Armchair Safari (A Cybercrime Technothriller)

by Jonathan Paul Isaacs

  Before long, she saw Haas returning from the ruined keep. He was carefully stepping over the rubble and carrying a canvas-wrapped bundle across his chest.

  “What’s that?” Megan asked as he approached.

  “Ballista ammunition.”

  “Huh?”

  Haas stopped. “They’re bolts. For a ballista.”

  Megan blinked, not understanding. Haas unwrapped the bundle to reveal three short, heavy spears. He picked up one and held it out. “This is a bolt. It goes into a ballista, which is a big crossbow used for siege defense. There’s a ballista mounted to the top of the gatehouse and this is ammunition for it.”

  Megan was struggling to put it all together. How could they defend something with no front door? Oh, but there’s a crossbow, she sneered.

  Haas sighed. “Come with me.”

  The pair walked up a crumbling stone staircase to the top of the outer wall, then entered the gatehouse. “How much do you know about castle design?”

  Megan thrust her chin out at him. “I know enough to break into your place.”

  The ranger glanced over his shoulder. It was only for a moment, but Megan almost thought she saw him smile.

  “The gatehouse is the second most important building in a stronghold,” he said as they continued up more stairs. “The first is the keep—that’s where the treasure vault is. But your stronghold needs an entrance, and any entrance is more vulnerable than a solid wall. So you fortify it. Murder holes, extra troops—and artillery.”

  The staircase led to the roof of the gatehouse. The view was tremendous. Megan could see the narrow trails through the canyon that they had traversed to get there. On the right, a large bluff towered over the canyon and sprinkled loose rocks down in a periodic display of geologic instability. To the far left, and extending all the way around behind them after a few hundred feet of rocky landscape, was the sea. She paused for a moment for everything to sink in.

  The ranger cleared his throat in an apparent disapproval of Megan’s sightseeing. He stood near a large metal and wood contraption mounted near the edge, overlooking the approach.

  “Is that the ballista?” Megan said as she walked closer.

  “Yes.”

  “It looks slow.”

  “Usually there would be a crew of two or three men manning a machine like this.”

  “So are you going to use it by yourself, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it will be even slower?”

  The ranger’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

  Megan couldn’t grasp how this big, master plan was going to work. It all seemed like rubbish.

  “What are we doing here, Haas? Really. What are we doing here?”

  “I told you. We can’t keep ahead of our pursuers. So we’re going to fight.”

  “Fighting didn’t work back on the Lost Continent. Everyone died!”

  “This will be different. We have time to prepare defenses.”

  “What defenses?” Megan waved her arms wildly at the castle around them. She had had it. “This place is a pile of rubble, Haas! The keep has a giant hole in it. The walls look like they’ll topple over any minute! And there’s no front door. This can’t be defended! This is a death trap!”

  Haas leaned casually against the ballista. “This is the perfect place to fight, Megan. When I explain what I need you to do, you’ll understand.”

  “Ha!” Megan scoffed. “I’m not fighting here, Haas. I’m not going to fight for you.”

  The ranger stood up so suddenly it made Megan flinch. He was an intimidating figure from his size and intensity—always the intensity—and he stared down at the girl berating him so venomously.

  “I don’t expect you to fight for me. You blame me for too much – the death of your friends, the taking of your money, the wasting of your time. I know you won’t fight for me. But you will fight for yourself. What choice do you have?”

  “I—”

  “Are you going to run? That necklace will squeeze your head off. Hide? Those bastard gangsters will find you, just like they have been. Die? Not a good way to pay the ol’ tuition, is it, girl?”

  “They’re not chasing me, Haas. They’re chasing the money. I don’t have the Portable Hole, you do. They’re chasing you.”

  “Those thugs will kill off anyone who knows about their laundering process.”

