” I say. “As well as your expertise.”

  “Did I mention how deep and dark those recesses were?” she presses. “And how much virtual garbage I had to sift through to fulfill your request?”

  “I’m fresh out of gold stars,” I reply. “But I will definitely buy you a cookie next time I’m in town.”

  “I suppose that will be an acceptable form of payment.”

  “Deal,” I say. “Now spill.”

  “Well, your rogue DEA Chief is a slippery customer,” she says. “Knows all of the ins and outs of hiding money and whatnot.”

  “I’m not surprised in the least.”

  “But he’s not good enough to hide from me,” she beams.

  “Of course he’s not,” I grin. “Nobody is.”

  “Yeah, I know. Anyway, McGregor has half a dozen offshore accounts set up,” she says. “Hidden through a bunch of shell corporations, of course. He’s careful about trying to keep his name off the official paperwork.”

  “So how is he doing it?”

  “This scumbag is using his wife—using her maiden name, of course,” she tells me. “And he’s using his children’s names on the incorporation papers on some of these shell companies.”

  “Clever,” I note. “Not terribly original though.”

  “Shady. But not necessarily illegal.”

  “There is that,” I admit. “Now what?”

  “Now, you let me finish,” she says.

  I laugh. “Okay, apologies,” I say. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “That’s better,” she grins. “Now, in the course of poking around all of these shell corporations, I found something interesting…”

  She lets her voice trail off, intentionally holding back the most interesting and relevant part of her story just to torment me. It’s like a thing with her.

  I sigh.

  “Yes? And what is this interesting thing you have discovered?” I ask.

  “So glad you asked,” she grins. “It seems that McGregor owns a trucking company there in Tucson.”

  “Oh really?”

  She nods. “Grand Canyon State Trucking,” she informs me. “And unlike these other companies that are nothing more than empty offices and P.O. boxes, Grand Canyon Trucking seems to be a fully functional business. They’ve got employees and everything.”

  “Well, isn’t that interesting,” I muse.

  “Technically, he doesn’t own it on paper. Not anymore. His name was on the original title of incorporation, but he sold it to a gentleman named Buck Radcliffe,” she says. “McGregor’s name was buried under a mountain of red tape and legal notices. But it’s there.”

  “And how does that help us?” I ask. “If it was sold to Buck Radcliffe, we can’t touch McGregor?”

  “That’s the issue. Of course, there’s a twist!”

  “Always a twist with you.”

  “You’re catching on. I dug further into Buck Radcliffe and discovered that he doesn’t exist. Completely fictitious.”

  I sit back in my seat and stroke my beard as I ponder the implications for a moment. That’s when the pieces start to fall into place for me.

  “So McGregor invents Buck Radcliffe, sells him the trucking company—”

  “And then climbs into bed with the Vargas cartel,” she completes my thought.

  “Then starts running girls, guns, and drugs through this trucking company,” I add.

  “Bingo,” she nods. “And unless you’re really looking, you’ll never see McGregor’s fingerprints all over it.”

  “Smart,” I say.

  “But not smarter than me.”

  I laugh. “Obviously,” I say. “Have I told you today that you’re a genius?”

  “Assume that you haven’t.”

  “You’re a genius.”

  “I know,” she preens.

  I laugh. “Do you have the address for Mr. Radcliffe’s trucking company?”

  “Already sent to your phone.”

  “Thank you, Justice,” I say. “You are worth far more than I’m paying you.”

  “I’ll take that as an offer of a raise,” she grins. “Before you ask, yes, I did some digging, and I found a contract with a security vendor for the system they have. But the problem is there’s no internet access to it. I’d have to physically be there to disable it for you. You’re on your own this time, Echo. Now go take care of things. And be careful.”

  I snap her a salute. “Roger that.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Grand Canyon State Trucking’s campus is out on the far edge of town. It’s sparsely populated out that way. There are a couple of warehouses, an overflow lot from a car dealership, what looks like a factory of sorts, and a lot of tumbleweeds.

  There’s nothing immediately surrounding it, which is going to make approaching the area fairly tricky. They have clear lines of sight three hundred and sixty degrees around the perimeter of the facility. If they’re wired properly, they’d be able to see a rattlesnake approaching the yard.

