Armchair Safari (A Cybercrime Technothriller)

by Jonathan Paul Isaacs

  Derek was driving up past a few more buildings going uphill, going at a moderate pace and visually scanning for anything that looked out of the ordinary, when he saw two men standing bent over by a crosswalk on a side street. It was difficult to see them clearly, but the thing that caught Derek’s attention is that as he approached, they seemed to be watching him as much as he was them. They looked tired.

  Like they had been running.

  When they stepped partially out of view behind a large hedge, Derek just knew in his gut that it had to be them. Incredibly, he had found them.

  Derek gunned the throttle and pointed himself right at them. Whether he was intending to run them down, knock them over, or simply make the scatter, he wasn’t sure.

  Then he saw one of them step out and raise a pistol.

  It was a dash to cover. Come on, Ricks...

  A flash...

  Run them down.

  Two pairs of eyes widened in alarm.

  Gunshots.

  Involuntarily, Derek swerved while the throttle was wide open. He was only maybe fifty feet away and closing fast. He heard the crack of gunfire through the two-cylinder engine’s yowl. In a blink of an eye he had lost control, and the Vespa went down on its side onto the pavement with Derek skidding behind it. He rolled across the asphalt and was momentarily disoriented. When he came to a stop, it still took a few seconds for the sensation of the impact to hit his arms and legs.

  Derek looked up and saw that the Vespa had barreled right through where the two men had been standing. Both were on the ground—one on his hands and knees, the other having fallen over backward. Vaguely, Derek had an errant thought that he had bowled a strike.

  Then pain flashed through his body from the wipeout. He drew a ragged breath as needles pinched all around his arms, legs, and sides. Profanity filled his brain’s audio track.

  He pulled himself up roughly until he was sitting on his ass on the asphalt. One of the gangsters was now unsteadily up on his feet. The other was still on his back but had pulled out a pistol and was attempting to prop himself up. Derek’s blood boiled. Through the pain he patted around his waist and found that LaRue’s Beretta was still there, tucked into his waistband.

  Derek pulled out the pistol, flipped off the safety, and after quickly propping his arm up on his knee aimed and fired at one of the men.

  Crack, crack, crack went the Beretta.

  It was a small target, but the man with the pistol convulsed and flopped backward flat on the pavement. The other took off erratically around the corner.

  Derek wobbled to his feet. He had been going maybe thirty or forty miles per hour and the full agony of the scooter wreck was on him now. His legs quivered as if he had been punched a hundred times in his thighs and arms. He could still breathe, so no broken ribs, and the jeans he wore had protected him at least a little from getting all of his skin ripped off along the asphalt. He lurched toward the fallen figure he had shot at. As he got closer he could get a better view of the man: he was a big, barrel-chested fellow with receding blond hair and sharp features, and was wearing a light blue Hawaiian shirt and tan slacks. The man was semi-conscious and moaning. Two bright blooms of red were swelling on his torso from bullet wounds.

  Lurching over, Derek kicked away the pistol that was near the man’s outstretched hand. The motion almost caused him to fall over.

  Fuck, but he was in it now.

  Derek collected himself for a moment. His body was shaking with adrenaline. He hurt incredibly. But he had to finish this. All the work, the effort and the pain and the sacrifice of everyone who worked at his company, was going to be lost otherwise. He had never let the Marine Corps down and it was a source of great pride. He had let Jules and Robby down by not being there when it counted, and it was a source of great shame. Crudely, Derek needed to prove to himself that he could be counted on. He needed a tiebreaker. He needed to set things right.

  Taking a ragged breath, Derek started trotting down the road after the man who had shot at him.

  * * *

  Anton swore up and down as he limped along the road as fast as he could. The Vespa had skidded right into his right leg and now his knee wasn’t working right. Every time he tried to put weight on his right it seemed like it would hold, only to suddenly and unexpectedly give out when he was in the middle of the next step. And it hurt like crazy.