  Megan fumed at the arrogance of this smug jerk standing in front of her. He thought he was so smart, but nothing he had said made any sense whatsoever. She was sick of dealing with the indignity of a long, drawn-out death. “They’re going to kill both of us, Haas. You realize that, right? You are going to be killed again, just like you were when I cleaned out your vault in the Haagenan. Despite all your supposed cleverness, your fighting skill, your very full opinion of yourself—you are going to lose.”

  Haas stared at her for what seemed like an eternity. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and matter-of-fact.

  “Megan, you’re a thief. You know how to break into strongholds. You know how to avoid detection, grab as much loot as you can, and flee without conflict. That’s what you do. Right?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  The ranger looked off at the approach to the gatehouse.

  “This? This is about killing. This is what I do.”

  There were preparations to be made. Haas directed Megan all over the place in what seemed like inane and foolish endeavors: clear the brush here, pile those rocks there, hang ropes from hither and yon. It made no sense to her. Was the ranger trying to tidy up his grave? How stupid could he be? Megan tried at one point to carry some rubble to the gatehouse entrance, thinking that if anyone was going to make this place defensible it was going to be her, but Haas had actually had the gall to stop her. Stop her from closing up a gaping hole through which any enemy—or random traveler, for that matter—could just stroll through.

  Megan wasn’t sure why she kept following this deranged fool’s instructions, but she did. After several hours she could take no more. She walked over to the staircase leading up the wall and sat down.

  “Why have you stopped?” the ranger called down after a few minutes. He had been on the gatehouse roof, fiddling with the ballista.

  “Why, indeed?” Megan said, muttering to herself. Then she spoke up. “If I’m going to die today, then I’m going to have a few minutes off my feet. That’s why, you stupid moron.”

  A minute or two went by before the ranger appeared at the top of the staircase, peering down at her. Megan leaned against the stairs, casually regarding the coastal sun.

  “Megan, come up here.”

  “No.”

  “Megan.”

  Sigh. “What?”

  “Come here.”

  Megan looked over her shoulder. Haas was at the top of the stairs, waiting patiently.

  “Fine.” She trudged up to the top of the wall. “What do you want?”

  Haas studied her quietly, with the blank, expressionless face he always wore, his piercing blue eyes slicing through her like a knife. Finally, he waved for her to follow him. She climbed up the stairs, through the gatehouse, and back up to the roof of the gatehouse. This old thing again?

  “Here,” Haas said, pointing at the interior of the ruined fortress. “What do you see?”

  Megan looked into the castle’s courtyard. “I see a lot of wasted time, moving rocks from one corner to the other.”

  The ranger nodded. “Interesting. Look again.”

  “Why? What’s the point?”

  Suddenly, Haas grabbed her by the arm and thrust her forward a step. Megan almost thought he meant to throw her several stories down to the ground. Then, with his other hand, he pointed down into the courtyard.

  “There. I see a clearing only big enough for a single defender. The rubble all around it is small enough to not get noticed. But it’s large enough to ruin an attacker’s footing and lower their ability to defend. That’s Alpha.”

  Megan gazed down at the small circle a
round which she had spent the morning arranging rocks and branches in odd positions. Then, it had been a simple, insane chore. She wrinkled her forehead at its new description.

  “And there,” Haas said, pointing to another part of the courtyard. “Over by those stairs, with that tangle of ropes and vines hanging from the beam we positioned out from the wall. I see a path where you can’t swing a sword without getting it tangled up. A good thing we planted a spear over there at the top. A spear can thrust—and not be entangled like a swinging weapon. That’s Bravo.”

  Megan struggled to make sense of it all.

  “And what about right below us? The entry into the courtyard, all those piles of broken furniture and rusted armor? What do you make of that?” Haas asked.

  Megan thought she was starting to see what it was all supposed to mean, but Haas was going a little too fast for her.

  “That, my girl, is traffic control. We’ve made those areas impassable, just enough, so that a charging opponent, a charging Kenzen, will run around it. And around that over there. And there. Until—”

  “Until they reach the trench we dug.”