  I watch a truck pull to a stop at the main gate and see a security guard step out of the booth and use some sort of scanner on the truck. He walks from tip to tail, scanning the whole rig and trailer, closely monitoring the results. With that done, he consults with the driver and checks his ID and takes a fingerprint scan. Only then do the front gates open and allow the truck to rumble through.

  At the end of the road, I turn around and pass by the facility once more, trying to see what sort of security system they might have. Other than the guardhouse at the front gates, I don’t see anything overt. I know it’s there, and given the fact that the cartels can usually get their hands on sophisticated materials, I’m sure whatever they have is going to be state of the art.

  I know I won’t be able to beat their security. And Justice, amazing as she is, has limits to her superpowers. Even she can’t hack remote hack a system without access to it in the first place. So instead of focusing on that dead-end, I pay closer attention to the guard: dark pants, white polo, dark ballcap.

  “That’s going to be my in,” I note.

  Knowing what I have to do, I take off and head back into town. I need to get a few supplies before I head back here tonight.

  It’s closing in on two in the morning when I climb out of my car parked behind one of the other buildings out in this desolate piece of country. It’s not that far of a walk to the trucking company, but it’s still pretty damn warm, and I should work up a decent sweat by the time I get there. It’ll be a nice added touch to my story.

  Reaching back into the car, I grab the bottle of vodka. I twist the cap off and take a healthy swig, swishing it around in my mouth for a moment before swallowing part of it, then spitting the rest into the dirt at my feet. I splash a little bit on my shirt for added effect and pull my ballcap down low over my eyes. I look down at myself and nod. I look a bit disheveled and rumpled, my hair in total disarray. Perfect.

  I set off on foot in the direction of the warehouses, walking up the long, lonely road. Coyotes howl in the distance, night birds sing as they flit among the brush, and small critters scurry in the scrubby desert undergrowth. The silver sickle of the moon hangs high in the velvety darkness overhead, and millions of stars dot the dark like chips of sparkling crystal. All in all, it’s a beautiful night. It’ll be even better if I can pull this off without getting myself killed.

  Still carrying the bottle of vodka with me, I turn into the driveway of the facility, weaving and staggering, singing loudly to m
yself. The guard steps out of the booth and shines a heavy-duty flashlight at me, the beam of light incredibly bright. I put my hand up to try and shield my eyes from the worst of it.

  “What’re ya doin’, man?” I purposely slur.

  “This is private property sir,” the guard replies professionally. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  I make a show of staggering forward a couple of steps, nearly pitching forward on my face. I give him a goofy grin and hold the bottle out to him.

  “Have a drink with me, man,” I sputter.

  “Thank you, but no,” he frowns, his tone crisp.

  “C’mon man. Just one drink,” I beg him. “My friends left me out here with nobody to drink with. Until I found you. Have a drink with me.”

  I lurch forward, and he catches me, putting me upright again. He takes a step back, and I sway forward, surreptitiously glancing around. I note the cameras are pointing toward the driveway, monitoring the incoming vehicles, and I calculate there’s a blind spot just under the eaves of the guard booth.

  “How about I call you a cab, sir?”

  “Fine, if you’re not gonna drink with me,” I spit.

  He nods and walks back to the booth. I follow behind, and when we get beneath the camera and into the blind spot, I drop the bottle. It hits the ground with a solid clank, and before he can turn around, I wrap my arm around his neck, using my other for leverage. I squeeze hard, cutting off his air, and in less than thirty seconds, he goes limp in my arms. I quickly drag him into the guard booth and, after binding and gagging him, stuff him beneath the wide desk. The shift change won’t be here until morning, and the likelihood that he’ll be discovered is remote. I take his windbreaker with the word ‘Security’ stenciled on the back and his keycard from the desk, fix a body cam to the front of my body, and make sure it’s recording. After that, I close the booth, lock it, and head out.

  I bypass the main office and swipe his keycard to enter through a side gate. I stick to the shadows as much as I can, moving through the darkness until I come around the rear of the building. I pull a pack of smokes out of the windbreaker pocket and quickly light one up. I exhale a thick plume of smoke as I watch the activity in the yard. If anybody glances over, they’ll see a security guard copping a smoke. It’s commonplace and a solid cover.