  He would have loved to put a bullet in this tupoy, this idiot, chasing them down when they were so close to being in the clear. But Anton didn’t know if he was alone. Discretion was called for.

  There was a large blue sign on the road up ahead that said “Fort Hamilton,” with a turnoff veering off to the right. Anton looked over his shoulder. He could see the Vespa lying in the street, next to Johan, who wasn’t moving. He only had a few moments to duck for cover. Without hesitation, Anton hobbled past the sign and over an old wooden bridge that spanned a wide, dry moat filled with exotic trees and plants. As he got to the other end, the walls on either side expanded into what looked like the wide, grassy courtyard of an 1800’s period pentagonal stronghold. Anton could vaguely see cannon emplacements along the perimeter wall. There were also several buildings in the interior. Otherwise there looked to be very little cover other than the fact that it was almost completely dark now, with the street lights far behind him and only a full moon providing any illumination.

  God, his leg hurt. He bent over at the waist to rest for a moment next to the end of the bridge.

  Anton had to think of a plan. He needed to make sure he got clear of the authorities near the bank and anyone trying to follow him. Once that was taken care of, he’d work his way back to the safe house and confirm that the money was successfully withdrawn from the bank branches in Romania. He’d pick up any news he could around Johan, though he wasn’t optimistic that it would be good news. Then he’d get his leg patched up as best he could and take the next plane off the island. Maybe a little vacation after that, with a chance to spend some of the extra money that they’d managed to appropriate above and beyond what was due to Yuri.

  The smile on Anton’s lips quickly evaporated as he heard footsteps on the street behind him. He was being followed. Anton started lurching to cover.

  “Stop!” commanded a voice behind him.

  Anton turned and fired.

  * * *

  Derek hugged the dirt as he saw the man turn at the end of the long, narrow bridge. A moment later he heard bullets whizzing over his head.

  He returned fire. Two shots, both misses from about thirty yards as his target jumped down into the plants in the moat. Derek cursed. There was a time when he had been deadly accurate with a pistol. Indeed, he had somehow managed to put down the other dude that had been meaning to take a shot at him. Maybe it was the lack of practice—or the adrenaline or the injury or the dark or the diving to the dirt that was causing him to be off. Derek pushed himself up, keeping his pistol up and ready in case his target presented itself. He vaguely noticed the unsteadiness in his arms. All he heard was leaves rustling and plants snapping as his adversary plunged deeper into the moat.

  The man he was chasing had looked to be middle-aged, with gray hair and a big mustache. He had been wearing light colored slacks and black cowboy boots. Derek didn’t know why he had noticed the boots. But his clothing might still be noticeable even in the greenery below him. Derek jumped the handrail and slid down the mossy wall encircling the moat to pursue. The stone was hard and there were tree branches sticking in inconvenient places that thrashed his legs and backside as he dropped, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t let this guy get away. Once he got to the bottom of the moat, there was a path leading off to either side that was surrounded by exotic trees, plants, bushes, and vines. It felt like a trench of big jungle. Derek listened and could tell from the noise that the gangster had run off to the left. He started to move. The first thing he did was trip and nearly fall on an errant root that extended past the edge of the pathway. Stumbling, Derek picked himself back u
p and staggered quickly ahead, desperate not to lose his quarry.

  That was assuming his quarry really wanted to be lost. Derek tripped again and went down on one knee, and as he did so, there was a crack, crack from up ahead and the deadly whizzing of two rounds through the brush around him. Derek strained his eyesight down the moat path. He imagined that he could see the gangster further along the path and he returned fire with several shots of his own. Then Derek moved gingerly to the edge of the path where he thought some large, elephant-eared plant would help obscure him. It was impossible to tell if he had hit anything, and it was difficult to hear immediately after shooting a pistol with no ear protection. Derek mentally wrestled with what to do. Did he start pursuing again? That would expose him to more fire. What if his adversary was waiting for him to do exactly that, and was setting an ambush for him? But if Derek just sat and waited, it was possible that the gangster was already moving further down the moat, and was that much closer to escaping.