  Haas nodded. “Until they reach the trench we dug. Filled with pitch, which will burn like a mother when we light it. That’s Charlie.”

  Megan blinked at the entirety of Beaumaris’s inner bailey. She had never considered there might be a method to Haas’s madness. Everything was becoming clearer now. All of their work had been deliberate fortification.

  “So what’s the story with this ballista?” she asked absent-mindedly. “Should I be up here shooting at the enemy as they run around our little obstacle course?”

  “No. Look.” Haas pointed the other way, past the front of the castle, at the rock cliffs hanging over the canyon approach.

  Megan squinted. “I don’t get it.”

  “That overhang. A few ballista bolts and it’ll collapse onto the path leading up to the castle. Anyone down there will be crushed to death.”

  An avalanche?

  The wind whipped by in front of Megan, stirring up a swirl of dust.

  “Haas, how do you know how to do all this? How... how do you know those rocks will collapse?”

  Something had caught the ranger’s attention in the canyon. “They’ll be here soon. Less than half an hour. We need to get ready.”

  “Haas,” Megan said more insistently. Insatiable curiosity had taken over. This was all so intricate, so... deliberate. “Have you been here before? What’s your connection—to this place, I mean? To know so much about it?”

  Haas paused. For a fleeting moment, the poker-faced mask was gone. There was a glimpse into something—vulnerability? Anger? Megan didn’t think that was quite right. There was something too personal about the look in Haas’s eyes. It was more like anger at himself.

  “We all have a history, Megan. Let’s just say I learn from my mistakes.”

  Megan watched as the ranger’s expression became impenetrable again. Then, unexpectedly, he reached quickly up to her neck. Before she knew what he was doing he grabbed the Choker Chain and yanked it off.

  “What the—”

  There was a single flash of red on Megan’s computer monitor for one point of damage. Megan’s hand went up to her neck.

  “It’s off?”

  “Yes.”

  Megan stared at those piercing eyes, sparkling from the sun in the afternoon sky.

  Had she heard correctly?

  Yes, she had. She was free.

  “Thank you, Haas.”

  The ranger wheeled around toward the ballista. After he took a step, he hesitated, as if still wrestling with some internal struggle. Then he spoke again.

  “Since we’re already doing exposition on all my little tricks, I suppose one more won’t hurt.”

  “Oh?” Megan said.

  “There’s no such thing as a Choker Chain. I made it up.”

  Megan gasped. “Son of a bitch.”

  Haas ignored her cursing and strode over to the ballista. When he finished cocking the bowstring, he loaded a bolt, and waited.

  46

  Austin, Texas.

  Derek got to the airport long before the sun was up. Roger arrived about ten minutes before the flight boarded. Their seats on the plane were located right across the aisle from each other. Derek belted himself in and closed his eyes through most of the safety briefing. He was tired. He dared not sleep, but so help him he was tired.

  He awoke with a start. He had dozed off after all. They were at cruising altitude now. Derek looked around to orient himself and wondered if it was possible to get coffee from the flight attendant.

  “Man, you crashed,” said Roger, looking up from his newspaper. “Long night?”

  Derek nodded.

  Roger thought for a few moments. “Are you doing okay?”

  “Not really. But I’ll pretend I am.”

  “We’re here for you, Derek.”

  “I know,” he replied. “We’ll get through this. This trip could be the endgame. Maybe.”

  “Fuck that,” said Roger. “I’m not talking about being there for the company. I’m talking about being there for you, Derek. You. You’ve got Lucy and me in your corner—always.”

  You? Yes, Derek thought; he knew Roger would have his back. As for Lucy at this point... Derek twisted his lip in skepticism.

  Roger studied him, trying to discern his thoughts. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “She’s had a hard life, you know.”

  Derek stared at the back of the headrest in front of him, unanswering.

  “I’m sure she’s told you about her childhood. She had to do an awful lot to pull herself out of a big shithole of a downward spiral.”

  “We’ve talked about it.”