  There really wasn’t a choice, then. Derek wiped his palms on his t-shirt and got up into a crouch. Trying to move as quietly as he could manage, he crept forward along the path, surrounded by vines and roots and leaves hanging overhead. He held the Beretta low and ready so that he could bring it up quickly. About fifty feet down the path and he hadn’t been shot yet. Derek thought that must mean his gangster friend had taken off. He stopped and listened.

  Off in the distance, there was the sound of movement. Derek took off at a jog. It was hard to see. He kept moving, pistol ready, stopping to listen.

  The moat curved around to the right as it presumably carved a circle around the walls of the old British fort. Derek continued on. He tried to make up some ground by running a fast stretch of the path that seemed clear of intruding plant life. He stopped suddenly as he noticed a barely discernible sign alongside the path that said Way Out, with an arrow pointing to an old set of stone stairs that climbed up the interior wall of the moat and led into the fort. Derek stayed still and listened. He couldn’t hear any more rustling ahead of him amongst the plant life in the moat. Had his target used this exit? It seemed likely if he was trying to get away—staying trapped in a trench wasn’t exactly conducive to an escape. Derek put his foot on the bottom step and worked his way carefully up. When he got to the top he was on the edge of the large, park-like interior of the fortress.

  He didn’t see any signs of his target. He was near some semi-circular brickwork that provided some cover. Across from him was an open stretch of grass and the end of what appeared to be some sort of embankment. Derek ran over to a nearby tree for cover and moved carefully along the lower edge of the embankment until he came to a rectangular building. He tried the door. Locked. Derek continued along until his path bent slightly to the right, making a chevron shape, and there was another building that was also locked. Derek paused and listened. Nothing. He moved further until he came to the corner. Taking a deep breath, he raised his pistol and smoothly swung around the edge.

  There was no sign of anyone.

  Derek’s heart was beating madly. The old fort’s interior was mostly comprised of a neat, manicured lawn but the exterior was surrounded by trees and fauna, which spilled over the buzz of the nighttime insects that had emerged for the evening. It was hard to see in the moonlight. To his right, Derek saw the backside of the buildings that were lined up with the fort’s entry, presumably near the wooden bridge that he had not crossed. To the left were rows of shrubs and buildings tracing the exterior wall, punctuated with what looked like cannon emplacements. Derek paused and thought. Where did that bastard go?

  The field was open, empty. Unseen eyes watched from every direction. The night brought some relief from the heat, but the air somehow remained oppressive, indigent, hostile... as if Derek was an unwelcome guest whose stay was more offensive the longer he remained on this soil.

  Derek moved around the corner of the embankment. He kept scanning left to right, trying to use his peripheral vision to pick up any signs of movement in the dim light. There was some light pollution from the street lights outside the fort but the interior was mostly dark. Derek edged uphill slightly and crouched down to keep from presenting too much of a target if there were an ambush waiting for him. He paused, remaining still, straining to see or hear. The only sounds that he could catch were those of insects and other tropical nightlife.

  There was stonework nearby from one of the cannon batteries that looked like it might offer some cover. Derek dashed over so that he could get a different visual angle on the fort’s interior. He was now near the gun placement. The metal cylinder of hundred-year-old weaponry pointed outward, guarding the walls against the ghosts of privateers that once upon a time might have sailed by far below in the harbor. Derek saw a ladder and decided to chance climbing up to get a top-down angle across the fort grounds. Maybe he would be able to see his target that way. Up he went until he was next to the cannon itself. He cupped his eyes to protect them from the light from the city and scanned back and forth. Still nothing.

  Panic started to gnaw at Derek’s belly. It was so dark now, it would now be impossible to locate someone who didn’t want to be found in this place. The gangster had beaten him and used the cover of night to his advantage to flee. There wasn’t any way to draw him back into the chase.