  “That sort of upbringing makes you tough,” Roger continued. “But it also makes you insecure. You end up not having a foundation to give you a real sense of yourself. So you know what happens? You doubt yourself. And it’s real easy to pull back and become isolated.”

  “Roger.”

  “What?”

  “Look… I’m pretty sure I’m the one that’s caused any isolation.” He thought back to a bloody, loaded pistol sitting on his apartment floor.

  “Don’t let that keep you away from her.”

  “Yeah. Okay,” Derek said cynically.

  “Have you ever looked real hard at her tattoos?” Roger asked.

  “Of course. I’ve, um... seen all of her.” A sense of loss settled in on him.

  “Let me rephrase that: can you tell me what her tattoos are? What pictures?”

  Derek thought for a moment. He had often looked at the shapes and colors, but it had never really dawned on him what the illustrations actually were. He shook his head.

  “You have to start with her left wrist,” Roger explained. “A king lost, far away. The queen dies and leaves a lonely, orphaned princess. The princess lives in the forest with wolves until a dragon kills the wolves. She’s alone again. She fights past monsters until she’s safe in a castle. But if you look real close, there’s a hole in the back castle wall, and the dragons are lurking, waiting.”

  Derek listed. Truthfully, he had never really looked past what he assumed were whimsical pictures inked into Lucy’s skin. The description Roger gave was far more nuanced than the tattoos most Marines sported—skulls and EGAs and the word Infidel as a fuck-you to the enemy. Now the imagery chosen by Lucy seemed far from trivial. It was a way to remember what had been, a reminder of what she wanted to be.

  Roger finished his thought. “That’s her story, Derek. She wears her life on her sleeve—literally. And that last part? She still doesn’t know if she’s going to live happily ever after.

  “But I can tell you this. She wants to. And she would like it to be with you.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Derek asked curtly.

  “Partly because I really care about her,” Roger said. “She’s like a daughter to me. And she n
eeds you, Derek. She needs someone with your character, your strength to be part of her life. But I’m also telling you because you need her, too. You see, there’s this really subtle thing I’ve noticed about you. You’ve got a giant, humungous ass-load of baggage that you carry around. And it’s a lot easier to bear when there’s someone committed to you.”

  Derek crinkled his nose. An ass-load?

  “I can’t help her, Roger, if I can’t help myself.”

  Roger nodded knowingly. “I hear you. But sometimes, two people who together can get through stuff that’s impossible for either of them to handle separately.”

  Derek wasn’t sure about any of this.

  Roger filled the silence. “Dude... I don’t say any of this lightly. All I’m asking is, just—just think about what I’m telling you, okay?”

  “Okay,” Derek replied numbly.

  The flights and layovers were uneventful. When they finally arrived at Bermuda’s L.F. Wade International Airport, it was mid-afternoon on a bright and breezy day. Agent LaRue was waiting at baggage claim. He was wearing slacks and a button down dress shirt, a stark contrast to the locals sporting the iconic Bermuda shorts.

  “Thanks for coming,” said LaRue. “Flight okay?”

  “Not sure about the company, but everything else was fine,” quipped Derek, glancing at Roger. It came out harsher than he meant, and it was supposed to be a joke, so he made sure to break the edge with a shove in Roger’s back. They smiled at each other for the first time in what felt like days.

  The climate was surprisingly cool, and even though he was wearing jeans and a polo shirt, Derek felt like he had underdressed. He reminded himself that Bermuda was a good deal north of the Caribbean.

  “How was your flight?” Derek asked LaRue. “Do you guys fly commercial?”

  “Yes.” After a moment LaRue added, “The TSA confiscated my toothpaste.”

  “Well, you do look like the dangerous sort,” scoffed Roger.

  “New agent on the job, total jerk, acting like a real big shot.” LaRue looked over each shoulder before dropping his voice. “I did have a little bit of satisfaction when I handed my sidearm to the agent running the metal detector. The first guy just about crapped his pants.”