  An errant thought crossed Derek’s consciousness. It was stupid. But he was desperate.

  “We got the money back!” Derek shouted. “We stopped the transfer. You’ve taken nothing!”

  The insect nightlife chirped the only reply.

  It was quite possibly a lie, of course. Derek had no idea if Agent Forrest or any of the others involved had been able to successfully contact these strange banks in Romania and keep the transfers on the other end from being withdrawn. Furthermore, calling out in the night revealed his position to his enemy. If the gangster was of the mind to kill him, he would no doubt have an easier time now—especially since Derek was staying put. From his vantage point atop the cannon emplacement, Derek scanned the grounds of Fort Hamilton stretched out before him. He tried to use his peripheral vision to catch any movement, perhaps the sudden flash of a blue Hawaiian shirt. He strained his hearing to filter out the ambient noises of Bermuda in the hopes that he might catch the gangster backtracking toward him for a confrontation. But there was nothing.

  After thirty minutes, Derek climbed back down the ladder and walked, still cautiously, back toward the visitor entrance of the fort. The walk was painful far beyond the physical injury from the scooter.

  49

  It was exactly thirty-one hours later when Anton decided the time for revenge had finally come.

  In the gloomy darkness, the hotel signage stood out like a lighthouse on a rocky shore. The Rosewood. This is where he had learned the FBI people were staying, and by extension, the object of his search, one Derek Callahan. He had a name to his quarry now. The man who had shot Johan. The man who had chased him through that blasted fort. The man who had taunted him, shouting through the night air, that they had shut down the money transfer as soon as it had happened.

  The man who had made this personal.

  After he had evaded Callahan in the old ruin, Anton had worked his way through the streets of Hamilton back to the rented condominium that he and Johan had been using as a base of operations. A small group of punks had tried to harass him on the east side of town on his way there. That was, until Anton shot the sidewalk near their leader’s feet and then shoved his Makarov in the idiot’s face. But once the Russian had finished staggering his way to the condo and the adrenaline began to wear off, feelings of doubt crept into his mind along with the tendrils of pain from his leg. What had his pursuer meant, they got the money back? How was that possible? Despite their discovery, their plan has been executed swiftly, and Dmitri and Misha had been waiting at the recipient bank branches to withdraw the money as soon as it came in. There shouldn’t have been anything anyone could have done to stop the heist. Anton had tried to call Dmitri to
confirm the transfer, but no answer. Repeatedly. He found that odd, but then again, international cell phone connections didn’t work sometimes. And then, with gradually increasing clarity, it dawned on Anton what must have happened. There had been an information leak. The bank personnel had been tipped off as to the time and place where he and Johan were going to make a move. Authorities had been brought in and countermeasures deployed. And even though they had been successful in pulling the money out of BBC, the ultimate removal of funds over in Europe had been stymied somehow. They had frozen the money. Perhaps Dmitri and Misha had even been apprehended. There was no way to know for sure what had happened back in Romania as long as Anton remained out of contact.

  Local information, however, had been easier to obtain. After cleaning up, Anton backtracked to the bank and snatched one of the local cops involved in patrolling the perimeter. A little chloroform, a quick toss into the back of the stolen car, a non-eventful drive to the condo. Tie him up, wake him up, carve him up until he was screaming for mercy through the duct tape. Learn all about the FBI flying in to secure the bank. Get the names of the individuals from Netertainment that were there as advisors. Match the description of their Chief Financial Officer with the man that had run Anton’s faithful partner down with a scooter and taken potshots in the night through a fucking maze of trees and weeds. Derek Callahan.

  Anton may not have been able to establish contact with his men back in Romania, but he sure as hell could initiate contact with his adversary here in Bermuda. He checked his watch. 3:30 a.m. He was tired. He had tried to take a nap earlier in the day in anticipation for tonight’s activities but that had failed miserably. Too much anticipation. But if everything went as planned, it would all be worth it.